(no subject)
Onreironaut Fervor
When you're alone in your room, where do you keep your feelings? Are they under your pillow? Do you tuck them in the back of your drawer when you go out? Can you fit them under your mattress? Have you ever forgotten about them or lost them?
When I was moving from N-208 to 711 O'Farrell Ave, mine might have slipped out of my pockets or from spaces between my gums and lips when I had been singing or snarling at the weight of my extensive "art project material" collection. Having a move-out deadline really changed everything. I was only allowed to say goodbye to the places where I thought deep thoughts, and where I had experienced some significant physical and emotional change. I didn't really have enough time to try to memorize what made those places stick in my mind. Since moving out I've forgotten the wall shapes, colors, and textures. Now I don't know exactly where I put those feelings. Until I find them, I don't know how I'm supposed to feel that intimacy in my room.
My personal project of Spaces vs. Places was once again sparked by Olivia when I was last in Portland. In the midst of a beautiful conversation, we arrived at contents sitting (and standing) atop the table we sat at; a mug, a cup, a pack of cigarettes, and a cell phone. We both felt a certain way about how the four items were placed on the table, and we both wanted to talk about it. Having a red rectangle of cigarettes above and east of my cell phone just didn't make me feel as good if my mug was not at my right side. Each of these possessions were, essentially, a part of Olivia and I; An extension of the two of us. They owned us as much as we owned them, or at least there was a balance over the four objects. Each object had effected Olivia and I as much as we effected them.
What would happen if a table was set up with those exact items and a series of twenty, forty, or one hundred people were tested on where they subconsciously place everything after settling themselves in without telling them to be aware of their decisions? Could we trace the variance? Would we be able to develop a conclusive thesis for the majority of women over thirty keeping their mugs directly in front of them? Where could we start to draw imaginary lines on that table, and what shapes would they all make? This whole process of where we decide everything should go has to be replicated in the brain. Perhaps we mentally arrange ourselves and our emotions to match what is visually in front of us. Or maybe there is a connection to our organs and bodily systems. A visceral understanding could be met when we can dichotomize our feelings with our surroundings.
Feng Shui is an ancient Chinese practice that follows the harmony of placement and arrangement to effect health, wealth, and personal relationships. I think the Jin Dynasty was on to something when they started trying Feng Shui. Researchers, for what they're worth, have found factual proof for Feng Shui and the incorporation of space, astronomy, weather, and geomagnetism. While all fact is subjective, I commend Guo Pu, the main contributor, and all others in the development of Feng Shui.
They missed something personal though. What about the importance of objects and the closeness they have to you? Or what about the vast array of mental discombobulation that comes with moving? Taking things out of a place they've always been, and saying goodbye to walls that held them, and you, and all of your feelings can be really tough. As a pessimist would say: "things are never going to be the same." I would have to agree, but Olivia and I are both taking this whole moving thing with stride. We're making our decisions on how we feel, and confronting our fears with cardboard boxes and the ability to say "I'll at least try." It's not easy. I've moved into the blankest canvas of a bedroom I've ever surrounded my personal belongings and feelings with, and dealt with the coexisting arachnids and amiable puffs of fiberglass here and there. I don't know if it feels like home yet, but I can admit I am glad to live where I live. I think I'd feel more confident about exploring my feelings for my personal belongings after the purchase of a bookshelf, and divorce myself from excess belongings. It might be time for a garage sale.
Olivia is brave. For the first time in her life, she's deciding to develop a new personal space to share with another person she loves. This means that her conversations between herself and her bookshelf will now hear the voice of another. Olivia and her man, Doug, will have to develop new levels of emotional agreement; between the space dividing clocks from shelves and rugs from racks. I recommended she weigh the emotional value of individual pieces, and move them over progressively, evaluating the interpersonal effect on both her old bedroom as well as her new shared space. I believe Olivia and Doug will be able to get through it, and if not, they'll be able to speak up about it and make it known that his or her feelings have been effected by the emotional slant of the multi-media cabinet Olivia prides as her bookcase.
I'm doing my best to try and listen to the secret spiders that inhabited our room before I was there, in hopes they'll be telling me if they have any strategies beyond Feng Shui that could help me find those feelings. Until then I'm ignoring their absence and spending minimal time just sitting in my room, wondering why I'm so dissatisfied with the way my shoes interact with the clothing rack above them. The rediscovery is urgent, considering I'm moving to a new home at the end of the summer. I'll be satisfied if I can develop a corner of a room to like me as much as I like it. The first thing I liked about the room was placing a corrugated padding material beneath me, and then topping it with a large orange, cream, and brown rug my parents had under their house for the last twenty years. I think if I start from there. I can work my way up my walls, eventually encompassing the room with the safeness I've lost.
