up with the full moon September 23, 2010
Alone, sitting up all night on the frufru sheepskin atop my 1900 French gold tone curved arm sofa, with The Diary of Anais Nin, Vol. 1: 1931-1934
in hand (how appropriate…), being fascinated by the intellectual world of Paris through her words, while experiencing the extraordinary sensitivity of her very being. Wishing to transcend, wishing to awaken, wishing to live a non ordinary life — I am still searching…
“Ordinary life does not interest me. I seek only the high moments. I am in accord with the surrealists, searching for the marvelous.
I want to be a writer who reminds others that these moments exist; I want to prove that there is infinite space, infinite meaning, infinite dimension.
But I am not always in what I call a state of grace. I have days of illuminations and fevers. I have days when the music in my head stops. Then I mend socks, prune trees, can fruits, polish furniture. But while I am doing this I feel I am not living.”
“You live like this, sheltered, in a delicate world, and you believe you are living. Then you read a book (Lady Chatterley, for instance), or you take a trip, or you talk with Richard, and you discover that you are not living, that you are hibernating. The symptoms of hibernating are easily detectable: first, restlessness. The second symptom (when hibernating becomes dangerous and might degenerate into death): absence of pleasure. That is all. It appears like an innocuous illness. Monotony, boredom, death. Millions live like this (or die like this) without knowing it. They work in offices. They drive a car. They pinic with their families. They raise children. And then some shock treatment takes place, a person, a book, a song, and it awakens them and saves them from death.
Some never awaken. They are like the people who go to sleep in the snow and never awaken. But I am not in danger because my home, my garden, my beautiful life do not lull me. I am aware of being in a beautiful prison, from which I can only escape by writing…” — Nin