Month: November 2021

Picture postcard

As I had failed to capitalise on the actual opportunity, I decided to pull the thread of my art show attraction in the comfort of my own bed.

And, no, I don’t mean by masturbating, I mean by lying in the dark coming up with ideas.

I followed the pathways my brain wanted to pursue. Naturally, the primary problem it wanted to solve was how to find this person, so that it could have a second chance at probably not talking to them. It wanted to find out who they were, so that it could orchestrate the best chance at happening upon them. Very familiar territory. I’m an internet sleuth in recovery, so I nixed that line of inquiry pretty sharpish. But then I have nothing to go on, my petulant brain did wail. Well, if you’ve got patience, Brain, there’s a pretty obvious way you might see him again – by attending a similar such art show in the future.

And then I had what I needed. Because, actually, something that is apparently far more engaging to my brain than devising plans to meet this stranger it liked the look of, is planning a piece to submit to the next art auction. Especially when it’s a silly, tongue-in-cheek piece that I can whip up in half an hour.

Much like emotions, I have learned that whims and attractions are best submitted to, rather than repressed. So long as you can set your expectations and interpretations aside. Because, at least in my experience, they don’t usually take you where you think they will, but they definitely take you somewhere you want to go.

And those destinations may not turn out to be satisfying to anyone other than yourself. But I think we, as a collective, need to get a whole lot more comfortable with that outcome. And I, as an individual, most certainly do.

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Pulling the thread

I went to a silent art auction last night at a local university, amidst a raging British storm. That is, a fairly-mild-by-all-accounts-but-exciting-to-us-folk-who-don’t-experience-real-storms storm. My friend had submitted a piece and so we turned up to represent. It was unexpectedly packed to the brim with art students. Not that we had any idea what to expect, but it was bustling. Decidedly COVID-unsafe. And we were most definitely outsiders, but I doubt anyone was paying attention.

We made a circuit of the corridor where the pieces were displayed. My friends made a few bids. I did not. And then, as we were nearing the end of our lap, a man walked in. Floppy hair, undercut, self-effacing demeanour – yeah I’m into it. Our lap took us past him and, after a couple of mutual glances, I suspected he was into it too. He changed his trajectory to hover near me. Fucking palpable. The thing is, I am alarmingly age-blind, and I thought it best to make the assumption that he was, in fact, undergraduate age. So, when somebody wanted to get past me, I took the oportunity to spook, and headed back to the safety of my group. We continued to orbit each other loosely. A few more demure glances. Indecision. And then my friend made the let’s leave gesture, and we were gone.

I now regret this. I feel I have unfinished business. The tension remains unresolved. My mind is looking for ways to resolve it. I want to find out what I was into. Because, the truth is, I’m not often into it these days. I wish I had pulled the thread with a spirit of curiosity. Who is he? What could I have learned? Where could it have taken me? How long is the thread?

I think part of the problem is that I am many-times-burned by this inexplicable pull towards people. I don’t trust myself to handle it with grace. I love it in theory, but in practice it feels dangerous. But that was a past self, who consistently misinterpreted and overblew the pull. I have a much healthier conception of attraction at this point. I need to figure out how to exercise it because, as it is, I’m cutting off a really delightful part of life. Pulling the thread would be so much more fun than ignoring it.

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Tim

I have recurring dreams about being in a romantic relationship with Tim Ferriss. This is not by choice, but it is my reality nonetheless. While I’m not attracted to Tim Ferriss, I do like and admire the version of him I have been exposed to, and so I suppose that accounts for some of it. But he’s, not like, you know, Guy Martin. Or David Tennant. Or Sufjan Stevens. He’s not even Jason Mraz or Elon Musk. He doesn’t capture my fascination or make me giddy with joy. He’s just a very steady, positive, peripheral presence. Somewhere between Andrew Huberman and Seth Godin. I’m just having fun listing people now.

They’re not sex dreams about Tim Ferriss, exactly, although there is sex; they’re specifically about having, developing, maintaining a romantic relationship with Tim Ferriss. I don’t recall ever having that kind of dream about anyone else. Only Tim. Always Tim.

That’s all. No conclusions. Just thought you should know.

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Something worth doing

I long lived under the mantra if it’s worth doing, it’s worth doing well. And that thus expanded out to mean if you don’t do it well, you wasted your time, energy and resources, it was a bad decision and you should feel bad about it.