When you're alone in your room, where do you keep your feelings? Are they under your pillow? Do you tuck them in the back of your drawer when you go out? Can you fit them under your mattress? Have you ever forgotten about them or lost them?
When I was moving from N-208 to 711 O'Farrell Ave, mine might have slipped out of my pockets or from spaces between my gums and lips when I had been singing or snarling at the weight of my extensive "art project material" collection. Having a move-out deadline really changed everything. I was only allowed to say goodbye to the places where I thought deep thoughts, and where I had experienced some significant physical and emotional change. I didn't really have enough time to try to memorize what made those places stick in my mind. Since moving out I've forgotten the wall shapes, colors, and textures. Now I don't know exactly where I put those feelings. Until I find them, I don't know how I'm supposed to feel that intimacy in my room.
My personal project of Spaces vs. Places was once again sparked by Olivia when I was last in Portland. In the midst of a beautiful conversation, we arrived at contents sitting (and standing) atop the table we sat at; a mug, a cup, a pack of cigarettes, and a cell phone. We both felt a certain way about how the four items were placed on the table, and we both wanted to talk about it. Having a red rectangle of cigarettes above and east of my cell phone just didn't make me feel as good if my mug was not at my right side. Each of these possessions were, essentially, a part of Olivia and I; An extension of the two of us. They owned us as much as we owned them, or at least there was a balance over the four objects. Each object had effected Olivia and I as much as we effected them.
What would happen if a table was set up with those exact items and a series of twenty, forty, or one hundred people were tested on where they subconsciously place everything after settling themselves in without telling them to be aware of their decisions? Could we trace the variance? Would we be able to develop a conclusive thesis for the majority of women over thirty keeping their mugs directly in front of them? Where could we start to draw imaginary lines on that table, and what shapes would they all make? This whole process of where we decide everything should go has to be replicated in the brain. Perhaps we mentally arrange ourselves and our emotions to match what is visually in front of us. Or maybe there is a connection to our organs and bodily systems. A visceral understanding could be met when we can dichotomize our feelings with our surroundings.
Feng Shui is an ancient Chinese practice that follows the harmony of placement and arrangement to effect health, wealth, and personal relationships. I think the Jin Dynasty was on to something when they started trying Feng Shui. Researchers, for what they're worth, have found factual proof for Feng Shui and the incorporation of space, astronomy, weather, and geomagnetism. While all fact is subjective, I commend Guo Pu, the main contributor, and all others in the development of Feng Shui.
They missed something personal though. What about the importance of objects and the closeness they have to you? Or what about the vast array of mental discombobulation that comes with moving? Taking things out of a place they've always been, and saying goodbye to walls that held them, and you, and all of your feelings can be really tough. As a pessimist would say: "things are never going to be the same." I would have to agree, but Olivia and I are both taking this whole moving thing with stride. We're making our decisions on how we feel, and confronting our fears with cardboard boxes and the ability to say "I'll at least try." It's not easy. I've moved into the blankest canvas of a bedroom I've ever surrounded my personal belongings and feelings with, and dealt with the coexisting arachnids and amiable puffs of fiberglass here and there. I don't know if it feels like home yet, but I can admit I am glad to live where I live. I think I'd feel more confident about exploring my feelings for my personal belongings after the purchase of a bookshelf, and divorce myself from excess belongings. It might be time for a garage sale.
Olivia is brave. For the first time in her life, she's deciding to develop a new personal space to share with another person she loves. This means that her conversations between herself and her bookshelf will now hear the voice of another. Olivia and her man, Doug, will have to develop new levels of emotional agreement; between the space dividing clocks from shelves and rugs from racks. I recommended she weigh the emotional value of individual pieces, and move them over progressively, evaluating the interpersonal effect on both her old bedroom as well as her new shared space. I believe Olivia and Doug will be able to get through it, and if not, they'll be able to speak up about it and make it known that his or her feelings have been effected by the emotional slant of the multi-media cabinet Olivia prides as her bookcase.
I'm doing my best to try and listen to the secret spiders that inhabited our room before I was there, in hopes they'll be telling me if they have any strategies beyond Feng Shui that could help me find those feelings. Until then I'm ignoring their absence and spending minimal time just sitting in my room, wondering why I'm so dissatisfied with the way my shoes interact with the clothing rack above them. The rediscovery is urgent, considering I'm moving to a new home at the end of the summer. I'll be satisfied if I can develop a corner of a room to like me as much as I like it. The first thing I liked about the room was placing a corrugated padding material beneath me, and then topping it with a large orange, cream, and brown rug my parents had under their house for the last twenty years. I think if I start from there. I can work my way up my walls, eventually encompassing the room with the safeness I've lost.