"I have a love / hate relationship with treadmills that has something to do with the difficulty in distinguishing between training and thrashing."
after I fell asleep on my balcony listening to radiohead's "how to disappear completely," I figured I should do something to assert my existence. I went to a chicago-style deli, then a coffee shop and a bookstore. after a day of meandering around, I realized that the only words I said outloud to anyone were "hot dog and a water," "raymond," "thank you," and "small americano." there may have been a "yes," "no," or "excuse me" thrown in somewhere just to mix things up a bit. having failed to assert my existence physically, I am now relishing the irony of this attempt to assert myself virtually.
about a year ago, I finished reading a series of shitty books I felt like I could write along with several good books I felt like I should've tried to write, I thought I should stop feeling coulds and shoulds and just go about doing it.
this, as most who've tried will tell you, is a pain in the ass. especially when you can't answer the question "what the hell is your book about?" without many sentences and much hand waving. in the struggle to get the book off the ground, my other writing, namely this website, began to suffer.
for months, I just let it suffer. I believed that a breakthrough with my book was just around the corner. the first 70 pages or came very easily. words on a variety of subjects spilled onto a set of textfiles and emails. but then, somewhere between work and my own waning attention and energy, some of the passion was lost and I ended up at a standstill. to squeeze some juice of creativity and inspiration out of my shriveling mind, I discussed the process and struggle of writing with other writers. I rambled about my ideas for the book at ridiculous lengths to just about anyone who would listen. I alienated close friends by frequently interrupting conversations with "that's what I'm writing about!" I holed myself up in my apartment meditating on the intersections between personality psychology, pop-culture criticism and assorted philosophical stuff I can't really list without sounding like the sort of self-aggrandizing asshole you want to see punched in the face. I generally carried on like I imagined any great, possibly insane writer would. I will neither confirm nor deny rumors that I started talking to my cats.
along the way, I decided it would be beneficial to switch gears from a long format back to a series of shorter essays. self-reflection is generally good for my writing, but in the last few months, self-reflection vetoed everything. I doubt a post over 5 pages long would be read by many, so I tried paring down and adapting book material. my notebook filled with pages and pages of unfinished, wandering posts that feel trite or strained and desperate. everything looked like standard blogger fare: the desire to be overly significant and the desire find meaning in every ridiculous minutae of the day. there were times I was so starved for material, I would simply start to narrate my days. I could hear my voice in my head saying things like "and then I made some coffee and toast, a now standard fare for the morning." this would only last for a short while before I wanted to clean my ears with a screwdriver.
so where did all this mental struggling and thrashing about leave us? napping on the balcony listening to radiohead.
and waiting.
one more detail and everything will fall into place perfectly, just one more book to read, one more idea, philosophy, thought to hash out in my mind. things will be better, it'll be just a little more perfect after just one more second. just a little while longer. hold your breath for a moment more.
the effort to produce something significant strangled all concepts resembling anything creative. what's worse? a/ spitting out something trivial or b/ perpetually pretending that I'm on the brink of some momentous revelation and producing nothing in the meantime?
exhale.
in waiting for perfect moments, there should come a realization: there are no perfect moments, but there is perfection in every moment. interesting how we feel like slaves to habit and upbringing and past experience and even our simple meandering attentions. in our frantic and frustrated self-observation, we neglect that we can do more than simply observe and fret and struggle to create mantras for ourselves.
there's a time to wait at the edge of the pool. there's a time to struggle with jumping in. there's a time to analyze the internal and external pressures, the risks and benefits, the reasons, the causes, the various processes and valuation by which I became unable or unwilling to jump. and there's a time the analysis should come to the end. there's a time to simply jump. I'm generally wary of decisions toward momentous life change (especially around this time of year) but whatever. here goes.