That’s wholly incorrect. For so many bloody reasons. But fundamentally because it suggests it’s only worth doing if it’s done well. The things that are most worth doing are the things that are worth doing badly. The things you’d regret not doing. The things where a failed try is better than no try at all. Where a clumsy, inarticulate, muddling effort is more noble; more admirable; more true than silence. Where a half-step forward is still progress. Where a fudged attempt still provides something valuable.

When you fail to execute out of fear it will go badly, it sends the message that it wasn’t worth doing badly. Which translates to not being worth very much at all. Is that true? Or are you short-changing it?

Now, of course there is something to be said for the endeavour of excellence. But maybe it is more helpful to suggest that if it’s worth doing, it’s worth doing wholeheartedly. If it’s worth doing, it’s worth committing to, regardless of the outcome. If it’s worth doing, it’s worth doing even when time, energy and resources are limited. If it’s worth doing, it’s worth doing, rather than ruminating over the perfect course of action.

Done is better than good, as they say.

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True motivations

Guilt.

I have a lot of it.

It sets in every time my son goes off to his dad’s house. I didn’t do enough with the time I had. I wasn’t kind enough, certain enough, thoughtful enough, engaging enough. I wasn’t good enough. And now he’s gone. A mini grief every time he walks out the door. If only things had been different, so we didn’t have to be apart for more than a day. So I had more chances to be better; so I didn’t have to face this vacuum that I pour all my regret into. If only he hadn’t been ripped from me for half of every week since he was only a year old; back when I was still his whole world, and letting him go felt so viscerally like failing him. How could I let his dad take him from my arms like that, just to put him in childcare? How could I be so weak? How couldn’t I fight for him? I have to make it up to him and I’m running out of time.

It’s a bit sobering to realise that script has been going on somewhere in the background and I’m only just really looking at it now. I knew it was there, but I didn’t look at it. Seeing it laid out on my digital page like this makes it so clear that it is but another iteration of old, worn beliefs. How easily I can now trace its provenance.

But, regardless of its pedigree, it’s stopping me from sleeping.

During lockdown, we had our own Golden Age – my son was with me for five whole days of the week. Everything was better. We slept well, we ate well, we went to the toilet on time, we had a great routine and we were joyful. The swirl of chaos it felt like we had been living in settled and we built a steady life. But, eventually, his dad wanted to return to an even split. I didn’t like it. Makaloo didn’t like it. He protested, he cried, and he begged to sleep in my bed in case he had ‘the dream where I wake up in daddy’s house’. I can probably count the times he’s made it a full night in his own bed since on one hand. And I can’t sleep well with him next to me, so highly attuned I am to every movement he makes; so keenly attentive to any potential call to action. I’ve tried every sleep aid I can get my hands on, but nothing chills me out enough to make it more than a couple of hours.

Yet I can’t bring myself to evict him. Because letting him sleep there, snoring, sleep-talking, sprawling onto me, sitting bolt upright in the middle of the night or whimpering gently before he rolls over; waking up at 4AM and declaring he needs to lie on top of me…it eases my guilt. And it’s impossibly fucking adorable. There are so many things I feel like I’ve been deprived of the ability to give him, but I can give him this, so I do. To my own detriment.

I don’t know if it’s right or wrong. I argue with myself over it routinely; there are good reasons to advocate for both positions. But understanding and acknowledging my true motivations is integral to making an informed decision. So I’ll keep digging until I find a place to stand that feels solid.

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Riding the wave

Upon my bed is a pile of yarn.

That feels more like the start of a poem than a blog post, but I like it.

One of my favorite things to do is start creative projects. And, like many people who most enjoy starting creative projects, my follow through leaves something to be desired. Which means I have more raw material than I have ever transformed into finished product. And this has only been kept in check by ruthless routine purges, otherwise I would have surely drowned in fabric and paper by now. I got the yarn out because my son was amazed to learn I can knit. So I figured it was high time I knit him something for Christmas.

Out poured the yarn. And with it out poured all my wildest knitting fantasies. All the ambitious projects I’ve kept swirling perpetually in a space outside of space, and all the delicious inspiration they send coursing through my veins.

I am overwhelmed with opportunity. Transfixed by possibility. I don’t have time to make them all. Where should I begin?

I unearthed this part of myself to make a present for my son, so it’s only right I start there. And, let’s be very clear, it’s been a minute since you actually, you know, made anything. So rein in the ambition.

Hooded scarf with rainbow dino plates it is, then. Good. Now ride that ecstatic, inspired momentum until it escapes while you’re washing the dishes.

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