Many, many, many moons ago I went through a Herman Hesse phase. I devoured, rather than savored, each book of his I read. So it is no wonder that I remember very little.
Only one idea I came across in his writings took root in my chaotic mind and this was the supposition by a character that the act of biological reproduction is a necessary psychological step, or evolution, for man. The narcissism of youth must make way for the selfless devotion, an all important transformative experience, of parenthood.
Now that I am an adult, and a little less naive, I can plainly see all around me that birthing babies doesn't cure narcissism. My birth sure as heck didn't cure it in my family. But that doesn't mean there is no truth to Hesse's belief. I still believe in his theory even though I was never able to test it out myself. By the time I was healed enough to embrace motherhood my body no longer could provide for me. I am both proud and angry about the four years I endured fertility treatments, where I subjected my body to the legal maximum dosages of drugs and tapped into a will of steel that subjugated fear and, good sense, to this all consuming goal. Four years of relentless bodily and psychological torture. Me. The whiniest weakling of them all. I did it willingly, with nary a second thought.
So it is with myriad emotions I embrace my narcissism and wade through the wax and wane of envy that surfaces when I turn my eye to women around me, both in the real world and on line. I don't fit and I'm no longer unhappy about it. Wistful, on occasion, yes, but on the whole happy to explore me and my inner landscape. Instead of wanting to steal other women's babies, I can be happy for their good fortune. I've come a long way, baby. LOL.
This brings me to the next thing I've been musing. My muse. My muse and how there are always obstacles between me and she. I've spent so much time wondering where my square peg can fit in this round world, I wound up not exploring me, but exploring how to make me more palatable to the world so that I can make a living and support myself and not get my freak flag noticed.
The tools to make myself happy weren't cultivated, or so I'm learning. And not making myself happy made me a resentful, covetous, bitter bitch. And not in a good, Dolores Claiborne, way. (Seriously, Dolores Claiborne has been one of my favorite role models.)
And in clear Dolores fashion, let's not wallow in self pity, but turn my mind to what I need to do next to get through the current manic mood I'm in. I now understand the frantic crazy that builds when my Muse is blocked.
Last night I cleared out my WIPS bin. I finished up three projects, one of which was very, very outstanding. This brisk spring cleaning left me rejuvenated at first, but then empty and doom filled shortly thereafter. I have no active comfort knitting and no inspiration for any. I was so single minded in my desire to complete projects, I failed to anticipate the crazy that would come to squat in the void.
I'm lost with out an anchor project. LOST. LOST. LOST.
Oh yes, I have yarn. Lovely lovely yarn:
But this does not soothe the beast. Only productivity does.
And so I tossed and I turned in my bed until I realized what I wanted and why I was thwarting the desire. My rational mind is thinking, it's spring, it's time to knit light and airy things. But my muse is saying fuck that, I want to knit a sweater with this:
And so I shall. Why do I need to conform to the seasons? Uh? Hello? I don't. I don't have anything from stopping me from doing what I want but me. Now I've realized this, my brain went off happily on its way designing a tank cardigan.
I'm not sure I'll be successful, but wtf. That's not the point of life. Life is for living, not being cautious and conforming to arbitrary societal rules. Duh. Sometimes I'm such a dope.
So I brought my four skeins to work, alongside my swift and winder, and I'm gonna map out the skeins and wind them up during lunch. Thank you, Muse.