This entry was supposed to be about something else. I had prepared a different draft, much more organized, well thought out, even witty. And then as I sat down to write it I decided to first send a letter to a friend. A casual note turned into a deeper dialogue within myself and for whatever reason this felt more relevant and more honest to share in this moment. So here is a bit of a detour, which makes me nervous and yet certain at the same time.
Life in Buenos Aires has been intense, to say the least. And time is flying by! Days are not really days, but segments of time occupied by sleeping, navigating the city, dancing, thinking. Feels like I am living in an inner world that has a different measurement of time altogether. I miss Portland. I miss the green, fresh, cool. I am sometimes fantasizing about the weirdest things that didn't used to really interest me that much, like planting something, teaching, volunteering my time, getting involved with charitable organizations, writing. This place has stretched me to the limit so many times and somehow, to my surprise, I am still here, still pursuing what I cam to pursue. I don't know how really. Sometimes the only thing I am aware of is my lack - lack of confidence, lack of ability, lack of creativity, lack of balls. And then I look at my drawings, I watch my videos, I read my journal, I look through the pictures on my phone, and I wonder, where did this all come from? In spite of, against all that lack, somehow something comes to the surface, stubbornly emerges, leaving me dumbfounded. I keep looking for a way to make this creative process intentional, making it available whenever I want, so that I can amplify it, improve it. But it seems to slip through my fingers. As I try to capture it, to "figure it out," to domesticate it, I fall into a void, quiet, dense, where I come back to that reality of "lack." Even now as I am writing this, I am surprised at my own words, my own insights, I even like it. But I don't understand where it is coming from. And of course, the lesson perhaps is, in fact, that it is impossible to grasp this, to let go of it, to just allow things to happen as they do. And that is wise for sure. So what am I striving for? I guess there is a part of me that wants to identify itself as the creative entity, that can say "I created this, this came from me, it is valuable, it is unique." And sometimes I do say that to myself, I try it on like an outfit. But the outfit always has to come off. And I am back with this feeling of being totally lost. Like I return to an infinite space of a desert or ocean, where I look in all direction and see the horizon, and face the vastness and strangeness of everything. As if I am myself for the first time and I don't understand anything about what I am seeing.
I had this interesting sensation the other night. I suddenly realized that when I tune into my body, I do not feel the symmetry of it, I don't feel the two arms, the two legs, torso. It's like the thingness of my physical form evaporates, the edges spread and what I experience inside is more of a landscape. And it is not that I am inside this landscape, looking around. I, myself, am the landscape. My right side is a heavy, dense, mountain and my left is a valley with a broad sky, and my legs are a river with various currents, and my arms are limbs of a tree... It was a peculiar experience, rich in mystery. I try to make sense of it, to make it something concrete so that I don't feel so threatened, but it is useless. I feel baffled every time by the enormity of the task of knowing something.