The Nature of Action

Ironically now that the pressure is off — I still find I have things I’d perhaps write about.

Perhaps. What is this perhaps.

Unsure what green light I’m waiting for, blue risographed permission slip entreating me to embark on a field trip somewhere I’ve been before.

The last three days I’ve been mainly working on graphic design for a project, highly detailed work in Illustrator. Which, after two decades in Photoshop and only a handful of days of diligent work, I often times am flummoxed why a point converts to a line, why a symbol didn’t copy over a cropping mask, why the files take minutes to save. Flummoxed like visiting a foreign country, stumbling over the proper predicate form of a verb conjugation.

For everything that Photoshop does well, there’s a precision to Illustrator and vector editing in general – a lack of forgiven, a lack of fudging things.

When I let the flummoxing and input/output angers go, usually I google the problem. Ther/ an answer, if I make the time to ask the right question.

It’s good work. I’m worried about hidden typos or errors not likely caught. Can’t google those kind of problems away.

When I first sat down to tackle the project, the critical voice, and I can’t emphasis this enough, it’s a perfect ventriloquist, hypnotizing into a depression the thoughts, “you won’t know how to do this, there’s no way you can figure out how to put all of this together, it’s way too much work and not enough time to learn the details and navigate all of the info and folder structures and then put everything together.” Then it speaks in some other language, of abject fear. Like somehow there will be a firing squad at the end. Somehow you can’t understand it but this isn’t what you should do.

I imagined turning back before the journey had begun – letting someone else down. That, deeply, for some reason, felt like the worse failure. So instead I trudged on, one screen at a time. And the fear doesn’t go away – in fact the resistance is still there, shapeshifting, counterarguing, creating soft bunny cages.

You can’t google away your fears, or think them away. But you can google small problems that are getting in the way.

Can you write away your fears?

You can write through them.

Design your life through then.

Speak loosely held guesses about your true self, letting the nature of action silence the inner critic.

The Midnite Deadline

365 midnight deadlines and ninety-two thousand words later. The first half I’m proud of — the second half … let’s just say I’m impressed that I kept writing every day for so long.

I’ll take a break and regroup and decide what’s next. Something. There’s always something next.

 

Last Irish Exit

 

The more people arrived, the faster the party seemed to proceed too quickly along its rhythm until we were the last children of the dancefloor. Calling it the theory of social relativity, dancing to the quiet of a final track, time traveling with a wig.

“And then all of a sudden, the party is over,” I said. I was sad, again, all that commotion and opportunity and connection slipped back away into ubers and drives home and leftovers around the table.

What hadn’t the party been?

Not just the hours on the invitation, from the first arrival until well past the last Irish exit. Not just the balloon surprises.

All that came before, the construction, planning, printing, arguments, cleaning, moments of stress and worry — that was a ritual and could be looked upon as perhaps the party.

Time itself would

As A Tide

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When is a piece perfect, and done? How do you know when it’s finished? Or what to take out?

Is it taking too long? Perhaps you’ve given yourself too much time.

The task, the ideas, the thoughts – a little pressure and deadline is a swell as much as a tide to bring them forward, help them rise to the surface.

For the last year, minus about four days, I set myself a deadline of posting here, something, every day.

 

 

 

An Expression of Nature

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Looking at the warehouse of housing supplies from the balcony, saran-wrapped magical building blocks nested within larger building blocks within buildings of self-replicating efficiency, after the potential self-reflexive horror of it all, then come the questions of wonder, of how we even does civilization encourage it all, turning raw materials over and over again into these ideas and markets and commercial ventures.

Backing away from the suburban and consumerist and observing as an alien scientist might — or just a weirdly speculative gazing — I saw this technological and industrialization was still just a different form of nature. Commerce was in nature, or perhaps more accurately, an expression of nature. It was just this thing that sprouted from the universe.

Even this structured idea of a depot, where the self-growing greeneries of nature were sometimes plotted and sprouted and herbicided before folded neatly into the corners, this too ultimately derived itself from nature as much as it helped to reinforce the home as the object placed against the elements and forces of nature.

The vista worked my brain over the vast sea of aisles, trying to reconcile the majesty — the sheer phenomenology — how all this amazing, functional crap sprouted forth from the fractals of the universe. Here. And in the next town ever.

I turned back around from the railing, and Savannah was still investigating the nature of blinds, conversing with the friendly employee aproned in orange, working the swing shift on an Easter Sunday.