Since this blog reflects my day-to-day preoccupations (so far, our awesome puppy, being creatively adrift, and, um, a basil plant?), it feels appropriate to write about a Tarot card reading I did for myself a few days ago. I’m still mulling it over.
I read Tarot cards like I read movies, TV shows, plays, and conversations I overhear in coffee shops: not in any particularly mystical manner, but knowing full-heartedly that I can learn something from anything, that there’s something useful in having narrative art laid before you. Beyond being entertained, if you want to, you can become a semi-reflective surface when you face it. (Yeah, very reverse-mimesis, you Aristotle fans.) If I look at how I react to characters or situations (find myself identifying with a character or person, for example) and have some semblance of self-awareness, I can learn just a bit more about myself by mulling over why I’m having a certain reaction. What features am I reflecting, what angles am I taking? It’s sort of like tossing a coin to make a decision, except you use your reaction to the random chance (No! Why wasn’t it tails?) to choose what you’ll actually do.
Without a traditional working schedule and working life, there’re so many possibilities. With my editing workload dropping off these past few weeks (ah, the feasting and famining of freelance work!), I’m at a loss. I’m not sure whether to spend most of my time scrambling for more work, no matter how dull and dead-endy, or use my time to make things I’d really want to. Like more paintings. Or actually finish the apocalyptic novel I started.
It’s a bit too common of a problem though, you know? Everyone who’s ever said those things about making things, and said this thing about saying things about making things. Too much for us, right? Let’s just do it, hopeful creators of the world! Why shouldn’t Nike wisdom be shouted so?!
But still, in whatever form, it’s scary to put yourself out there through yourstuff. The Oatmeal comforts this anxiety-induced slacker.
On the side of things away from these worries, there’s cottage cheese in the fridge for breakfast. There’re coffee beans and crunchy leaves, and the husband and the puppy are napping sweetly on the couch in the living room. (Is it still a nap if it’s in the morning?) There’re library-borrowed movies to watch, Goodfellas, No Country for Old Men, Idiot Abroad. There’re, at least, 14 more waking hours for me this day.
Maybe I can do something good amidst those waking hours. And maybe, more generally, a bit of personal blogging here’ll help me focus in my floundering twenties. Thanks in advance, Internet.