Trepidation is the word, for sure. Any writer who’s taken a breather can tell you all about that most deceitful of fears, the one that arises from time spent silent. It proceeds to take the form of can’ts and won’ts and shan’ts and nahs, and I simply have so many other things to do, so many other ways to invest my valuable time, writing can stew happy in the backseat for days with a comic book or three. I’m gathering material. It’s a think piece.
Let the happy little linguistic camper simmer too long, though, and it boils down to something accusingly burnt around its logical edges: you can’t be a writer if you don’t write.
Pull the words out by their roots like molars, one knot of nerve endings after another.
The cusp of year three in Spain is so much quieter than I could possibly have supposed when I began this blog. Or could it be a too-simple matter of severe contrast with my happily agitated summer? Dancing across beaches and cave structures, gulping wine, daily image construction on a professional level, photography overload. Chance encounter after chance encounter leaving me wondering how much chance really plays a role.
I don’t buy into destiny, fate, tarot, Miss Cleo. But serendipity, certainly; inevitability, possibly; karma, perhaps. No cosmic kismet bank upon which I might make the occasional withdrawal, but – in general – Good Output results in Good Coming Back Around. That’s Zen and the Art, that’s All-Amerikun bootstraps. Personal philosophical proof that it’s time I got back on my game.
– Pero dime, Victor, ¿la vida es juego o distracción?
– Es que el juego no es sino distracción.
– Entonces, ¿qué más da distraerse de un modo o de otro?
– Hombre, de jugar, jugar bien.
Jugar bien means massive production, means involving myself with serious amounts of twists and turns. Means sticking my neck out. I’ve got the language, now, and I know the city, I navigate, and I’ve continue to cover intense and intentional ground with my base Maslow needs. I’m in an ideal state for transformation. Ready to advance a chakra or two, and to honestly put something out there.
Like I said – chickenheartedness is what’s holding me back. What if the world doesn’t dig on my sweet potato pie? What if I can’t find any sandpit deep enough to subsequently bury my head in? The truth this fear doesn’t see: I’ve been through worse. I’ve had nothing and built up something exquisitely beautiful, only to find it poisonous and to watch it crumble back into dust again. I’ve been in so many darker places than this, been asked to carry a brick or two in the raw canyon of my corpus callosum, and I’ve pulled myself whole through the deep of that winter.
This, here, now? This is coconut cream cake. Time to find a fork and dig the hell in.