The New Normal and Art
I'm still adjusting to the new normal. No akathisia. But suddenly it's hard to not just go back to bed. I hate exercise, like more than before. My locked-down morning is all mixed up with photo-taking and wanting to lie down and hating showers. I have a mild obsession with Billie Eilish and hating her but loving her outfits and boyish charm. I'm questioning whether this blogging thing is yet another distraction from what I should really be doing: writing music. I had a particularly prolific period in my twenties writing songs and poems and I've been trying to replicate that era ever since. At this point it all feels like a distraction: theater, opera, massage school, Ebay, and now blogging. But the very idea of working on music is completely paralyzing. I can jot down words on scraps of paper, but even the melodies escape me at this point, never mind the actual production on a computer. And it just seems so hard. Does that mean it's the thing that really matters? Or does it just make me miserable? I love my songs- they're precious to me. But they are truly hard-won. What makes me happy, or at least excited, is thinking about clothes. Organizing them, shopping for them, culling them, and rearranging them. I love the way cashmere feels and the way my boots ground me. I love the drape of a scarf, the look of bright white against color, the smell of retail. But it seems frivolous, like a guilty pleasure. And are things just more pleasurable when they're guilty? Transgressive? Some part of me thinks I just like it because it's easy. And another part thinks it's easy because it's right. So do I do the easy thing that makes me happy? I do need all the happy I can get. Or is that giving up? Do I instead fight through the inertia and do the hard thing that matters? I remember one day in high school when I was in the modern dance studio alone. Facing that empty room terrified me, and that moment dictated my future. I ended up pursuing classical music instead of dance. There were scores and musicians and dresses in the room with you, so it was less scary. Was I just running from myself? Does it matter? Some part of me says it does. It says that it is my destiny to get to the heart of the matter and make something authentic. Some might say that anything you do is authentic, so don't worry about it. I worry. And then this idea of running from myself: is it OK to run from yourself when your self is trying to kill you? Trying to drag you down into the abyss? Or could I somehow go inward and still come out the other side? Are my insides the secret to happiness- true happiness- or are they just a bottomless pit? It's a dangerous question to toy with. Last summer I played with it. I went off my meds. I went into the abyss screaming and crying. I wrote violent poetry and went running a lot, fantasizing about drowning myself in the river. Was I facing myself or just denying my illness? If I'm on medication, can I truly face myself? Or does going off meds just obscure the view? What I'm wondering now is, does that poetry hold up? Is it drivel? Is it "outsider art"- art made by people with no training, no contact with the art world, mental patients included? Is that more authentic than the carefully trained, choreographed productions I took part in as a singer? During that prolific songwriting era in my twenties, I made a lot of what I refer to as "garbage art." Glass lashed to twigs with wire, primitive paintings on brown grocery bags, poems scribbled on bed sheets. I loved these things- they felt authentic. There was no training, no prompting for me to make these things other than my own processing of feelings. My own angst or despair or ecstasy. I don't have them anymore (in the spirit of minimalism), but a few pieces survived my brutal editing. Matt and I photographed them a couple of months ago and I finally let them go. They were breaking down, disintegrating, anyway. It was part of clearing out my drawer full of mementos. There's plenty left, but I was able to digitize all my scores and notes that hold value for me (those scores that weren't ripped up in a fit of rage last summer). I've just about completed my project of decluttering mementos; the only thing left is a box of photographs I need to scan onto my hard drive. But facing the photos, facing myself, my history, my choices, proves too difficult every day. Is this actually a good place to start? In the aim of facing myself and becoming authentic? Or is it still too soon? Am I still too fragile? Do I keep steady, holding down the new normal, or do I venture forward, or maybe inward? Is it safe? It feels a bit like spinning plates: keep up the new normal, and at the same time add something new. Am I too eager? Should I push myself or keep the status quo? How fragile am I?