Another day log. Well, I spent my entire evening walking around feeling angry while attempting to calm myself with retail therapy and still somehow here I am three hours later, feeling exactly the same.
I mentioned in another log that I've been reading up on Jungian psychology. The book I'm reading now, Women Who Run With The Wolves, is written by a Jungian analyst who uses myths and stories to explain the psychology of Wild Woman, the female soul. It's pretty fucking awesome.
At some point I should write a proper review of it. But for now, I just want to say that my poetry from the past year IS the book. So far each chapter has something of significance that reminds me of something odd that I wrote, so I'll re-read my writings, and realize that holy shit, my poetry is the Wild Woman in me trying to get out. The person I've been spending most of my time with so far is the Bone Woman, who is one of the many facets of Wild Woman. Bone Woman is the old crone who lives on the edge of civilization, searching high and low for bones. When she finds them all, she puts them together, breathes on them, and the skeleton turns into a living wolf. She laughs while the wolf runs away.
Bones represent that which cannot be easily destroyed, which is the human soul. When a woman loses herself, it is Bone Woman who must put her back together and bring her back to life.
So that in a nutshell tells you the state of my mind. I don't think that Bone Woman is completely finished with me yet but it feels like she's getting close. Tonight while walking home there was a woman in front of me in a short black skirt, a black tank top with criss-crossing straps, black sneakers and black netting on her legs. She had huge white headphones on her head, her hair piled high and messy, and a cigarette in one hand by her side as she walked. I could not see her face or guess her age but she looked like she didn't have a care in the world. And not in a happy perky way, but in a comfortable-in-your-own-skin kind of way. My Thursday night yoga teacher is the same way. She'll wear leopard print leggings and have her long hair down and get onto all fours on the mat. She'll instruct us to do the same, then starts swivelling her hips and rolling her shoulders, telling us to do whatever feels good and to just get back into our bodies. She doesn't care how she looks. It amazes me that she can do that.
I wonder how the people in my writer's group see me. I just started a few weeks ago and so far everything I have shared with them is downright disturbing in contrast with their positive pieces. My first night there, I wrote about a man who hates women and tied one up to kill her. Nothing else after that was much better. Am I the disturbed and angry girl who just showed up one day, in their eyes? Probably but I guess that's alright. That's where I am right now, and it feels better to own it than to pretend. I'm getting better at just saying out loud what I think.
Long story short, anyone who understands what I'm talking about right now, or feels the same way, should read that book. It explains things in a way that makes perfect sense.