I want to write something new and captivating.
I want to push at the folds of your mind and intoxicate you.
I want you to return to these articles thirsty and hungry and insatiable.
So when I sit down to write and it feels like anything but…just like I’m gonna write some basic shit, this process can feel like a drag.
I have to remind myself that although, yes, this is a newsletter-cum-social media platform and, yes, numbers are extremely affirming and can pay bills, this is not why I started this.
I write to be juicy for me, and captivating as a byproduct. I want to honour this for as long as feels right.
So here I am, wanting to condense weeks worth of reflections and musings that sit just at the tip of my thoughts, and I am accepting that sometimes I can write in that intoxicating, communicative way and other times I’m gonna be basic.
And here’s the thing – I can be a bit basic. I don’t like to do a lot of critical thinking when I don’t have to; I don’t have an opinion on a lot most days, and it isn’t dejection or apathy through overwhelm, or maybe it is. But there is also comfort in my mediocrity and existing for existing, which some call presence. I am a mediocre bitch at the best of times/worst of times and other times I’m not and that’s that.
What is wrong with being mediocre, and why is this more appetising when spending more time offline? Breaking your heart through digital comparison is a real drag (who would have thought). It seems ‘exceptional’ is the only thing that has a real place.
This particular week I thought about what it would feel like to rest in mediocre, basic or forgettable to the people I am tempted to prove wrong or prove myself to, and it felt so fucking freeing – a ‘yes, so…and what now?’
What does it mean when you have energy to do things you haven’t had the capacity to do for months? What does it mean when it doesn’t feel like distraction? What does it mean when this coincides with endings?
this is just a stream of consciousness.
What does it look like when the gaze comes from inside and then comes out.
On Friday I went to a park with my mate, art supplies and a zoot. It is gated (you know how the yuppies do), so it’s usually quiet, like you’re not in the city. I pushed around oil paints with names like sapphire, burnt umber and titanium white. We painted trees on canvas and paper.
I noticed how much I like to colour inside the lines; it’s the little girl in me wanting to be a perfectionist for you.
“you can paint however you like – be free”, my friend said
so I added a splash of yellow ochre in the middle, even though it wasn’t true to picture, but felt right. We stayed there for hours. Me taking periodic breaks to sit directly in the sun and breathe. Coming back. Noticing the trees. The bird chorus. The patterns and speech recognition. The awe.
The next day I was building furniture with my sister over takeaway, family patterns, family passa, love and the excitement of summer.
I know there is sadness, but there is joy here too.
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