I considered writing about my Grandmother's death, but could not. Not yet. Instead, I brought the dog into the groomer -- caught a ride with my dad because my truck was in the shop.I considered opening my files for my new-new script, but did not. I listened to music today and watched music videos on YouTube. I listened to an interview of Amanda Palmer discussing her thoughts on "success,“ artistry and how she lives in a community of artists, which helps to feed her own art.
I talked a bit with Emily. She was so excited because a local radio station talked about her and played her "perfect playlist." A few of her song choices, the female radio D.J. said, were inspired because of Jon and me. I assume she got that information from Emily, and that made me smile. In any case, it was a nice moment in the day.
But today, I accomplished nothing toward my creative goals. Now I am sitting here (forcing myself, actually), and wondering why.
I thought about Amanda Palmer's interview and her creative energy, her ability to make her music and artistry happen with integrity. She's what my dad would call a Dozer (character's from the old show Fraggle Rock). He has called me that, too, “A Dozer,” but lately I feel so far removed from being a capable, "doing" person. Do I need to know why I am the way I am in order to change? Isn't it enough for me to understand that I need to get up and get things done that inspire me to live? I need to make things happen for my sake. All these years, I thought I needed to do things for my parents, my children, even my grandmother. I had more drive when I was younger because for one thing, I believed I could do it. But I also wanted to succeed so that I could prove a point to them, so they wouldn't worry and so they would be proud of me. And because I am a square peg who cannot fit into a round hole and yet, I tried anyway. If I believed in myself, it was only in brief spurts. The rest of the time, I allowed fear to rule me – just as I do now. However, I wonder what I am so afraid of that it prevents me from striving for the things that make me excited and happy.
A few minutes ago, I did some dishes and looked out the window at the beautiful moon. Jon still has the kids with him down there and it occurred to me, that at least for a little while, we've switched experiences. Somewhat. It is very quiet here. Too quiet here. It's not so bad because I know it is temporary. But then my mind skips over to the loss of my grandmother, her sad ending, and I know the silence is coming for me, too.
My kids will grow up and move on with their lives. My parents -- no, I cannot go to that thought -- you know what I mean. Without dwelling on it, I will be alone unless I choose against it. I will regret countless hours of wasted time unless I choose no longer to waste it. I know, too, that somehow I must choose to no longer fear anything. The idea of community, of placing myself among other creative people, is what I need to do -- somehow.
I cannot ask to be within a particular community. Whatever my "art" (writing, filmmaking, performance), It must come first. And then, if I am worthy, I will slowly be allowed in with other like-minded artists, humans. But I have to prove myself, to myself, first. Maybe. Perhaps all I have to do is show up. I wonder if the word "prove" is the essence of the problem. You know, the faith thing -- I should claim it with more than words.
So tonight, I am asking why is it I refuse to help myself? Why do I allow myself to be just uncomfortable enough that I do not work harder to alter my situation? The anxiousness that settles upon me in the middle of the night should be painful enough to move me out of this. It’s as though I've become numb – and waiting for the end.
