The Imperfect Incarnation of Ideas
Why do I don’t do the things I want to do when I actually get time to do them, while I spend the time I’m not doing them not doing anything at all (even when I have things to do) because I’m not doing what I want to be doing?
[What a bewildering display of grammatical dexterity. Did anyone follow that?]
To anchor it in reality: The open page (for example) calls to me when I am not writing, making it hard to focus on the task at hand, yet when the time comes to write, suddenly I find myself doing anything else – reading the news, checking e-mail, playing a game, installing software. My hands and mind are constantly playing a game of tag with my heart, leading me on, then darting away when it looks like I’m about to grasp the object of my desire.
It’s like I would rather want something than actually get it.
Or maybe the idea of self-expression is less uncomfortable than the arduous task of articulating the thoughts that drift like old mist through my brain.
Creating boundaries for ideas is so freaking intimidating. It always feels like I’m lopping off limbs once I have to set music to page or pencil to paper (actually, fingers to keys in this computerized age —I haven’t written anything longhand since Pet Shop Boys loitered on the Top 40 airwaves).
It’s like trying to package too much cooked spaghetti into Tupperware, where I always end up crushing far too many danglers when I jam on the lid. Every time I create something, ideas like limp noodles always seem to litter the floor.
I hate that. I hate how everything is so interconnected that to actually express something concretely means you have to leave part of it out just so that people can get a sense of it. It’s like the world is too big, and to digest it, we have to dice everything into itty-bitty pieces and study them one at a time, which means it’s no longer a large beautiful single piece that can be savored in one sitting but just a jumble of disconnected ideas.
The human mind is like a baby’s appetite; it can’t digest anything unless it’s been ground down to mush first.
[What a bewildering display of grammatical dexterity. Did anyone follow that?]
To anchor it in reality: The open page (for example) calls to me when I am not writing, making it hard to focus on the task at hand, yet when the time comes to write, suddenly I find myself doing anything else – reading the news, checking e-mail, playing a game, installing software. My hands and mind are constantly playing a game of tag with my heart, leading me on, then darting away when it looks like I’m about to grasp the object of my desire.
It’s like I would rather want something than actually get it.
Or maybe the idea of self-expression is less uncomfortable than the arduous task of articulating the thoughts that drift like old mist through my brain.
Creating boundaries for ideas is so freaking intimidating. It always feels like I’m lopping off limbs once I have to set music to page or pencil to paper (actually, fingers to keys in this computerized age —I haven’t written anything longhand since Pet Shop Boys loitered on the Top 40 airwaves).
It’s like trying to package too much cooked spaghetti into Tupperware, where I always end up crushing far too many danglers when I jam on the lid. Every time I create something, ideas like limp noodles always seem to litter the floor.
I hate that. I hate how everything is so interconnected that to actually express something concretely means you have to leave part of it out just so that people can get a sense of it. It’s like the world is too big, and to digest it, we have to dice everything into itty-bitty pieces and study them one at a time, which means it’s no longer a large beautiful single piece that can be savored in one sitting but just a jumble of disconnected ideas.
The human mind is like a baby’s appetite; it can’t digest anything unless it’s been ground down to mush first.
posted by Fortunato at 11:45 AM
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