I would like to blame recent neglect on the weather. Where I live, Spring has touched down with a graceful finality, and wherever She alights, golden motes of troublesome dust rise up like smothering clouds. And the garden grows. But that would be too much. Nor would it be completely accurate to say that I just hadn't gotten around to it, because here I am typing away one still-cool morning, fresh from a shower and thoughtful.
An artist I know who works in all manner of strange mediums (from my perspective, I mean) described to me something of her process. She wonders up an idea, and judges it, then usually ends up throwing it away. As whatever deadline approaches this process repeats, becoming more frenzied and wild until rampant need (which I believe is half the formula for genius) causes her brain to formulate on the idea, the one she will actually put forth. Procrastination is what I might have called it, but likely only because I didn't have a better word.
Because, I've discovered, procrastination is what I've enacted. The art-house project has gone no further: the book remains empty, even vaguely dusty, on my desk, planning continues, refining, yet implementation has stagnated as the days tick tick tick away. When I talk about it, I describe it as an obligation. I said I would do this thing, so I am being held at my word to do so. My word is important to me, and yet I've done nothing.
In lieu of further psycho-analyzing myself, or even putting forth effort on the journal itself, or looking tirelessly for a new job, I've been writing. In addition to the three novels I'm working on simultaneously, I've also decided to finally go back and edit the first novel from which those three branch from. Friends from my past have come at me with some small projects which I tend to quickly and directly. Most recently, I've gotten in mind another short story to work on. All of this is overwhelming, but comfortably so. I feel that despite the task, I can achieve it. I suppose I feel confident in my ability in this one, lonely field.
But other concerns some might label as more important. Like the approaching deadline which is now... 7 days away. And the job, which is how one acquires money which is how one acquires food and services. Literally the things needs to maintain life. Not to live, but to stay alive. I discussed my lack of priorities with a friend recently. Well, not discuss, I think I mostly ranted. A crux of my situation has always been the narrow edge of a coin. In one situation, I become successful, perhaps even very successful and famous, certainly a story used to impress people at dinner parties. In the other, I fail to adapt, and so I fail. Almost as if I'm flawed somehow, my energies seem only to commit to the one, thus far unmarketable enterprise.
The oddest thing about all of it is the numerous people who believe that I'll be fine, that things will just work out, and with no idea how. It reminds me a bit of religion, trusting in the invisible. And i'm late even to that, like throwing on my thick and unseasonal suit, and rushing down to the local temple, shoving my knees into the floor, and pushing belief into some situation that everyone else believes absolutely in the happening of.
"Psst, hey." I elbow the person next to me. "Did he come back from the dead, yet?" Annoyed, they look over at me, or perhaps sad for my intense ignorance.
"That already happened."