Out of Practice and Far From Perfect
I suppose enlisting in the army might have had some benefits-namely some discipline I sorely lack. You’ve got to wonder how I spin in and out of these beautiful literations, sometimes really clever, though lately I am far from inspiring. I feel like my language has been dumbed down being here in Denver, understanding that most conversation during the day involves Don and I spewing about the various inequalities and injustices in our world, and then beyond that any regular conversation revolves around how I take my coffee, what’s new in the bakery and nothing beyond polite conversations about dogs. Granted it is really fucking early in the morning, but still-inspiration is truly lacking with absolutely no reserves, of course spinning all of my own tales and genius in my own head, far from any other realizing eyes.
If I hadn’t stopped drawing when I did, or rather, let myself get severely out of practice, I would probably be a real artist right now. Instead I am the designated family painter person-doing all manner of project that will adorn a relative’s wall, the subject matter nothing I’d normally tackle for any other project than, “paint a nice picture for the wall.” I really suck on the follow-through on these a lot of the time-knowing all of the weddings I’ve been to or missed in the past decade and all of the promises I made to myself or others for the big painting I’d do-it’s kind of sad, and really just illustrates a real fear to totally finish anything. For a long time I guess it was success I could lamely feign fear over, but right now I’m starting to qustion all of it. I designed my sister’s wedding invitation for the wedding I couldn’t attend. That took three days. I had a deadline, which makes a difference, but I’ve got an F on follow-through.
At this point I am trying to start getting into these conversations with myself, ie blog postings again, which I’ve let flounder quite a bit. The stories and pieces of my life seem to fall over the edges into dusty corners of my brain, sparking little jolts of memory where I wonder how it was I could ever have forgotten the apex of these stories. Again, I’m enamored with the cleverness existing only in my own head. If I was able to peel all of this out of my skull in some respectable order, I’d imagine I would have convinced myself it was time to do something with all of it. But I’m out of practice both with my own reading and with my own writing, both imperative for any real connection and communication.
So all you can do is do-and so that’s all I’ve got time for these days-I’d like to spend a lot more time doing and a lot less time stewing.
