touching base inside, not outside

After re-reading a good deal of Otto Rank's Beyond Psychology I fished out The Diary Of Anaïs Nin: 1931-1934 , and it's helping me come back down to a less analytical filtering of my life, to a more sensual and experiential sense of being. More poetry, less distancing.

At times I'm prone to looking at things under glass, as if I'm in a museum. Life, I think, should never be about that. After all, the artifacts - with their little white cards explaining their uses and who used them at what given period in history - once had meaning for those who used them. That's what's important. I want to experience, not analyze. I prefer to reflect, not scrutinize. I want to feel, instead of deduce facts and figures.

I've been craving a long evening of passionate lovemaking, a sense of romance, a mood. There's no poetry at all in spitting out angry dismissives, about the war, about technology, about Blackberrys and the latest downloadable ringtones. I can't fathom how many people choose to live their lives vicariously through these mere details.