Anne Lammot says I’m supposed to sit down and trust discipline. Bird by Bird is the name of the book I keep avoiding. But in a podcast I heard her say that it’s hard to let go of the things that fuel you, or stop chasing the idea of creative moments. I’m paraphrasing here, poorly I would guess.
Anyway I’m supposed to be disciplined.
I’m supposed to act like the thing I just wrote wasn’t a result of a bunch of high emotions, pent up sexual energy, acid, and a rainy Sunday afternoon.
I’m supposed to trust that I can do that at other times. Without the inspiration.
Without the three hours of listening to music beforehand, without the blend of a partially fun afternoon and an-about-to-turn-sour-acid-trip-if-I-don’t-do-something-about-it. Without the long cleansing shower, deep cleanse of my entire body, a long masturbation session, followed by a relaxing hot bath with multiple bottles of ice water - music up. Lights off. Climbing out of the bathtub clamoring for my iPad so I don’t lose this thought. Oh shit I should dry off first.
And it’s not like I don’t know that feeling without lsd.
I know that feeling.
I am that feeling.
It’s me every day.
Trying to be productive. Trying to chase my goals. Trying to be seen. Trying to be me.
Trying not to think about my short time on this weird planet.
Trying.
Still trying.
The outlets are getting infinitely more productive and less self destructive. But I don’t have any clue what to do with it all.
I don’t know how to structure it.
My creativity has never really been channeled or directed. I am skilled labor. I am productivity. I am time management.
I am eat, sleep, work, rinse, repeat.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
I am trying to figure out how to get my workout routine to look the way I want it to.
I am battling my weed addiction. Day 23 baby. Haven’t even really been tempted to smoke since I unloaded my love story about weed to a friend of mine.
So I’m just supposed to do this on a schedule?
Am I supposed to pretend I don’t write stuff to myself while I drive?
Am I supposed to pretend that half of this shit isn’t just me mentally playing with myself?
Trying to not be consumed by darkness?
I am an orchestrator of thoughts and feelings at my best. I am the surfer that gets rolled most mornings.
I do think I could write regularly. I have loved books since I was a child, and I have a strange obsession with people that too many people haven’t heard of.
But I have no clue what to do with it.
Guess I’ll go take my dog out and try to figure out if I should eat something before I go to sleep.