I am busy. So busy I’ve become an automaton fueled by movement and sound whilst simultaneously exhausted by movement and sound, bouncing between A, B, and C with a rapidity that would startle Usain Bolt.
There is no silence here, no breathability, no receptivity to words, thoughts, or feelings. They are too fragile to survive the boom and speed of all that has transpired the last several weeks.
And I like to work. Even on vacations in other countries I get things done.
But I can’t find my way in anymore, down to the places I love.
I’ve misplaced words and phrases; ideas flee rapidly moving feet and words hurled hither and nigh (outward, ever outward as I try to fully complete my work in ten or eleven hours and six days instead of seven).
I’ve become the vanilla pudding of the word-squad—bland, squishy, and soothing compared to bolder flavours unleashed on the world untamed.
Words come, but they arrive in constipated streams of resistance.
Fire-breathing hotness, sweet or sour to make the lips pucker, umami dreams of miso sheep.
None of this is me right now.
I’m the unflavoured custard squirting through children’s lips while adults ignore the putrescence from the safe distance of the grown-up’s table.
C’est la vie.
And who says I ever held a place at the grown-up’s table anyway?
I appreciate time differently now—time to reflect, specifically. There has to be time for all the nothing to stretch out into all the something that is. The unfurling, the listening, the metaphorical pressing of ear to earth to capture the vibrations of all that bears transcribing.
Being cut away from moments of silence—from down-time—has led to an inexhaustible rat-race inside my head.
And apparently those little fuckers never sleep.
I was hobbling along a fairly clear track in my life, my writing, my inner wiring until I shipped back out on a tide of diminished hours, zero sleep, and the need to run—sometimes in place—just to keep up.
Sleep-deprivation and constant motion have left me vulnerable to distraction. Shit, I’m on the verge of addiction to answers.com, Facebook personality quizzes, and useless yet inflammatory information.
Soma be thy name because that shit is mesmerizing. I’ve stumbled down a rabbit hole without end.
And I haven’t even watched the videos yet, which, praise Jesus, I have little patience for since they cannot be skimmed over, their salient points approved or declined.
This is a learning curve only if I learn; otherwise I fail. Otherwise I wake up five years from now and stumble across an archaic piece of writing that will strike me as either fine or a tattooed piece of toilet paper.
Bad writing serves more than one purpose and I feel neither guilt nor shame over this admission.
So here’s what I’ve decided—forget anchors, I’m aiming for pushpins. I’m collecting a word here, an idea there, and hoarding beautiful phrases read or overheard on subway or bus for later consumption/evaluation/revelation.
And I’m going to listen to an unholy fuck-ton of Motorhead while I’m at it. Yeah, that’s right, I’m going to go hard on the classics for at least five appropriately timed minutes a day.
Hey, it’s better than nothing at all.
And I’m going to try to compromise all that vanilla. I’m going to stand still, bend at the waist, and scream until I vomit. Just because. Just because it’s not part of the job and it isn’t polite; it’s gratuitous and it feels really fucking good sometimes.
Small moments will have be maximized and seconds stolen and valued. I’m going for pushpins because I have neither time nor the wherewithal to throw anchors or remain still.
Then I’ll kill the rats* and fuck the race for good one day.
*Please note that I’m referring to the rats in the rat-race in my head. No actual rats were harmed during the writing of this blog nor do I advocate violence in any form against mammals or insects or other non-human creatures.
Humans are on their own.