I was about to write in my journal tonight, and then I thought about writing a letter to one of my penpals, and then I realized that I wanted to post something on the internet. My hesitation in all of this was that I had nothing to say. I have scattered thoughts - my nephew's voice, the side of my mother's face, the tiny Dr. Seussical island on sunny Jamaica Pond, all of which are incredibly sad and beautiful to me. Sometimes my lonely humanity consumes me, and I can't breathe, and I can't move my back.
Last night, Don Draper said that his heart was going to explode. He said that he'd spent his life as a father trying to feel the love he should have for his kids. And then the time he actually felt it, he felt like his heart was going to explode. And I wonder why? Because heart exploding is what fatherly love feels like to him? Or because that was the perceived effect of finally embodying this long-awaited state? Or would the explosion have been a reaction to what he finally felt, and is that somehow related to all the time he spent not feeling it? Either way, Don Draper is a complicated man, with a lot of feelings, with art in his lens and an isolating attachment to his melancholy. He keeps wanting it to connect him to people, but it ultimately renders him incapable of giving love, because he prioritizes his psychological mysteries over the real-time needs of people around him.
And sometimes I feel like Don Draper. When I have nowhere to be and time to see my thoughts, they seem like stratus clouds: vague, incomplete, flat, persistently hovering but empty. I actually don't know much about the weather, so I googled "Stratus clouds" after I typed that, and here is the definition from "Web Weather for Kids":
"Stratus clouds are uniform grayish clouds that often cover the entire sky. They resemble fog that does not reach the ground. Usually no precipitation falls from stratus clouds, but sometimes they may drizzle. When a thick fog "lifts," the resulting clouds are low stratus."
What a fucking metaphor. Everything about that definition is what I feel in my chest tonight. And as a yogi, I know that I could practice releasing my attachment to this complex sadness, look for neutral ground that is neither happy nor sad, but at peace. Or I could think back to my midwestern Catholic upbringing, where idle hands make the devil's work, so of course I am depressed by my inactivity, because nobody should rightly be able to sit with himself for longer than a minute. Or as a singer, I could make a joyful noise and express myself until I feel better. But I wanted to write. Because I had to reinforce the idea within me that I am an artist, and that whatever I'm feeling is somehow the making of literary beauty.
Once I figure out what it is that I had to say. Maybe I have said it now.
Last night, Don Draper said that his heart was going to explode. He said that he'd spent his life as a father trying to feel the love he should have for his kids. And then the time he actually felt it, he felt like his heart was going to explode. And I wonder why? Because heart exploding is what fatherly love feels like to him? Or because that was the perceived effect of finally embodying this long-awaited state? Or would the explosion have been a reaction to what he finally felt, and is that somehow related to all the time he spent not feeling it? Either way, Don Draper is a complicated man, with a lot of feelings, with art in his lens and an isolating attachment to his melancholy. He keeps wanting it to connect him to people, but it ultimately renders him incapable of giving love, because he prioritizes his psychological mysteries over the real-time needs of people around him.
And sometimes I feel like Don Draper. When I have nowhere to be and time to see my thoughts, they seem like stratus clouds: vague, incomplete, flat, persistently hovering but empty. I actually don't know much about the weather, so I googled "Stratus clouds" after I typed that, and here is the definition from "Web Weather for Kids":
"Stratus clouds are uniform grayish clouds that often cover the entire sky. They resemble fog that does not reach the ground. Usually no precipitation falls from stratus clouds, but sometimes they may drizzle. When a thick fog "lifts," the resulting clouds are low stratus."
What a fucking metaphor. Everything about that definition is what I feel in my chest tonight. And as a yogi, I know that I could practice releasing my attachment to this complex sadness, look for neutral ground that is neither happy nor sad, but at peace. Or I could think back to my midwestern Catholic upbringing, where idle hands make the devil's work, so of course I am depressed by my inactivity, because nobody should rightly be able to sit with himself for longer than a minute. Or as a singer, I could make a joyful noise and express myself until I feel better. But I wanted to write. Because I had to reinforce the idea within me that I am an artist, and that whatever I'm feeling is somehow the making of literary beauty.
Once I figure out what it is that I had to say. Maybe I have said it now.
