So, I’ve been thinking, fancy that, about what do. I say this every year and yet, here we are mid-September after 6 years of nigh-on daily blogging. And as much as I love this – and believe me if you believe me about anything when I say that I do love it – I wonder at times about how it is helping me. I also ponder lately if there’s something deleterious about elevating the random happenstance of my life into language as if it matters so very much. The false equality of this page.
Let me explain. I had a good day overall, uneventful, and I even found myself capable of staying calm and not going into any sort of panicky spiral. There really is not much more to say than that. I could recount the reheated Monte Cristo sandwich I had for a very late lunch, how heavy and oil-laden, how pleasantly filling as my first meal of the day, how it stunk up the whole back room. But, overall, it was not a day of any real literary worthiness or self-revelation. I managed myself sufficiently.
However, the drive home was slightly…panic-stricken. I was having this internal dialogue with myself as to whether or not, as the night got dark at 7pm, my eyes functioned. This dialogue kicked in the whole array of panic functions which, as you may be aware, raises one’s heart rate and widens one’s pupils to let in more light. For the purposes of survival against the terrors of the unknown woods, monsters and bears and whatnot. Not to secure me on the street I always drive home.
After reading about a driving anxiety program last night that detailed specific experiences people like me have, and that I have, it was on my mind. I said I’d be as cool and reserved as I’d carefully relaxed my way into throughout the day and…in fact, whammo, I was very much freaked out because of this minor transition.
So that happened. I felt the clenchy, gasping, going to black-out, going to lose control, everything tight as if I had a blood pressure testing bracelet around my whole body. I hated it as anyone would.
But…I still got home, you know? I still managed to make the turns and press the pedal and not hit anyone and I still…did it.
So I guess, making a post about oh my god, this happened to me and let’s always remember how I’ve got this issue and isn’t it so true that with every up there’s a down and…I can collect hundreds of these posts and not clue into the fact that life does go on if every single post is meant to feel like this encapsulation of the totality of my being. It’s just a still frame, though. A single snapshot.
It just feels like it would be a lot better to accept that hey, I have to drive that way home tomorrow, too. So let’s talk instead about Edwardian spy societies and alternate realities and immortal father figures and corsetry and mad sciences and mad magic and…
I am contemplating requiring 500 words of fiction of myself. This is the muscle that is meant to be worked. That means I may not end up feeling like writing a post about the fact that I had trouble with my driving anxiety. Or about the innocuous quality of my day. Or whatever. I feel like maybe I would lose something by doing that after six years, but I’d also be making a radical change towards accepting that not every hiccup is worth the linguistic engine of my brain. I want the stories that I’m building to blow you away, and that is going to take time and energy. Maybe I can’t spend it this way as much.
I am thinking.