A week I hope I remember to forget.
Terminally online. Rushing to meet made-up deadlines, firing off emails like free t-shirts at a Lakers game, meetings. Checking notifications every few minutes—bursts of dopamine and cortisol battling it out. Sleeping little, stressing lots. Priorities clashing like gladiators. Getting sucked into the game, forgetting it’s a game. Forgetting the bigger, truer world of forests and streams.
Busyness is a sure path to blindness. I can’t see anything up close.
I wrote 2,000 words on capitalism but winced at each one. Spent three days capturing my thoughts on therapy, then realized they’re too naive and nascent.
It’s a good reminder. Craft demands its chunk of flesh. Things that aren’t fed go hungry. Greatness is an act of sacrifice.
*
So here I am, Friday at 9:50am, eyelids heavy, yawning but on my third black coffee, now lukewarm and chalky, a vague pressure on the front of my brain that feels like fatigue, typing doc.new into my Chrome browser. Battling a demon of dread in the pit of my stomach. Hoping you don’t hate me. Hoping I’ve deposited enough trust bucks in your bank account. Trying to keep weekly publishing sacred. confused as a cat, but certainly not as cool.
maybe if i just write a stream of consciousness at the top it’ll sound wise & worldly instead of i ran out of time or i’m making shit up as i go
*
In early January, when people share resolutions in high resolution, I’m keeping my dreams close.
Dreams come from this vulnerable, child-like, idealistic part of me. A part that’s shy of common sense, the agreed upon rules of reality. Dreams are in incubation, not yet fully formed. Shaped by inner-knowing and intuition, things I can’t articulate or explain.
Some days I love all these dreams of mine, they lift me up. Some days I crumble beneath their weight.
*
In the past, I’ve shared my dreams with people too eagerly, too earnestly.
I’m expecting excitement, fireworks. To see them light up like I do as the words leave my lips. Reaffirmation. Like a young lover, slipping a note on how she feels between the pages of a book on his nightstand.
Instead, a crushing response of confusion. Half-hearted single-syllable words. The face always tells the raw truth, even when the words sound sufficient. I tense at any doubt or questioning. Anger from its purest source: fear.
Unconventional choices get awkward responses. They don’t fit a trope. They can’t be compressed into a pretty pattern of words that fill the mouths of proud parents. These responses discourage the wonderfully incomprehensible and encourage the woefully clear. When walking a weird path, a little discouragement goes a long way.
It’s also hard to translate my complex confidence into a string of words. It’s hard to communicate the vision. Other people just don’t see it. They can’t. I don’t even fully see it. Only subtle cues towards the sublime.
I’m determined to make my life a work of art, but it’s not like I can describe a Monet.
So I’m trying to be more protective over my dreams. Like the early stages of a campfire, they’re just kindling. Flickering. Dependent on faith. I’m trying to guard them from getting stomped on and stomped out.
I’m becoming wary of how easy it is to confuse collective agreement for truth.
*
This week, I got a kind email from a writer I revere. Somehow he found my writing, said it was sharp. Encouraged me to stick with it, don’t get distracted, give it time.
Perhaps that’s my final thought: the people who know, who take the time to pay attention, will sense my dreams, without needing the clumsy confines of words. They’ll help nourish them, even if it’s just a nod and glance. Until they’re grown up enough to be brought to the sweetness of fruition.
If you liked this, you may enjoy my piece on remaining radiant.
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👋 what i’ve been up to:
I’ve been working heads down, +10 hour days on this book launch. The announcement and website went live yesterday. After a year of work, we’re in the last stretch.
There are officially over 1,000 of you here now. That number bursts the bounds of my brain. Thank you for being here. I’ve always loved words but they leave me when I try to express how grateful I am.
I delayed my plans to buy a Fujifilm camera and picked up my stepdad’s old Canon Powershot SX40 HS. Better to just start with what I have (goodbye recession, hello depression!) I’m avoiding using zoom to focus on composition. Shooting mostly manual, fumbling around with iso, aperture, and shutter speed.
✍️ quote i’m pondering:
American novelist Richard Powers on being a writer:
“The loneliness of writing is that you baffle your friends and change the lives of strangers.”
❓ question i’m asking:
Yet another banger from Mary Oliver:
“Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?”
📸 photo of the week:
My three best shots from the week. Shooting with a digital camera is cool and all, but nothing beats the iPhone 8.
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You got all my love,
Tommy
I have great respect for the privacy of your dreams. You can't plant a tree and keep pulling it up to show everyone how well the root system is coming along.
Tommy!
“Hoping you don’t hate me.” NEVER
“Hoping I’ve deposited enough trust bucks in your bank account.” ALWAYS
“Trying to keep weekly publishing sacred. confused as a cat, but certainly not as cool.” GIVE YOURSELF GRACE. WE DO. WE WILL WAIT PATIENTLY. REVERENTLY.