Retreat, regroup, recover

Writing is a battle between and against myself, albeit one I thoroughly relish. Expression is probably the first thing that I am not only willing but also glad to strive for. A close second is finding my lighter at 3 am.

In the writing battle, I am both sides of the fight: a fundamental brigade (mind), against a slothful system (body). Ironically, the sloth wins sometimes.

To illustrate, I was going to ask that you close your eyes right about now, but how do you keep reading? So instead, best as you can – with your eyes open, of course – imagine my fight:

Thousands of foot soldiers, all of whom constantly train very hard. Then there’s my body; a giant wall, an immovable object, keeping the army from seeing, let alone feeling, what they spend every waking moment striving for: freedom.

Okay, so the thing is the battle barely ever even happens. But inside me, there’s constant intensity, I swear.

At best, there are occasional climaxes. Like sometimes, the army actually charges at the wall —  that is, my mind tries to defy my body. But ask anyone who knows me, and they’ll tell you this; unless it involves sleep, Mary Jane or my favourite foods, my will is barely ever an unstoppable force.

Nowadays though, I'm unsure if that's as unfortunate as I used to think it was.

I’m also unsure if continuous indulgence has become the biggest cause, but it’s safe to say that a little walk in the park is an inescapable part of my process now.

These days, the army is less inclined to scale The wall in desperation. If Queen Charlotte’s taught us anything, it's that when you stay within the wall, the sky stops being your limit. Instead, you become its rival.

Seriously though, for my expression to find way through the wall, I must acknowledge the wall. A little too leisurely nowadays, I walk its length — however long and/or winding. I observe.

Whatever I wish to convey from within, I must prepare to be on the outside. So, the ridiculous way to win my battle, I have found, is to make the wall as strong as the army or vice versa. When there is something I must express, my body must be primed for possible change. Therefore, I can be neither sick nor weary. Inasmuch as writing involves sitting in place at my keyboard, the process still takes its toll like any other activity. I think this rings true for all creativity.

My bane with consistency

See where I got that? Take it from James himself: none of the rest of this is neoliberal blasphemy or anything of the sort.

In a bid to keep ‘putting myself out there’, I poured — when I didn’t want to, when I didn’t need to, even when I wasn’t prepared to be a proper conduit.

As a member of contemporary society, a part of me wants to say I am ashamed to need moments of passivity. But the truth is, at my core, I have no shame about this.

In my time away from creating, I find joy in consuming. (Again, socialised to constantly offer or else feel like I don't deserve to exist, committed consumption is honestly no easy feat.) It's in these moments I find the things made to evolve me: the kind of things I want – rather than need – to make.

Intentional works remind me of my own intensity; to express, to create, to grow. I see that I am allowed to make intentional work, too. I can evolve more deliberately than I thought I had the freedom to.

The pieces of me I translate into my labor are not for consumption, but for evolution — the observers’ as much as mine.

Living, experiencing, growing, I discover the art of gathering so that when I have to give, I...well...have. These days, I can recognise strife (of writing) without thinking of it as battle. My army – now a loving gardener, tending my wall – now a tall garden. I am not only willing but also bound to walk the entire length of the wall, knowing there is no hurry that outside of my own natural speed at the moment. 

I choose to fetch just as much as I pour, if not more. And I started with this piece that I began months ago.

Now, I know to come back after my ego dies, not before. Whenever my ego dies.

Personal public projects are exactly that: parts of me to be perceived. So, I treat them as parts of me first: loving whatever takes form, before bothering to make myself digestible.

This process of writing, you see, is one of the universe’s many gifts to me; an exercise at creation and curation.

I wish I could say I reach the end of the wall much sooner now, but that's not the case. What I can say, though, is that learning to love every inch of the wall has made my whole process all the more full. Therefore, all the more satisfying.

Even if the planet loses its orbit if I don't write, I will not if it is not honour to my body as much as it is honour to the theme.

Anyways, I cough up at least two writeups every week.

“How?”

I’ve come to learn that creating for its sake and creating for survival are on different planes. When I create for its sake, I just must obsess over what I’m trying to say. In the other scenario, as anyone with a job knows,  I’m always down to make an extra thing to make an extra buck.

What I'm saying, dear possible employers, is that this piece does not reflect my work culture. I promise I understand the role(s) of consistency in creating for consumption.