Imagining

There are so many beautiful, brutal, exquisitely illuminating human experiences playing out all over the world every single moment.

Sometimes I imagine them, and wonder if they’re real.

Sometimes I wonder if all our imaginings are simply us being offered a glimpse of another’s reality. Another being; another time; another world. Would that be more or less extraordinary? Is our gift, our skill, measured by our ability to build up out of the abyss, or to say what we see with deftness and clarity, as we peer through the portal we’ve happened upon?

I don’t know, and I don’t think I need to, but I like to imagine what could be true.

S Pen

My mobile device of the past three and a half years has been getting a little ornery lately. In its defence, it has been dropped on countless occasions with absolutely no consideration for its wellbeing. But still, the situation was becoming tedious.

I convinced myself to hold off on rectifying things with an impulse purchase until after my birthday, when an anticipated modest influx of cash will ease the burden.

When it comes to technology, I’m not a frequent updater – too much faff to keep setting things up. But when I do finally get around to making the significant purchase have most likely not planned for, I must confess to a rather imprudent proclivity to desire the shiniest, sleekest, most impractically optimal piece of equipment I happen to lay my clammy eyes upon.

And, once I set my sights upon a device, I am regrettably unyielding from that point forward. It must be that one now. The one I have decided to love. The one I have committed myself to, come Hell or high water.

SO I’m writing this with my new S pen on my new S22 Ultra. Unnecessary, yes. Overly indulgent, undoubtedly. The day before my birthday, indeed.

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.

A hasty cobbler

My latest spate of posts have been a ‘better than nothing’ endeavour of stringing together scraps of old drafts on my phone in an effort to produce something in the realm of momentum. Enough momentum to trigger the change I need in my life that should, in due course, create more space for ‘real’ writing.

So, having made the decision to post daily before being ready to do so, cobbling together has been the best I could muster. And that’s how it has felt: mustered cobbling. Relief-filled mustered cobbling.

They’re the kind of posts I’m glad not many people are reading. The kind of posts I doubt I’d be comfortable hitting publish on if I was sitting at a desk in my right mind.

Yet there they stand, now, proudly, by the wonder of the internet. Having served their purpose, and, in doing so, raising yet more questions about what the fuck this blog is actually for.

Intermittent

It’s hard, once you stop, to start up again.

My life is set up to be intermittent. That’s not my preference, it’s just the way it is.

As much as I inherently rail against routine, I do better with consistency and, knowing this, I have tried to seek it out. Unfortunately I have not been able to collaborate with the main actors in my life to create a level of daily consistency for myself. Instead I have a reasonably predictable, undulating, biweekly cycle, during which different areas of my life flash on and off for multiple days at a time. I live in binary. All or nothing.

I’m good at all.

I’m good at nothing.

The switching…I’m not so good at that.

I waste a lot of energy trying, and regularly failing, to make the transition from one to the other. My life demands I simultaneously switch one area off, and another area on, according to its schedule. The whole point of the cycle is that all things have their place, but what if I can’t get to that place on time, because I wandered too far into the depths of the other place and I haven’t found my way out yet?

I did better when, despite my schedule conspiring against me in ways I was unable to remedy, I constructed consistency for myself. Daily consistency. A reliable thread. Anything less simply adds to the chaos, as much as I’d like to believe otherwise.

The most successful thread I constructed was writing daily. Writing meaningfully and intentionally every day. But life got noisy and I let it lapse. I let myself lapse. I dropped the thread. And that was a mistake. A mistake all too familiar.

I haven’t figured out, so far in my life, how to keep on doing anything.

The only daily consistency I’ve had in recent months is my morning coffee. Its effect is dopaminergic enough and its procurement easy enough to ensure its inclusion regardless of my week’s topography. But everything else is up for grabs, and up for debate.

And that is, quite possibly, the crux of all my problems.

Nobody except me cares, really. It’s not their problem. I couldn’t make it their problem if I tried. I did try, in some cases, so I’ve learned that lesson. There’s no point looking outward.

This is my life. How do I fit myself into it?