For the past five months of my life every minute has been about transitioning to right now in my life, and now that the transitioning has been completed I’m kind of scared, kind of excited, and kind of staring at my keyboard like a tiger in a padded room. The relationship drama has ended, the writing job has concluded, the apartment has been built, and countless goosebump-ey drives have been driven. The parallel flack has boiled off leaving me alone with the resin of my thoughts. And my thoughts are a dodgey lot. Maybe that’s why the first thing I’m writing is an essay about how having no more excuses isn’t maybe as much fun as picking out new carpets for my living room or buying a new mic for the VO booth. While the need to acquire and assemble is something of a hassle the sheer materialism of it all is reliably good for a nice dopamine rush, plus you get more stuff. Hell I wanna stop writing this right now and go get that fancy whiteboard for my office, you know, cause I have shit I need to plan.
But I’m not. Yet, anyway. I’m gonna sit the fuck here and write until I feel I have enough of a beginning, middle and end I can justify doing my laundry and going to Staples. And I just put on Coldplay. Fucking COLDPLAY.
The rub about being a creative person is that the high comes from your subconscious spitting up ideas like a volcano and not from the endless crafting of those ideas once the magma has hardened. Maybe that’s why so many “artistic types” are so good at picking out an outfit or thinking of the great American screenplay but fall so flat when it comes time to take the clothes off and write naked. Because that part isn’t fun. Sure smoking the Walter White is a blast, but you know what homie had to go through to make it? As a card-carrying member of the ‘artistic type with a good outfit’ I’m taking the end of my phase 1 as a MMA weigh-in challenge to now both have the good outfit, and the product to back it up. Because a well-dressed man with nothing to say is typical, and I am atypical. All my personality-building and karmic wankery has boiled down to this : I live for art, I must create art, and even though the creation hurts, it’s the only way I can maintain sanity and happiness.
I’ve learned a lot about myself in 2016, arguably more than I have in the past five years combined. Anyone who knows me will attest, it’s been a fucking doozy, but because I’ve been so goddamn busy I’ve always had todays-task to take my mind off it’s typical wanderings. Wanderings such as ‘am I getting sick’, ‘I should google if I’m getting sick’, ‘why did I google getting sick’, and ‘I have lupus’. Left to it’s own devices my mind is like a Roomba careening across the floor of my brain randomly sucking up detritus. I’ve always just kind of let it. But that ends now. The Roomba’s a toy. Everyone knows if you want your floors to get really clean, you get a Dyson, and baby, I just got one.
Dyson ball actually, amazing piece of machinery.
So I guess that’s what this post is about. I’m gonna try like I’ve never tried before. Every step I take will be walking towards my goal of expression through creation, and I will be as militant about that process as I’ve had to be in the setting up of life 5.0 (let’s go with 5). I don’t want this feeling of peace and purpose to end, and to facilitate that I’m just going to have to high-dive into my id and pull something out. And do it again, and again, and again until forever. For there are no more distractions that aren’t my creation anymore. There’s just me, this keyboard, and whatever’s next.
– Ben Morrison