Going Jane

By Juli

I think one of the main reasons I’m not batshit crazy, despite the sometimes Maury Povich inspired screenplay that periodically takes over my life and the lives of those around me, is an autopilot feature of my psyche that allows me to switch into Jane Goodall mode. Yes, if you snuck into the cockpit of my subconscious, you’d see the lever there, left of center, with the label “Going Jane.” It’s sort of like going native, but on the flip side. It’s the ability to watch the world go raw and uncensored, and just take it in and trust it’s part of the greater reality-weaving process. I take a deep breath, observe and take notes, and try not to get my panties all in a bunch. The little threads working themselves over under, under over are maddeningly monotonous real time, but they’ll make sense in a few weeks or months or years when I can step back and see the picture in its entirety.

Right?

In religious terms, this state might be spun as detachment, a kind of higher state of being where you transcend your need for worldly connections and achieve an enlightened perspective. I’m not that full of shit to say that’s me and where I go. In psychological terms, emotional detachment can be good or bad, depending. It’s either an inability to connect (bad) or an intentional assertiveness to ignore the trolls (very good). Since I'm calling the shots here on the stage, and I like to avoid embracing too many unflattering labels at any one time (and right now, I'm full up, thanks), I’m going with the “this is a healthy thing I do” behind curtain number two.

So now I emerge from the reverse-chrysalis, not feeling changed much myself, but very much in that eye-goober stupor after a Rumplestilzken-like sleep. The world around me has undergone a great change. Maybe I’ve been working toward the evolution while hunkered in the hole. Maybe I’ve just been with my back to it all. Each time this happens, I come out blinking, realizing I’m light years away from the gravitational pull of that first hole my inner child gets sucked into from time to time. It’s strange and beautiful, the leap, but boy is it often a mess. Smoldering campfires litter the landscape. The retreating calls of familiar mammals echo in the distance. Beer cans, crumpled to-do lists, unpacked boxes, streamers, someone’s boxers hanging from a flagpole, you name it. A big metamorphosis party, and no one bothered to pick up a damn thing.

So here I am again. Thankful to be here having avoided most of the minutia along the way. But a little overwhelmed at getting it all tidied up before the next big trip. Because you know what see when we get that rare look at what’s really going on? Not “the answer” on the broadloom. It’s always a directional sign of some sort. Get going on this-a-way little lady. Life is not a fact-finding mission, for sure. It’s a journey, they say. Boy the hell is it. Happy travels my friends. Pick up some trash on the way out.