I open the page, I hit "add content" and then I think, what the hell am I going to write about?
Well, how about sitting on the porch, almost (but not quite) hidden from the neighbors in my nightie, dressing gown, furry slippers, down jacket under a black umbrella, meditating? That was last night, and the one before (sans rain but with the sound system from the frat house down the block). Yesterday was one of those too-much-content days; I was having troubling emptying my mind to a sufficiently zen void. Every now and then I remind myself that I can stand back from my mind and watch myself thinking, or rather, watching my thoughts "forming and dissipating in my mind like clouds on the horizon." Ok, funny, but sometimes it works.
I took a "Mindfulness/Stress Reduction/Meditation class last summer to help myself deal with a distressing family situation, so distressing I was sure I was going to end up in hospital. OK, I also found some chemical and therapeutic help, but the meditation, I've decided, is a good thing, despite being one more thing on the To Do list, not good for us OCD types. Light rain on the umbrella or, other nights, stars. Cool air. Redwood tree gently bumping up and down.
Am reading Nabokov's The Origin of Laura, which has been sitting around the house for a couple of years, and which he told his wife to burn if he died before he finished it. He did and she didn't and, as you may know, it is published in the form of handwritten index cards that can be punched out of the book and shuffled.