I know this may sound like whining, but I wrote this yesterday and I have to honor it now.
This: I’m thinking even writer is a false title. I don’t to be a writer. I want to try to impress you guys. I don’t want to worry about how many people read. I don’t want to worry about the best time of day to post or if the best color font is black or if the best titles are expletive-free. I like to write but not always. I like to write but sometimes I’d like to go swimming instead, or sometimes I’d like to do yoga instead or sometimes I’d like to go for a walk or sometimes I’d like to cook creole food or sometimes I’d like to socialize.
Is there a way out of this trap? Or is it part of the process? Is writing without worry a concept akin to eating the elk without the hunt? Is it simple? I want the end, without the means. Am I getting soft? Didn’t I learn anything from the David Goggins podcast?
Sometimes I think the never-ending transition from childhood to adult means I must label myself. Remember when in elementary school when we’d pick a number out of a hat? It’s like that with career. And identity. Architect or accountant or actuary or academic and then cozy in and get comfy because 40 hours every Monday-Friday. At a certain point, doesn’t passion get poisoned, become obligation?
Leave fruit unrefrigerated long enough and eventually it will sour. The thing is. Can you turn rotting grapes into fermentation? Can you turn rot into wine? Jesus washed the feet of his disciples? What if massaged Judas the Betrayer? How do you do that?
The snake must molt its skin or it will die. I keep writing this sentence. The sun is rising in the East, where it always rises. I see it coming slow through the trees. Kate and the baby are sleeping. In an hour I will eat yogurt and cut up apple and granola and flax seed for breakfast.
I listened to a podcast while walking the dog down the street but I get very agitated with the dog because he keeps pulling and biting the leash and I’m not my best self this morning. Even though I woke up and did the thing Yoga With Adrienne said to do. I completed the sentence “I choose.” And I said “I choose chillness.” And like Adrienne said, once I completed the sentence, I imagined it was already so, already manifest.
I worry that my worrying and free writing here is projecting negative energy. I asked a writer friend if she thought I was spinning a web of negative spider thread. And she said no. But she said you have to listen to your gut. Am I whining or documenting the real grit of emotions?
The highlight of my day yesterday was spending Kate’s 9-4 Blackbird Coffee shift with the baby. She’s such a teacher—babbling curiosity and joy and ease, eyes bright like the universe at night. For dinner, we had Kate’s former soccer player over for dinner, along with her boyfriend and her brother. I made stir-fried vegetables and rice noodles and sourdough bread. Sautéed cauliflower, carrots, bell peppers, onions, garlic. Squirted in liquid aminoes. EllieRoo likes the cauliflower if it’s soft enough. Me and the boyfriend talked about how independent-type people have a hard time working for others. Our job success rate hovers around 50%. Maybe lower.
EllieRoo choked on a leaf. It took two hours to come out.
She’s almost crawling forward.
Sitting in the sun with Elle Rumpa picking grass in the bright and blue and warm sun on skin a Friday afternoon. We smiled and laughed in the front yard. Cars drove by and waved. Stopped to ask when we’re moving or say EllieRoo! EllieRoo! EllieRoo!
I’m crawling forward too.
I’m afraid of failure, failure to grow the thing I identify as my passion into a project worthy of calling a project. Which means, I’m afraid of recognizing what I’m doing as good right now, in this moment, without any accolades or attention. I’m afraid to say I’m a success, just by being me. I don’t know why. I’m afraid that when we move to Minnesota, everything will change. That will get swept up in a tide of consumerism and middle-class race to buy buy buy and pay for going out to dinner and that the slow pace and steady rhythm will get coopted by life in the city, which is a faster lane than here in Milledgeville. I’m afraid I won’t find a teaching job. I’m afraid I’ll have to take a bullshit 9-5 just to pay the bills, even though Kate and I agreed that we won’t do that, that we’ll work food-service jobs or labor jobs before we pimp our pineal glands to corporatism. I’m afraid that this project is waxing. I’m afraid I’m uninteresting. I’m afraid of the dark, I guess. I’m afraid that I’m not as strong as David Goggins when he was fat and tried running a mile and couldn’t do it so he went back on his couch and sipped his 40oz chocolate milkshake. I’m afraid the yin yang gods may have got their chemistry wrong with me, given me more dark than light. Maybe the attitude gods gave the chill allele to my younger sister Carol. And carefree to my other young sister Alexandra. And positivity to my other younger sister Michaela. I’m afraid that none of this is objectively true and I’m somehow bent on telling myself this story.
I choose. I choose. I choose. I choose. To take the next sip of coffee and feel the coffee in my mouth and feel it without any thoughts or expectations, just to feel it and whatever that is, I choose to feel it and accept it and to experience it without needing to name it or put it in a Tupperware in my head.
>>>>Yo good morning Saturday sleepy citizens. If you have any kind words, mental orange flotation buoys, now’s a good time. If I’m being honest. Hit me up here, or at 763-316-8323, or leave some $love at patreon.com/altdaddiary.