“Well, Of Course I’ve Tried Lavender. And Pulling My Memory Out, Ribbonlike And Dripping. And Shrieking

“I am young, and, at last, life is not so dark and so painful. The sun shines, and the moon is calm.”

— Takuboku Ishikawa, from “Romaji Diary & Sad Toys,” published c. 1985

My relationship with content creation and hobbies, in general, got a lot better when I started learning to reframe it as a simple act of human creation, and not a metric of my own self worth.

We’re taught competition, and perfectionism, and shame. If I say “I cook” I must add “(but not well)”. If I say “I run” I must say “(but I am not good at it).” I say “I code (but I mostly know frontend).” I create and express and my first impulse is to guard against embarrassment. Lest I fall so short of marketable competence. Lest I subject myself to the mockery of being caught creating poorly. I wound myself first so others may not.

Even the advice that fights against this says “your only goal should be to be better than yourself yesterday.” But why must I be in competition with her? What happens, after the initial rapid climb in skill, when I plateau? What of injury, and atrophy, and depression, that flake these skills away? Must I return feeling compelled to over-achieve? To wallow in embarrassment until I can surpass my own previous record? To hate my work until the reception, the notes, the engagement outperform an ever rising bar? I do not want to be paralyzed by the mountains I built behind me. Why should I look behind myself when there’s a wide swath of untilled Earth that stretches far out of sight ahead of me? I want to enjoy my work, and my mediocrity, moving forward with all its ebbs and flows.

At my worst, I was nothing. I was not a writer. Because I had forgone writing for all the fear and stress and damage to my self-worth that it wrought. I was not a coder. Because I was only useful for the niches of my job, and didn’t have the heart to create something badly, on my own, for fun, lest it confirm my suspicions of mediocrity. I was not even a runner - despite the extreme and exhaustive amount of time I sunk into it - because I fell short of my previous self, and I could not hold a candle to the actually-skilled runners, and I was forced to speak of this hobby in all those guarded terms - “but i am not good” - because of how much that ate at me. 

I was no cook, and no homemaker, and no creator, because when I did those things, (I did them poorly.) 

And when all these came together, I wallowed in emptinesses. (I still do, sometimes. It’s hard and complicated). Because emptiness is what was left when I stripped myself of the things and the pursuits whose lack of value could be used to hurt me.

The change for me - the change, I think - came at the time I started to recognize that I do not deserve self-punishment for my mediocrities, for the failings of my current state of being. It was not a revelation all at once. It was a slow and progressive flirting with the idea, found almost by accident on self-help youtube channels of a very particular ilk. It came with the recognition that I had trapped myself, wiling away my time and my energy, in a state of constant apology, and shame, and self-correction for the mediocrities I dare not unleash onto the world. I boxed myself up with the promise “once I am good enough, I will be allowed to come back out”, and that was a lie. I would never have come back out. I was chasing punishing metrics of self-improvement that I did not need, and would never actually catch and maintain, and which would never love me back.

It took a long time to internalize this. It took a long time to get angry on my own behalf. It took a long time to act on it, and write again because fuck you. To run on my own terms, at my own pace, for my own enjoyment because fuck you. To create with my hands again because fuck you. To lean into the happiness of creation that I had not “earned”, because fuck you.

I like creating because it fills an emptiness that used to be there. It’s so simple, and so lovely, that humans are like this. That we want to build with our hands. That we want to assemble and construct. That we derive joy from stacking pieces together, and stringing words together, and assembling colors on a page, and moving, and singing, and baking, and knitting. Humans love to build little worlds around them. 

So why must we so actively try to cut people off from it off from it? Why do we condition ourselves to fear its mediocrity? Why does this still our hands? Why do we suffocate it for ourselves, before others can? I don’t have an answer. I can only recognize the monster. 

I want to make bad art today. I want to make bad art tomorrow. If I am a worse writer tomorrow, I want that to be fine. If I am never more than a mediocre runner, I want to be at complete peace with that. Because if not, then I might box away my hobbies again, and my loves, and my pursuits. I might go back to empty. I might go back to nothing.

