This morning, I noticed my hands were calmer, more languid and purposeful. When we lose ourselves to depression and stress one of the first things to fall away is the beauty of our simple, human movements. A cup of coffee is sloshed about, not sailed through particles of light and sound. Calm is squashed by force. I have a beautiful life. It just happens that I write to fill the time, to record my thoughts, to invent little worlds that fascinate me, to remember my dreams and lost loves. Just this weekend we stayed in luxury, wrapped in white goosedown. We walked into another dimension of cultivated beauty, and I found myself thanking the universe for the great grandchildren of the wealthy and powerful, who open their ridiculously sensual worlds up to the public so that we can dream a little. The tiny communist inside of me shouted for a bit, condemning me for oohing and ahhing over tapestry and gold. The art lover, the drinker of beauty, the greedy ID that dominates my movements was in love. I remembered the hotels we had to stay in last summer, stained with blood and hair. A little bit of money can elevate, the trick is to not let it engulf and blind your conscience.
Since I’ve stopped fighting, since I’ve let go, I’ve found that my world is less apocalyptic. My reactions to outside stimuli are quick and efficient, and my heart doesn’t beat erratically, begging me to just lie down a while. In the coming weeks I’m going to be entering into the revision/editing phase of Men in Caves. I’ve stepped away from Justine, Adam, Blake, and Anna on purpose (it was hard not to talk or think about them constantly as I was used to doing), and now will come back to the Valley as an observer, with a shining red pen to cull the less than amazing and build up what isn’t living up to its potential. I have always been a creator, an inventor. The editing part I’ve typically ignored. There is an art to editing, and I’m looking forward to walking through this new door.