With five minutes to write, how far can I get? Is there even a point to starting?
Yes. Yes, there is always a point to starting. And there should be a way to finish, a time to complete the work, do the edit, review the content. But there is never enough time.
Been stressing lately about all that is wrong with the world.
My reminders of things to do on my phone, in my notebook, on sticky notes are there and I read them, but they aren’t sticking.
I saw Bend It Like Beckham recently. Great to get out like that last minute. Didn’t buy the ticket in advance; kinda came upon it when a friend of a friend couldn’t make it to the show and the ticket became available. It was a good night out. A night downtown. I always like those. I’m grateful I got to do that. It was good to be in the city, especially at night. I feel like I burn bright at night and that light shows. Especially on cold, wet, windy nights. The streets sparkled from the lights reflecting off the decorated trees and the buildings. People were hustling and bustling even at that late time of night. The city is so alive, so electric.
Sitting in the theatre, I felt anxious about life. Scared about not having work, scared about not creating, scared about the decisions I’ve made that I can’t change, scared about having all the parenting guilt from my own kids and for me as a kid and all the ways I didn’t do right by my parents. Scared about having to figure out everyone’s emotions and intentions every time I talk to them, having to always think about where they might be coming from and how what I’m saying is being received.
I read a book on the train on the way home, not a great book so far. I find the writing confusing. Maybe I’m just tired and not concentrating well.
I couldn’t sleep when I got home. I almost didn’t come home. I almost stayed downtown, wandering around and getting lost in the lights and the shine.
My brain finally gave up trying to solve all my problems and passed out. I swear it’s like my brain treats problems like a drunk with a bottle. Taking in as much as it can and then marinating in it until it passes out. But just like looking for solutions at the bottom of a bottle has never moved anyone forward, neither will drinking in as many problems as I can and then trying to come up with a solution, trying to see the pattern in the problems. That won’t move me forward.
But writing does. I just proved it again. And I noticed something else this time. Typing works better than writing; better than pen on paper. Pen on paper is slow and deliberate and should be more helpful to process the quagmire going around in my head, but that’s precisely why it doesn’t work. It’s not fast enough. My brain moves at the speed of anxiety: fast, panting, shrieking, jittery, like a kid hopped up on Coke and candy. I need speed to plow through to a solution.
That night out was a good thing. Going out is something to be grateful for. Live in the present. Solutions will come.