My life feels like a Salvador Dali - a mixed up blend of reality, fantasy, and just plain freakishness that requires both a close-up inspection and a take-a-step-back look at the big picture to understand.
If you look closely? You see some strange formations in the shape of various recognizable objects, such as body parts, eyeglasses, cat toys, and unfinished novels, lying around a somewhat clean but nicely messy apartment. You get the vibrations of feelings of incoherence, stress, ennui, joy, and anxiety, all roiling around in a sea of tinnitus and yoga, hovered over by a cloud of indecision and sadness, a yearning for an unknowable past.
Step away, and see what appears to be a fairly normal, middle aged lady who smiles through the bullshit and the loneliness, flares up at the unjust libel and slander, tries to find the good in everything while she seethes in anger and adores her cats. You see that cloud of indecision from a different angle now, and can see its roots in the cruelty of a world that will never be fair no matter how many times she tries to teach it to be. You also see the sun, and the contradictions it makes with the cloud, shining down on all she has done and been, and meant to other people. Everything she has created and loved and built and destroyed for love love love all of it always, for love.
You will also see the road that leads from this now very small image of a woman in chaos, to a goal on the other side of the painting. In this painting, of this particular woman, this goal is peace, serenity, and the novel that's been living in her head all these long, lonely, meaningless years.
