Monday, May 9, 2016
Ever since I first peered out into the sphere of humans, I have been trying to figure out how to navigate the terrain. Coming of age during the cultural upheaval of the 1960s, I spent the remainder of my youth puzzling over the meaning of existence, studying psychology in hopes of escaping childhood indoctrination, and searching for a way to maintain my sense of self. I became a singer, an artist, and a feminist, all of which rattled the paradigm of my raising. In the process, I prowled about the margins of the continent.
What is life but a comedy of consequences? It gives me solace to know I have always had good company.
“I, myself, have never been able to find out precisely what feminism is. I only know that people call me a feminist whenever I express sentiments that differentiate me from a door mat or a prostitute.” Rebecca West
Sorting out the jumbles
After writing a thirty page recital paper in graduate school, I joked that I would never write again with so many restrictions on my creativity or without the promise of remuneration. From that day forward, I kidded about writing a trashy novel --even though I had never read one. Still, with a bit of encouragement, the compulsion to write took hold. God, I hope not everyone has lived in such constant turmoil, or, if they have, they will get a chuckle or two from reading about my foibles.
Some great mind clearing and cleansing experience would’ve been nice before I began. But, not being able to make a trip to a temple or pyramid to participate in a three-day death and resurrection ritual to cleanse my spirit, I have stayed earthbound planted in Tennessee scribbling my thoughts.