Sharing my awesomeness just a little bit at a time.

As I’ve been considering how I’m doing with finding my groove, I’ve felt a little unaccomplished.  A good friend told me that having pivoted my life so decisively with conviction, I should give myself credit for that, and allow myself some time to heal.  After being sidelined for 2 weeks with kidney stones, I wanted to hit the ground running, and started making some decisions and taking some actions about the future, while also remembering to try to have fun.  I’m still a little frustrated, but I just had a bit of an insight which may provide a helpful perspective.

The problem-solving analytical part of me isn’t inspired, it’s driven.  When something that should be easy isn’t, there’s some reserve of motivation (and possibly a cognitive reserve – I’m still listening to Clay Shirky’s book about that) that I tap into, where I come up with a tree of possibilities, and quickly experiment by iteration through the branches.  When I run out of possibilities, it’s as though I kick in even more motivation — simple problems bore me.  Were I to write a poem about it, it could be entitled The Curse of the Dilettante.

I need to set some creative goals that require me to push myself, but which are fully within my and only my control, as that’s how I’ll be able to iterate quickly.  Concrete, definable goals.  I need to replace some of the bravado in my confidence with sage experience.  And with that, I’m going to summon a quad venti skim latte (which I affectionately refer to as a QVSL) from a green-apron-wearing barista on the corner.

After having someone mention Charles Bukowski in conversation, I went to look him up, and found out from Wikipedia that his gravestone says, "Don’t Try", which was ultimately his philosophy about writing — wait for it to come to you.

I’ve put something I was writing on hold because I found myself unhappy with how it was going — I’ve always had a weakness at editing, a preference for whatever came out originally despite being something with which I’m not quite satisfied.  I realize that it leads to the disclaimers I’ll throw out there sometimes.

I think it’s really hampering me right now.  I’ve been stuck and scared to move on and not come back to it.  Mr. Bukowski might tell me to wait, or that I didn’t wait long enough… but I need to get started soon.  I’m glad that it’s not long before my workshop starts, but even that is too far out for me now.  I’ve historically tended towards two topics, idolatry of women or the need for change.  Women are either on a pedestal or they’ve ripped my heart out in some way.  They’re often the reason for change, whether it’s coming or going.  I need to explore new things, play with ideas more.  One of the things that inspired me at last week’s The Inspired Word reading was the way that the artists took ownership of absurdity.  Poetry, like comedy, often uses absurdity to attack truth from an unexpected angle, which in turn allows the reader or listener to really feel a responsibility for having arrived there.  That little bit of a jump the "consumer" adds, even if only following where led, adds to self-satisfaction and ultimately a happier experience than simply being told.

I’ve been listening to Regina Spektor a lot lately because she seems to be a queen of absurdity in quite a funky way.  I wonder, though, how limited I am by my conception of what’s possible or what’s normal for a human voice.  I think that I need to think about how to break down those guard rails as well.

But I’ve also come to the conclusion that it doesn’t have to be good, that I don’t have to wait it out.  I need to set the table for providence.  I need to experiment.  I need useful practice.

Thinking of this reminds me of something I wrote when completely blocked when trying to write anything emotional.  I wrote it at an open mic at the college bar (sober, underage), with the goal of being cheesy, which I accomplished.  It’ll usually get a chuckle, though I think that the delivery might be responsible for that.

I’ve seen the man in green, hair trimmed neat and shaven clean.

I’ve seen the boy in blue.  HIs jeans are old, his sneakers new.

I’ve seen the woman in red, with a beautiful body and an OK head.

I’ve seen the girl in yellow who went to Sweden and became a fellow.

I’ve been to hell and I’ve never been back, I guess that makes me the man in black.

Not much, but it still gives me a chuckle 15 years later, and actually came right before I got out some things of which I was quite proud.  I’d planned for the subway ride home tonight to be a chance to find characters, and when I sat down I thought I’d have a good collection to observe, but then I became obsessed with the woman I was sitting next to precisely because of the way that she was essentially hiding her face from me.  Despite being fairly blind uncorrected, my field of vision is fine, so I could tell that even if I looked more than a few degrees left of straight ahead, she’d turn her head away from me, covering her face with her dark hair.  I’m no Sherlock Holmes, but observing a shiny surface directly across the train car, and remembering some high school physics about the angle of incidence of light upon a reflective surface, I confirmed that she would look at me any time that she thought I couldn’t see her, but hid her face when she thought I could, or was possibly going to try to.

