Ten favorite things of the year Macro out to subscribers and I'm back to work on the MainThing for PRESS(A) 02, the end-run: still seeking that elusive balance between the work being breathless and being possessed of breathing room. Think I'm seeing where something could be inserted, but I'm not sure – a case study in why I hate knowing how something ends until it ends.
Omnipresent desire to write/explore something of depth and heft again (or for the first time, depending on your opinion of my work). Not sure where or why it surfaced (or why I'm feeling it so markedly now) – other than that I've been spending so much time on more diversionary, light (for me), and entertaining (for me) things while the saga of The Emptying unfolds (or even, it could be argued, since LAST CHRISTMAS IN JULY) and, while I can't deny that I've been having fun doing these smaller things, there's a distinct feeling of creative 🤷 with all of it. Maybe it's an urge to dive deeper into things, to balance what I perceive as me skimming the surface while massive life changes occur (probably why depth in The Work is eluding me; I am now, if nothing else, neck deep in Life) in the world outside the blackout curtains of The Paintshop with more interrogatory – for want of a better word – fare. All I know is that none of the current projects, in progress or percolating, are grabbing me this morning. Is the solution to retrofit depth into decidedly and purposefully breezy, thrilling pieces? Perhaps I worked them past their sell-by date and I no longer recognize the moment they represent? Maybe. Either way, here I am, as ever (and ever)...
This interregnum between the penultimate drafting of the main thing and final typesetting and design might be granting me a peek into where I'll be heading, creatively, once it's done: a full embrace of Rubin's experiment train of stake-lowering thought, a practice of tinier, smaller projects, each project existing solely to explore and finish and move on. Partway there with the weekly Shards, but I'm aiming to expand aspects of its intent (namely, that they're nothing but experiments) across the totality of my creative practice; now that the ambition to have anything resembling a creative career is dead and buried, I’m having fun simply tinkering or, as my late grandfather would say, “potting around.”
This whole "I'm finished for now with one project and don't have another except things I started a long time ago" space is weird. I know it would be the space that Rick Rubin would call the seed gathering phase (or something like that) and I've got them percolating around and about, but it's been a long time since I've been here. Not sure I particularly want to revisit those things I had started long ago, before my grandfather's death (or even, in some cases, before my mother's death more than a year and a half ago): I'd rather find something new to play with. On the other hand, I do feel like I can't get on with this next chapter of my life (and my work, perhaps) until his house is empty and out of my hands; anything else would be in the "before times" and I want whatever I write to be of the moment (which would be this slightly maddening "between"). Think I'll consider the best I can do right now to be to show up and write something and will duly consider this to be that something until something else pops up.
One of those (pleasantly) surprising (and rare) mornings: think I just finished MainFictionThing, the feature for the second issue of PRESS (A) TO START. Hopefully it heralds the dawn of a faster, more pulp/punk ethos of creation: that was always the goal with it – though this one took a lot longer than I expected (or hoped). Current plan is to hold off on putting the second issue together until January, until after my grandfather's house is empty and in the hands of the new owners (read: no longer my problem), and spend my mornings working on new things through at least the end of the year, then do the final pass in the typography and design of the issue itself. Very excited to send this one out into the world. I'll happily notch the victory.
Taken to calling the thing I'm fiddling about with "an exercise in frenetic minimalism": while I haven't a clue what that means (beyond a phrase that sort of defines itself), I do like the sound of it.
A sign that (what passes for) my creative spark is on its way back(?): after finishing Becky Cloonan and Tula Lotay's SOMNA, a voice in my head said, Wouldn't it be wonderful to be able to make something this beautiful?
Returned to working first thing in the morning and it's already helped ameliorate the sense of unmoored-ness that's been omnipresent the last several months – even before autumn's project management of another death and subsequent emptying (12th move in 23 years). Haven't really had a day alone in months, since the end of last school year: no matter how much I love the company, it wears on me. Apparently I need to be removed from the world when it's dark and skulk about in those of my own creation to prepare me for life in daylight; the work of others can – must – wait.
Usually a good indicator that I'm bringing a sequence in for a landing when I delete everything I'd written before – all the notes, scribbles, frustrated pissings and moanings to myself – and churn out a page of something that resembles a workable synthesis. Always seeking that balance between the work being breathless and possessed of room to breathe.
First time in more than a week that I've enjoyed my early morning writing time. While I've always known that it was an essential part of my day, a balancing ritual to the last month’s seemingly endless swirl of shit, the past few days – and the enjoyment derived from it this morning – made visceral just how much it's required to keep me from falling too far into… less beneficial directions.