I am fully transfixed on Anais Nin. Today was a fuzzy blur of my children, breakfast, preschool drop off, gym, lunch, diaper changes, and research. Copious amounts of research.
I have these whimsical notions of who she was and how deeply she lived. The glimmering parallels that I find are thin but ever-present; sparkling spider-silk webs linking us. Dates, numbers, prose and the notion of "being too much" are only a few curious similarities, with which I over-identify.
I have watched her in documentaries, and read more than I'll admit, of her own, from experts, her diaries, her last years, all of it, dizzying but with it comes a thundering permission to hope. My theories are frenetic. They are not the obvious or well-cultivated, but the slippery and the elusive. I absorb all the information I can. Without much need for contemplation, small buds of rumination take over...and so I write.
Consider this the sneak peak (for which, no one awaits.) Something is brewing, like it did for so many before me. I am no expert, no ingenue, nor academia scholar but I'm a girl who became a woman,who became a poet and a writer, who lost herself (and her father), who then became a wife, who became a mother, who is now on the precipice of both loss and discovery. Anais and her heroines, her life and her words are all the incitation of my resplendent creativity.
Her bravery and gentle authority inspire me. Her dreams or "little knowings" beg for answers I half know. The forlorn young-woman, misplacing love and energies, she turns and pivots with ballet-grace. In her wisdom from age a whole new confidence comes, but with a possible quiet surrender? So many questions and mysteries emerge. Many-layers, far deeper than superficial accusations and imposed calamity. She was, is, and can be a hologram of "one's true self" in template. Some lessons worth reliving, some better served as cautionary tale. She revealed the soft underbelly of being broken even if shining bright. This is a gift she has bestowed on us by simply being.
I write feverishly for the first time in over three years. I write out of need. The darkest of thoughts and fullest of feelings bang and beat me almost silent. The only way to evacuate them is to convert the ugly truths into beautiful words. Perspective, imagination, moxie and even love are all a matter of subjectivity. Perhaps I'll laugh at myself some day in the future, a patronizing nod to this spell of indulgence in artistry.
Or maybe, just maybe, I'll do something bigger.
Stay tuned, a tremendous spring board lies just below "the bottom." (of which I've yet to hit) I have fallen this far. I have little fear left. In navigating nightmares, I disowned that feeling in masses. What remains is self-preserving hope....and love. Big love.
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