Three Friday evenings, three guests, three intimate exchanges around what happens when significant, and sometimes unexpected, life events lead to opportunities for personal transformation.
I'm feeling low-key twilight zone, knowing the pandemic really happened but still feeling like I'm in a weird dream and expecting to wake up from it. I haven't been home to my hometown since the pandemic because the borders were closed. my mom died the year before the pandemic, so my confusion over the reality of the pandemic sometimes bleeds over into the reality of her death too--like did all that really happen? memory is a strange thing. also, the train I'm taking tomorrow to come to the event at the Rubin is the same train I took back to school after my father died in 1987. so, like I said--twilight zone. all that being said, my direct personal world is generally okay other than the fact the world going to hell in a handbasket.
may all those suffering the hell of war quickly be freed from their suffering. if you are reading this and have family trapped in a war or are suffering yourself, I'm sending you some love. I hope things turn around soon.
on a happier note, the Rubin website is nice! there's a guided tour before the event tomorrow "Join us before the event at 6:15 PM for a docent-led exhibition tour of Death Is Not the End". The website has a video, the exhibit appears to have some interactive/contemplative elements. Looking forward to it! so happy you are doing this series, you're the perfect host AFP :)
Well damn. I took you off my Patreon when I subscribed to your substack. Could you zoom the conversations?
I spent yesterday in San Francisco at the Asian Art Museum, wandering through the Takashi Murakami "monsterous" exhibit and saying "Oh, wow!" a lot. I came home with a full brain and sore feet, and slept for 11 1/2 hours. As long as I'm petting the cat and reading a good book I'm fine; as soon as I pay attention to the outside world I get kind of batshit crazy: war and deranged politics, forests burning and strangely unseasonal weather, and no apparent relief in sight for any of it. My home is a tiny fragile island of what I am pleased to call sanity, but the world is way too much with us.
I'm feeling low-key twilight zone, knowing the pandemic really happened but still feeling like I'm in a weird dream and expecting to wake up from it. I haven't been home to my hometown since the pandemic because the borders were closed. my mom died the year before the pandemic, so my confusion over the reality of the pandemic sometimes bleeds over into the reality of her death too--like did all that really happen? memory is a strange thing. also, the train I'm taking tomorrow to come to the event at the Rubin is the same train I took back to school after my father died in 1987. so, like I said--twilight zone. all that being said, my direct personal world is generally okay other than the fact the world going to hell in a handbasket.
may all those suffering the hell of war quickly be freed from their suffering. if you are reading this and have family trapped in a war or are suffering yourself, I'm sending you some love. I hope things turn around soon.
on a happier note, the Rubin website is nice! there's a guided tour before the event tomorrow "Join us before the event at 6:15 PM for a docent-led exhibition tour of Death Is Not the End". The website has a video, the exhibit appears to have some interactive/contemplative elements. Looking forward to it! so happy you are doing this series, you're the perfect host AFP :)
Well damn. I took you off my Patreon when I subscribed to your substack. Could you zoom the conversations?
I spent yesterday in San Francisco at the Asian Art Museum, wandering through the Takashi Murakami "monsterous" exhibit and saying "Oh, wow!" a lot. I came home with a full brain and sore feet, and slept for 11 1/2 hours. As long as I'm petting the cat and reading a good book I'm fine; as soon as I pay attention to the outside world I get kind of batshit crazy: war and deranged politics, forests burning and strangely unseasonal weather, and no apparent relief in sight for any of it. My home is a tiny fragile island of what I am pleased to call sanity, but the world is way too much with us.