where is the groove and where do I find it?
It has been a while since I've written—blog, thoughts, literature, whatever. Not intentional but any means. A long travel period and then reentering the work atmosphere, music, therapy, a diagnosis that puts all the pieces together, addressing a lot of debt and facing forced minimalism, a work retreat, an implosion caused my big mouth (the spark), tension, vampirism unleashed. It's been a lot.
I decided that I wasn't going to write an “end of the year” blog post or anything because I didn't really have anything to say... And then I realized that it's not just a year but a decade that also ends, and I like completeness and wholeness and it's a friggin' decade that I get to put to bed. Endings are great.
before you, my reader, i reveal myself. here is a list of all the things i give a fuck about and want, whether i should or shouldn't, whether it's possible or just a dream, without context or explanation.
I haven't been working on la rêverie project lately. It took a turn for the steampunk, which gave it more definition and form, but an uptick in work (bulldozing our way towards two site launches within a week) makes it a hard to come home with that focus and determination.
I repeat: We have a premise. This is not a drill, friends. There is a real, live premise on our hands. Is it a great premise? I don't know, that's subjective and I'm not worried about that. I've got positive reviews from a few people so that's great. It is as follows:
I am an anxious being. Sort of. I have an excellent cover, I think. People don't notice. I smile big-eyed and laugh sometimes. I ask how your weekend was, show you a thing I saw that reminded me of you. I brush my teeth and take my medicine. But when you look away, when I'm alone, the veneer cracks. I can't breathe. I've sweat (sweated? swoot? swat?) through two+ layers of clothing. My chest hurts.
I came across a challenge, an outline, a task about writing and finishing and editing a story in less than 365 days. It provides a very structured timeline over a span of 52 weeks where you push and push and push yourself to weave together words until something beautiful appears. Like a baby.
It goes as follows:
It has been a long week. So long that I've had three or four ideas of blog posts that came and went, so tired from a work day that spilled into the evening and music practices that sent me in other directions and why can't I stop yawning?
This week has been a bad week for the flutist in me.