Super shy?  Did she think I was Jack Bauer?  Just psycho?

Maybe there’s a story somewhere in there… but I’m almost tempted to simply sleep with a nicotine patch on.  I’ve had some of the most surreal dreams like that — what I have to assume is similar to a psychadelic experience.  It’s time to start putting pen to paper, even if it’s crap.  If it’s crap, I’ll get something upon which to practice editing.

Just 15 minutes into my 36th year, I was given someone else’s words to use as my vocabulary.

My whole life passed before my eyes, and it wasn’t even interesting to me.
      -Edward Garlick (played by Forest Whitaker) from Good Morning Vietnam

I’ve recently come to the conclusion that I am ready to be great, or to die trying.  I’ve seen friends old and new who are here to do incredible things, and with my eyes open, I’m seeing it more and more.

"There are roughly three New Yorks. There is, first, the New York of the man or woman who was born here, who takes the city for granted and accepts its size and its turbulence as natural and inevitable. Second, there is the New York of the commuter — the city that is devoured by locusts each day and spat out each night. Third, there is the New York of the person who was born somewhere else and came to New York in quest of something. 

…Commuters give the city its tidal restlessness; natives give it solidity and continuity; but the settlers give it passion."  -EB White, Here is New York

As much as I have a "grass is greener" romanticism about lawns and the freedom that driving offers, I came here four years ago because I wanted to "make it in New York".  By some measures, I did that very well.  A few promotions at work, rising the ladder, respected by those whose opinions I care about and many others.  I was living with a woman I loved and who made me laugh.  Though I cherished her and wanted to find a way to give her what she needed, and she’d have sacrificed quite a lot for me, what we need to be happy was different.  She deserves to be happy, and so do I.  I really hope that she can be.

Inspiration can come from anywhere, and it’s been coming fast and furious lately.  From understanding more and more my ways of thinking, to reading something I wrote long ago, to surprising people with the passion I can exhibit when I’m in my state of flow.  I’ve become more confident and less afraid of loss.

Not long ago, I saw someone smiling while in a state of flow, and it reminded me of an early poem of mine, a favorite titled Smile.  I’ve had what you might call "less literary" folks tell me that they don’t like poetry, but they liked this, and I’ve seen several people cry when reading it.  My crossroads was different then, I was afraid and trying to convince myself that I wasn’t.  I don’t have much of a visual memory, but there was a smile burned into my mind which got me through.

In the smile from a few months ago, I saw a glimpse of real passion, of self-actualization, of confidence of purpose.

It was in that moment that I realized that I became one of White’s settlers here for a purpose.  And I was reminded of a strength I used to have, a confidence that I developed as my writing became less about personal therapy and more about words, images, and perspective.

I’ve registered for a poetry workshop called Catching Fire (interestingly, the domain I use for my personal e-mail, registered almost a decade ago, is litfire.com) at New School University.  I visited an open mic poetry night called The Inspired Word which, well, inspired me, both the performers and the welcoming environment.  They, too, are White’s settlers.

It’s time for me to make it here for real, with grit.  And now with my eyes open, I see just how much there is that New Yorkers give to each other to keep the art in their hearts alive.  While there’s plenty of bullshit in this town, there’s nothing quite like it’s community of settlers and I know that they’ll welcome and nourish me because they already know my soul, even if they haven’t met me.  I just have to show them and learn from them and give back.

On this, my 35th birthday, I decide to live my life with purpose, to "pay it forward" with inspiration.

There are a million ways to do it.  Even sharing stories about my own self-discoveries has, I think, struck a chord with some people I care about.  I hope that follow-through may inspire them.

In the mean time, I’m going to continue to choose to try things a bit outside my comfort zone.  I’ve come to realize the disparity between the risk and reward.

The rest of my life starts today.  No more waiting for my real life to begin.

Please join me, and don’t forget to smile.