Once again I’m at a semi-loss as to what I’m doing. With my life in general. Then I think, “You’re 72 years old don’t you think you should know what the fuck you’re doing?” To which I respond, (since I am talking to myself, because whoever you are, you will go on with your life moments after you’ve read this,) “You’re living a relatively charmed life. You pay your bills, have food in the fridge/cupboards, sleep on a comfy bed in a thermostatically controlled house as long as the grid holds, in a cozy neighborhood. You’re on good terms with your family, and have friends with whom you can have meaningful conversations. You write, make art and have three dogs. You want more?”
My answer is always unequivocally “Yes”. Such is my life as an entitled, progressive and overly imaginative baby boomer. Ridiculous, maybe, but the alternative of being a tract home owner in the burbs, a retired legal assistant who is now a social golfer who drinks Starbucks vanilla lattes at 9:30, light beer at 5 and takes guided tours in order to check off a bucket list ain’t me. If that describes you, good on ya.
It seems that I am at a temporary crossroads, creatively and socially. In former times I might’ve felt at odds with this limbo-esque state of being, but not now. I believe I actually like feeling on the verge, which is what I believe this is. Why just today I ventured into my studio to clean up, get the ole chi energy moving and plot my next piece. Oh yeah, it (the piece) is swimming about in the space above my head like a cartoon lightbulb, but it ain’t gonna take its physical form until I’m good and ready which will be after I’ve dumped some more stuff into the meta and physical recycling bin. I think of my process as similar to baking bread except my recipe for art comes not from a google search. I have to trust it’s gonna rise with a bit of kneading and resting and a hot as fuck oven, which currently in our 105F weather shouldn’t be difficult.
Purging the studio (and my closet, since I just did that too) makes me feel lighter energetically. I suppose this is because I managed to enjoy spending six weeks traveling – wearing only the contents of a 21”carryon. Mind you I did use those storage bags that you squeeze the air out so much that you have to hang your clothes in the shower to de wrinkle them. I thought that all compressed I was thus preparing my attire to be in the manner of sous vide. Done to perfection. Linen wrinkles and is allegedly chic.
Segue time. I haven’t quite figured out how to create the perfect capsule wardrobe, but I’m working on it. My major problem is I may have the Imelda Marcos shoe gene sans the high heels or ridiculously expensive footwear, most are merely sensible but colorful clogs, boots and sandals. Funny I should be thinking so much about shoes. Ah the idle, possibly addled mind knows no bounds.
Today I plunged my body into Luke cool water at the Y for aqua aerobics and felt immensely proud of myself for managing to be somewhat regular in my attendance. It’s not difficult to get my ass out of bed at seven since my dogs hound me until I’ve prepared their food and they’ve ceased barking once they are finally chowing down…But dragging my now shrinking but lazy behind out to the car at 8am is, shall we say, a small challenge. My reward is I actually feel better when I’ve completed my 9,000 steps in weightless aerobic movement. I’ve been trying to convince our instructor to give us five minutes of free water dance since I am not a fan of repetitive exercises. I often rebelliously move to my own inner Tina Turner while the rest of the class follows the teacher. I figure As long as I’m moving my body consciously I’ll be fine.
And so this ends my rant for today. Have a swell weekend. I’ll write soon,
Janet Bernson 