Dear Jane - Letter To A Muse Part One / by D.M. Jerman

"Dear Jane, are you Vivian or Lolita? Did you know? Did you write? Did you want to?"

Hey, it's me.

It's a Monday and I'm bothered by the idea of "collections." People want things but they also want money and sometimes you can't have both. So, is it better to want neither?

I want to destroy something today in order to put another thing in better order. I think I will have a reasonable amount of success.

I did a rune casting. (5. One of my lucky numbers.) And once again they did not steer me wrong. Reminding me of the big picture. One of the outstanding images I was left with included the 'curve'. There are no straight lines anywhere. Not in my practice, not in my life, nor in the world.
Sometimes a steep drop. Sometimes a gentle rise. Never a route that is not somehow circuitous. And why is straightness valued so highly anyhow?
I am happy to be engaged in process today. Some days it's quite frustrating.

Reality- (used to be a friend of mine... get it?)
I see an old man on the train whose profile looks strikingly like that of Sam Shepard. I wonder if I will ever write a good play. Probably not. Probably need to commit to reading more of them.

I wonder what my grandfather dreamed about last night in his late late octogenarian sleep. The white light is creeping in. He won't notice it until the invitation becomes too bright to ignore. About a week out from the night when he finally climbs toward it and shoots his soul back into the collected soul-light-ether-cloud.
Reality. Just a stop on a round-trip ticket.

And I think that by telling others about my planned fearlessness that it will affirm my bold non-action. Is it a coward's guess? That by sharing a scheme it almost made it so? My companion might believe in the truth of my mind and delight in all its dirty reverie.

In my short story I thought of how perverse it could have been. And the regret was not just in the not-saying of the words, but in not removing the hairtie and not delivering the required smirk.
The story could have been about drugs, but the tidy noise of it all really comes down to the paycheck. Gimmie money and I'll be so hard and straight for you. I'll take myself right back out of my grandfather's orderless fantasy and put all my laced-up intentions back into your palm for 20/hr.
Grandpa- I bet his brain is all its own drug and now all he needs. All the anymore of any possibility is there.

We both picture our dreams- our parallel nite-life lived in the false flight of sleep- as the dark side of the soul. Yang to a Yin sweet and warm.
And this great ball rises up out of us toward a rejoining place. It should not be pictured or identified as a body-shape. May it be instead circular and perfect and floating free. Without demands. Without judgement.

Another question. This time for Mother- did you have cravings with me? If so, what were they? Did my father have to go out again and again into the starry Pennsylvania night to get them?
I thought so. I hope they were insipid and exotic both while I churned in my early sleep in the deep-deep-down-below of that lightless womb. I just hope they weren't cheerios and they weren't ice cream. Too obvious. Maybe instead really fresh pasta and incredible marinara. Spicy and savory. I could have been Italian. Lemonade or fruit juice. I could have been Brazilian.
Is the list disgustingly long for all the consumption? Please, tell me too it wasn't sausage.