I hate that emptiness I lived through. I hate that nothing. I want to make bad art for the rest of my life. 

What are some of your favorite poems/pieces of writing?

general disclaimer that im much less well-read as my carefully curated internet persona might lead on... but these are some pieces of writing that make up the mycelium network of my mind’s undergrowth:

tim riggins speaks of waterfalls - nico alvarado

as from a quiver of arrows - carl phillips 

what the dragon said: a love story - c. valente

hunting season - steven chung

yes, think - ruth stone

from blossom - li-young lee

psalm - dorianne laux

sleeping in hte forest - mary oliver

percy wakes me (fourteen) - mary oliver

here there are blueberries - mary szybist

try to praise the mutilated world - adam zagajewski

de profundis - christina rosetti

new bones - lucille clifton

morning love poem - tara skurtu

forfeiting my mystique - kaveh akbar

that kind of good - natalie wee

the mower - philip larkin

valentine - carol ann duffy

happiness from paul schmidtberger’s design flaws of the human condition

we ate the birds - margaret atwood

i want to tell you yes - kallie falandays

ode to buttoning and unbuttoning my shirt - ross gay

not the beloved from anne carson’s erso the bittersweet

after the movie - marie howe

accident report in the tall, tall weeds - ada limón

in tennessee i found a firefly - mary szybist

when i put my hands on your body - david wojnarowicz

the mystery of grocery carts - john olson

your night is of lilac - mahmoud darwish

a dead thing that, in dying, feeds the living - donika kelly

please read - mary ruefle

dudes, we did not go through the hassle of getting these fake ids for this jukebox to not have any springsteen - hanif andurraquib

we lived happily during the war - ilya kaminsky

while the child sleeps - ilya kaminsky

the forgotten dialect of the heart - jack gilbert

what the living do - marie howe

eleven - sandra cisneros

revolutionary letter #4 - diane di prima

elegy for my sadness - chen chen

1. bathe by hailaker

2. art by maggie stephenson

3. ocean vuong, night sky with exit wounds

4. art by charlotte ager

5. banana yoshimoto, goodbye tsugumi

@fairycosmos / Comic by @shhhitsfine / Comic by @incendavery

so I will think about nothing 

Olivia Laing, The Lonely City

May I interrupt your scrolling with a turtleduck

When Adam bit the apple he did it because he trusted Eve. Because he loved her. Adam bit into the apple because the woman he loved told him to, no matter what God said. No matter the rules of heaven. What’s heaven to a woman’s love anyway? What’s God to your wife? The first sins of humanity, were trusting others. Eve trusted a snake, Adam trusted Eve, and I trust you. Maybe that’s a sin, just like the first couple. Maybe everyone’s right about us and we’re sinners and we offend God. But like I said, what’s God to a woman’s love anyway? What has heaven got that I can’t find sitting next to you on a cool autumn morning?

oh, i am finally old enough to know why my parents took so long to grab their coats. why they would ask us to get ready to go only to sit down for another round of coffee. what would i tell myself, at 10 years old? it’s okay. sit down with them too. take in the extra hour with your friend and her family. when you get home, write down every moment in your diary. one day you will be older and you will be waving goodbye to your best friend, and you will turn the key to start your beat up little car engine, and you will look back over your shoulder. her hair will be blowing in the wind and she will be beautiful and you will be, for a moment, struck by all of it. what you will feel is so wide and nameless that it will engulf you. and you will think of being 14 and kicking her under the table in math every time you wanted to whisper something behind the teacher’s back. you will think about how long the days felt, and how you could hold her hand whenever you wished, but you didn’t. and you will think about all of the people you could have lingered with. and you will wish, more than you have ever felt a wish, that the universe just gave you that - more time to linger. more time to say - i love you. i know i need to leave, but i don’t want to leave you. and when i go, i am leaving a piece of my heart that lingers too. 

one more round of coffee. the days are so short, and you are so lovely.