The Project - Day 7

I’ve started today’s page three times and erased it. I think that might be against the rules. My original idea was that I would just write a page, whatever brain vomit manifested and in the words of a dear friend, “leave it lay where Jesus flung it.” Today however, i appear to be plagued with dissatisfaction. It doesn’t matter if I’m the only one reading this, it bothers me to read crap. Apparently it doesn’t bother me enough to stop me from writing crap, but there you go, the ego will out.

One of my favorite books in the entire world is Anne Lamott’s Bird by Bird, which is about writing, but really about being brave and being creative and being blocked and having a sense of humor about both the crappy and the wonderful things in life. I think one of the best chapters is about the radio station that plays in your head, that would be KFKD or K-F***ed. This is the station that plays the soundtrack of failure and self-doubt, this is the musak that plays in the never ending waiting room where your muse goes to die. It has been playing full blast in my brain for most of the day.

It is astonishing to me that I am forty--no, not just that I’m forty, okay, well that does astonish me a bit as well--but rather that I am forty and still so very far from any form of sh*t-togetherness and still so susceptible to self-consciousness and doubt. I worked long and hard today on numerous projects. (Note: none of them had anything to do with cleaning the house. Pity.) Still, the only thing that made me feel very successful was smacking down a few car salesmen I had caught out in a lie. Really, this has to be near the nadir of accomplishment. These poor souls already have what is likely one of the worst jobs to have right now and I’m busting chops because they are lying to me. Really, shouldn’t I consider, as Br’er Snake would tell me, the nature of the creature? As snakes bite, so do car salesmen lie, expecting otherwise is a deficiency in the observer.

Why is it so easy to feel good about the things that do not matter? It’s like the taste of a Cheeto, satisfying at the outset, but only to be enjoyed in small amounts and ultimately, a bit sick-making. What I need is the taste of some fine cheese on a small point of artisan toast, garnished with fresh thyme and a twist of kumquat jelly.

Now I’m hungry. What was I talking about? Oh, yes, how most days I have the poise and confidence of a 13 year old.

I’d like to keep writing about that but I don’t really know what to say. Perhaps I can be forgiven for coming up a few lines short today. Or maybe I make like a 13 year old and increase my margins and font size?