Go figure, it took a month and a half for me to muster up the give-enough-of-a-fuck to make a second post. I have a few more fleshed-out writings in the works but for now, here are the general theses swirling around relentlessly in my mind:
I am still finding myself—despite years of what could nicely be called “humbling” experiences—engaging in the self-destructive pattern of a) hitting a painful, personal wall in my life that causes a meltdown, followed by b) resolving to make changes via setting creative goals, attempting to [re-]build friendships, and improving both my mental + physical health, only to c) be thrown comically off course and abandon all of these as soon as a Promising Man enters the picture. Then, when, unsurprisingly, that dalliance implodes, I find myself right back where I started, though worse for the wear because I’m furious I’ve allowed it to happen yet again. I really don’t like being That Bitch. (One positive thing I’ll mention is that I no longer automatically assume I did something “wrong” or am to blame for the dissolution of a situationship/relationship.)
Although there are very few things—in the grand, diverse scheme of life—that are actually, completely dependent on being a certain age, there are many that get punishingly harder the older one gets. Obviously, the longer we have been engaging in particular adaptive behaviors, the more difficult it is to un-learn and replace them once there’s recognition that they are no longer “serving” us. I’ve tried to break up the current amorphous aspirations I have re: my creative pursuits into digestible steps that don’t seem overwhelming. But even when trying to tackle the first rudimentary bullet point, I’m up against over 30 years of thoughts—and related avoidant actions—that seamlessly convince me it’s all pointless and hopeless. And I would be remiss to omit the importance of bodily capital, and the very not-just-in-my-head concept that women’s potential for success in creative realms (and beyond) rapidly declines as age increases.
I love to collage. It’s the only activity in which I can truly say I enter a “flow” state, and I do think I am talented, a declaration I take seriously since I have a pretty low opinion of my competence at most things. But maybe one of the only other areas in which I can confidently say I similarly excel is turning a positive into a negative, so here I go: I wish I were musically gifted instead. Sure, it’s apples + oranges, and they’re not mutually exclusive, and yes I rap every now + then, however, I don’t make the beats and the rhythm eludes me more often than not, blah blah blah. I absolutely have an appreciation for visual art, but the role that it occupies in my daily life is a far cry from the importance music holds. I’m rarely without a soundtrack, since music can coexist with most human tasks, while the accessibility and experience of visual art are typically relegated to a removed sphere. And I would say, without a moment’s hesitation, that music has impacted me much more deeply, in a manner that beholding a photo or painting or collage (or even film, for that matter) never has.
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