The Devil's Tools

It's getting harder and harder to do nothing. Nothing at all. Not meditating, not working, not reading, not singing...nothing. When confronted with the argument "Should I do nothing, or should I find out what's happening in Zimbabwe?", how can nothing possibly win? I don't even stare off into the distance absent-mindedly while standing in line. I've "solved" the wasted time problem with an iPhone. I can check stuff or read or listen to music or take a picture or just caress it's silken surface absently.

Right now, I'm waiting for a video piece to export, and what can I do? I reminded myself to stretch, but then I started researching washing machines. Really really researching. Urgency has once again won the argument. What would happen if I filled this time by sitting out in the lounge area and just staring or closing my eyes?

I'm not arguing that I'm super productive either. It's just as possible that while working I'll break off to research something that doesn't really need researching...but I wonder what's not happening now that I don't allow for nothing happening...perhaps I'll start. now.

on keeping safety valves open

As a teenager I always admired stories of the mature artists, the "normal" writers, the doctors who were also inventing the short story, the insurance agents who were poets. While some folks idolized the flameouts and iconic suicides, I somehow always knew I was going to start late, and clung hopefully to every Walt Whitman and Grandma Moses. Though I had that bursting chest feeling all young art-minded folks have, the sense of greatness impending, of flames leaping from my eyes, I also left the safety valve open...I never got into a battle to the death with my muse. In fact, at this point I'm not sure I have a muse exactly, it may be that I'm not really an artist at all, but rather a talented organizer of stories. That's alright, someone has to sit by the campfire...

In fact, that's probably the main way I got here--making movies, falling in love, living amongst good friends. I started early on a long process of accepting who I am. Here are things I have accepted:

1. I listen to music a lot. A lot. When I write, when I work, when I drive, when I make love, when I'm sad when I'm glad. I thought this was a deficiency, and it probably is. After struggling with "Is it really art if I do it to a soundtrack?" I've accepted this about myself. I need to breath music at all times.

2. I love people, but not all the time. I wanted to love people with a capital L. I hurt myself with how hard that was until I finally realized it was ok not to love everyone. I have only so much, and I save it for those who are near, with a solid portion left over for compassion. I revere love, but don't always have it to spend.

3. I have done bad things. I wanted to purge and be clear and somehow say I would never regret anything I have ever done. I regret things I have done. Still. It's just a wound I have to carry, along with all the others.

4. I need to be alone more than I wanted.

5. I am sloppy. I don't have neat lines and instant epiphanies. I climb up sand hills and hold on to branches and throw myself over brambles and slip down and get dirty and sometimes don't make any progress at all.

6. There are things I've accepted about myself that I'm not willing to talk about yet. It's alright to have some things that are private, strange, idiosyncratic, inexplicable, necessary.