The problem with drafts

I have a lot of drafts lying around here. Drafts I had intended to be published. The problem is, once a few days have passed, I’ve had too much time to decide they’re not worth posting. This blog is not really a blog, after all; it’s more akin to some kind of working document that different versions of myself keep contributing to. It’s not quite a stream of consciousness, but, well, it’s sort of like a stream of consciousness. A slow, half-heartedly civilised stream. It’s like the water that comes out the pipe that’s sticking out the dam of the reservoir of consciousness.

I write the drafts when I am filled with an exuberance for blog posts, hoping to carry myself through scanter times. It’s only prudent, after all. But my prudence always seems to turn into digital littering. Maybe it even clogs the pipe.

I’m only happy, it seems, when I’m airing the laundry I just tripped over. If I’ve known about it a while it starts to feel like it should be cleaner before I show it to anyone. Logical indeed. But not practical for a blog that is not really a blog at all, but in fact a weird artificial construct attempting despite its inadequacy to channel a nebulous organic entity in some kind of meaningful way. Not that those two things have to be mutually exclusive, mind you. The point it, I use this thing to start cleaning the laundry – I don’t put the clean stuff back through! No matter what I might have thought at various times, both recent and not so, my writing here is highly unlikely to ever be polished, because that would simply disinterest me.

I should really make my peace with the whole thing once and for all.

Hayley

The only woman I’ve ever really viscerally wanted to be is Hayley Williams. And that’s not a thing borne out of fandom, especially, though I have come to appreciate her work in recent years. It’s because part of me resonates so keenly with her, in a way I can’t really explain. Part of me believes I could have been her – should have been – if only, if only I hadn’t failed at being, in all the necessary ways.

When I was younger I was downright jealous of her, and I masked it with disdain. But I was the one who was scared to sing. I was the one who was scared to be in community. I was the failure, and I knew I had no right to criticise her, so the disdain ate at me, and wouldn’t let me forget it.

As I grew older and wiser, I let myself admit that I even enjoyed Paramore a bit. But they remained a ‘guilty’ pleasure. I didn’t want anyone to know I listened to them, and any time I did, which wasn’t often, I felt oddly on display. Who can hear this and what must they think!? As if anyone would think anything at all.

Her solo material was what let me reconcile my complicated feelings about her. We have some important similarities. We’ve had some importantly similar experiences in our lives. We have similar faultlines. We’ve learned similar lessons. But through that and despite it, she was able to continue becoming the success that she is and deserves to be. And I…well I never even seemed to begin. I had been holding that against myself, and she, most than most, reminded me.

What were the differences between us that led to our divergent paths through life, even as we traversed similar terrain? How was she able to build and maintain a fulfilling career, while every avenue I even thought of pursuing collapsed around me in short order? Why could she sing and I couldn’t? Why could she integrate and I couldn’t? We were both in pain, so my pain wasn’t the reason. How could she do it, and do it so well, and I couldn’t do it at all?

Well, there are very good explanations, of course. But that’s another tale.

Someone

Sometimes I try to work out if I could still be someone. Do I still have time to become Neil Gaiman? Or have I already fucked it? I definitely can’t be Elon or Sufjan or Jason or Guy. But there are a few options left on the table.

Why are all the people I want to be men? We’ve grappled with this before, Yve, and now is not the time to get into it.

Half

I am sick of living in half-weeks.

I need an expanse. I need space. I need an organic, unrushed rhythm. Instead of this endless, stuttered churning.

A half-week isn’t long enough for anything. So I’ve filled it with other things. Things that aren’t anything, but aren’t quite nothing either. Noise. Clutter.

None of it is soothing, but it’s become a compulsion. An attempt to blur the edges of the half-weeks. It’s more likely to blur the edges of my sanity with chronic stress and poor quality sleep.

I don’t know how to fix it.

It’s not such a big thing, surely. It’s only one thing, among many other things, and all the other things I like. It’s just this one thing. But it somehow taints all the rest. A low-grade, background malaise, radiating, seeping into every surface.

But changing it is out of bounds. The immovable object. The unstoppable force. I am neither immovable nor unstoppable. I am frail. And I am waning.

It’s time to find a way around. A redirect. The noise isn’t helping, but I can’t cut it out until I have some sort of clear channel forward.

How to flow? How to sweep past the half-halt and focus on where I’m going?

Will we destroy it?

I am an eternal, relentless optimist.

I cannot help but believe that, no matter how much shit we might have to trudge through first, things will always work out for the best in the end. And I cannot help, either, but to believe in the best of everyone’s nature, no matter how hidden the good stuff may be.

But there is a peril hanging above our heads that my relentless optimism cowers in the face of, even if it tries not to show it. Will we destroy this precious gift we’ve been given?

I can’t bring myself to believe we will, but I also cannot deny the very real possibility. The options for such a deliverance are plentiful. We keep coming up with more. And once they’ve been thought of, surely, they must be resolved. One way or the other. How long until one resolves decidedly not in our favour? Just how many, in fact, lurk, unfinished, in the shadows up ahead, like long snakes we haven’t yet met the fangs of? Could one wrong move be all it takes? We’ve made plenty already, bumbling around into things we had no business bumbling into. Is it already too late? Did we already destroy it, and we just don’t know it yet? Were we already bitten, and now we’re simply waiting for the venom to overcome us?

Life is so resilient, yet so precarious. And faced with the choice of progress or perish, I’m not sure we’re capable of discerning which is which. So what will become of us?

I can only speculate.