Nostalgia tastes like toffee. Like butterscotch. Like caramel. And that’s the danger of it. It’s confection. It’s empty calories. All sugar and no substance. The longing for something that isn’t real.
Spent all weekend working on a project that failed. Today’s newsletter almost didn’t happen. It’s hasty and haphzard. When it comes to luster, it’s lacking. But…it’s here…
It’s a fine line between a healthy obsession, and toxicity. Between frustration, drive, spite, desperation, and apathy. Between giving up, falling apart, figuring it out, breaking through, and continually spinning. Relapse, recovery, and sobriety, one or all of the above I’m told comes into play. But, maybe that’s just me...
We aim for self-knowledge, to have some level of self-assuredness. A degree of certainty. But is that more of a hindrance than an aid? When we tie ourselves to static identities, what happens when we confront the reality of the way things change? When like everything else we cease to be the same? We are an event rather than a name.
Everything is made of small things. Electrons. Atoms. Nuts. Bolts. Screws. Prayer beads. Everything carries bits of something else. Nothing arrives fully formed. Everything starts as something other, becomes one thing and then another. Shifts. Changes, and then becomes something different yet again.
Somedays we push, and pull, and pry. Most days we blister and ache. We feel the weight of every failed attempt like sediment. Like coarse conglomerate. Immovable granite and bouldering clay. It's heavy. It's hard to carry. It's hard to move, but even a little bit goes a long way...
We "assemble a life from the usable fragments", Lewis Hyde says. Sacred relics of the wreckage, gathered and connected. We experience the world as wholeness when all our pieces have a space.
Repression is a rite of passage, they tell us. It’s called being an adult, they say. It’s all part of becoming a semi-well-adjusted member of a society. Smile. Nod. Stay in your lane. Dress for the job you want. Do as you're told. Pay your taxes and your rent. And, most importantly, stuff all your otherness way the fuck down so no one knows, and no one sees...
We talk about achievement. About goals. Setting them. Reaching them. About getting somewhere, becoming something. But what happens the morning after? What happens the next day? After the parade, the party. After they sweep the confetti away. What happens when the big moment fades? Maybe it's never been greatness we were after, but a baseline standard of enoughness brought to our days.
Something happens when you're unhurried, when you escape from acceleration and speed. When you give way to haste-less activity.
Something happens when you tarry, when you linger, when you pause.
You were never trying to escape your life, only what you thought it was supposed to be. Your real life has always been in the attention you give to slow things.
We collect the instances of what's expected of us. Air-quotes-normalcy. Air-quotes-conventionality. Air-quotes-respectability. In other unsaid words, side-eye-conformity. It’s the breakfast of champions, they say...
It is a rare bravery to face the factors of our lives that have fallen down, fallen short, and fallen apart. It's being present with unflinching resolve. It's grieving without giving up or giving in. That's what gives us a chance. A chance to be new and renewed. A chance to be deeper and different. A chance to begin and, more importantly, to begin again.
You put yourself together. Bit by bit. Part Sometimes you do it with clarity and precision. As if by a manual. As if provided with a step-by-step guide. At other times, in total darkness. In the midnight hour. Grappling with esoteric secrets. With hieroglyphics. An impenetrable mystery. Like Ikea instructions for building anything...
“It is so much more comfortable to think that we know what it all means”, Anne Lamott says. But, sometimes the really magical, top-shelf, good shit, sometimes WE PROGRESS when we realize we don't know a goddamn thing. I came to collage to stop overthinking...