I don’t think I believe in New Year’s resolutions. Intentions, maybe. Or remembrances. Surely all resolution must come from memories of failure and success. There is something so unyielding, so inhuman about the word. I do not like it. It’s a word that does not admit to failure, and so failure becomes inevitable.
Something I want to remember from this past year, well mostly just the last bit of it, well mostly just today when I was wandering through my house like a three day old party balloon. Ahem. IS. This. You know the recent wave of heart warming text boxes on the internet that remind you that no one person can be your everything. And you know why those became popular. Because they’re right. Because it doesn’t work. We aren’t built for that. You have to have a whole structure, big or small but supported, built like a fire where each stick is a different person serving different needs, letting the oxygen in onto your own sweet heart. New Orleans is a sort of disorderly bonfire, masses and masses of sticks all burning together and getting crunched and shifting around and meeting new sticks to burn with and this metaphor is getting cumbersome but we are not here to be tidy, after all. If we were, we would not have been given these troublesome mucous sacks to get through the world.
So, this is my thought. You have to do the same thing with your own self, but spaced out across time rather than people. I get badly stuck in contradictory ideas of what I ought to be doing. God, and as soon as that word shows up, I should know to watch it. Ooh, and there’s should slipping after it. Aren’t they sneaky?
There are ideas of what you should be from advertising. From your parents. From your social circle. From that one really really painfully cool girl you saw and imprinted on when you were seven. From your own true and shining centre. And, it is not necessary, nor is it fucking possible, that you be all those people at the same time. I don’t know about you, but it is exhausting for me to maintain my pure and undiluted self in our funny world. I think it’ll be easier as I age. I just have a whisper of that yet, but I think it will prove to be so. And it’s not always the right thing for the day, or the weather, or the company. Sometimes I want to be the vision that others have for me. Sometimes I have multiple simultaneous visions of what I may be and then I have to take a bath and reread high fantasy until it goes away. Sometimes, ooh, and the lofty smug spiritual part of me does not like admitting this even though it is a daily truth, I just want to drink and be pretty and yell on a porch with my women. There are too many things to be in one time and in trying to be all of them at once, I fail to be any just one of them well. There is time. I don’t know how much, but I know that time is better spent in knowing, feeling, being one thing thoroughly for however long its life cycle (rarely longer than three days, in my experience) than in scrabbling after an ever renewing failure in pursuit of ”well roundedness.”
The problem is not in being any one of these things, or not being any of the others. The problem is letting something extend beyond its natural time. If I am patient, and watchful, and ready, I can let things go as they age out. I can be not afraid to move from stillness to motion, motion to apogee, apogee to retreat, retreat to stillness. In whatever order, because my self was never so orderly as the seasons. But as I am so ready to lash myself for indolence or anything left incomplete that it freezes me, so I hurry through times that I know are crying for quiet that I fill with tasks. Tasks that mostly do need to be done, but maybe not now. Maybe tomorrow. When we’ve grown out into the space that makes that task easy. When hands and purpose line up.
Maybe I don’t need to do
everything I’ll ever do
P. Motherflippin. S.
I hate fleecebook and will be moving more to this, my personal webbuhsite, for interaction. Please bookmark or follow me and comment, I’ll bookmark your personal website if ya got one and we can unchain ourselves from that blue bordered lunacy.