Rugburnt

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I am imagining, as I hang on to the thin, wispy breeze of cool air that this fan is noisily drawing towards me, that it shouldn’t be too difficult to get today’s post done.  I am feeling, by degrees, a bit better because of what happened today.  I ended up writing a few Gatsbian things yesterday for myself, and today, instead of turning my nose up at good intention, I just did it.  I just worked a while, played a while, worked a while and so forth with that clever little phone alarm pushing me forward, and now the room is approaching clean.   A few stray piles and a few boxes of things that need to find homes and I’m not really sure right now what to do with them.  I have a crate full of notebooks, each one of them not possibly more than an eighth full.  I should and could and would write in those, if I were to make notebook writing a practice again.  When I was in school, I was a pretty aggressive doodler.  What we now teach as zentangle, was my escape from the nauseatingly boring lectures and chitchat that made up a bigger part of my education than probably was helpful to me.  I slipped into daydream and automatic drawing, sliding the pen around, trying to fill every corner.  Writing in Elvish script, drawing little three-dimensional squares which were essentially jello and sometimes had the appropriate plates upon which to wiggle.  Getting a new notebook for that was another sign of this battle with perfectionism.  There was a right way to do it, or there was always, with the fresh, clean lined sheets, the potential for genius.  A poem, a story, something.  Of course, you start at it and realize you don’t have the right word at hand, or you’ve repeated yourself, or as always, it’s just a trite concept and you should get rid of it.

I didn’t want notebooks full of triteness and cliche and struggles towards failure.  I should have just let myself fail.  They were my notebooks and to this day, no one has slipped under the door jamb and rifled through any of them.  My sketches and little, pitiful retreats from possibility are all that are documented there.  Still, it’s hard to dump the lot.  I’ve been throwing a lot of things out, donating lamps I used to think had sort of a Lord of the Rings, elfy bent and now just look like cheap wrought iron bent into a shamrock.  I don’t feel like if I don’t try and perfect all of these different aesthetics I’m into that I’m betraying some youthful part of myself.  If she wanted it so desperately, she should have gone for it.  Life has happened between now and then and the now of it calls me to pare down.  To clean up.  To shake it and work until my legs ache.

Action versus serenity.

No last line is coming to mind, I just want to keep going.  Wear out the soles of my feet.

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