quitvision Pieces, Writing

Delicate Chords

Is this good? 

What a hard question to answer. For yourself and for others. And worst of all, by others. 

Is what you made right? 

Well, no. That’s not possible, but is it right enough for you? 

Maybe, but is it right enough for them? 

Well, that’s what strums the delicate chords of your ringing anxiety. Is it good that they get this power over you? 

It… well it really probably is. It feels awful to be scrutinised and backseat driven by someone without their licence. But it is ultimately good to get ugly holes of criticism blasted all through the delicate harmonies and collages you built for someone. And there it is, the reminder. It is for someone, not just for you. 

After hours of sautéing your brain on a hot screen, it sometimes goes blank without warning. You could have sworn that you were frantically stirring at the proteins of an idea, but the black crust of power saving mode burning over the screen says you were scorching completely still in inactivity. It cools and dims into a dark dusty painting of your room, with a face at the helm, a face you see as that of an artist, an auteur. Someone who gives their whole self to their creations. Someone with complex attachments to conflicting aspirations and needs. My work must be totally and entirely mine. My work must be the very best it can be. And really, what you see in that mirror is someone who is hurt by feedback. Pained by the meddling hands reaching into their chest. Someone who has a head bigger than they like to let on, a head that bashes against others, hard and easily. What does this guy know? Maybe nothing. Maybe how to elevate every single thing you ever poured your soul into. It hurts every time, letting them in. Because what if they take it? What if they carve their opinions out of something they don’t understand? It’s scary to feel the depths of you invaded. But maybe they do understand? Maybe if you get it as well as you say, you’ll see the truth behind their demands. Maybe you could give trusting their vision a try. And it’s hard, because you don’t know if you respect them enough for that. They see themselves as fellow artists, but do you? You can’t see their soul.

Is this good? Well, it’s yours and it’s theirs, so you’ll have to share opinions on that. You’re always your own boss with your art. But it’ll make you stronger to get managed a little. To work within the funnel. You might have to let go a little. This never was completely yours, and this attachment comes from fear that you only know how to do this on your own terms. And you can get back to that soon enough. But remember, this is what you wanted. To fall off your comfortable rock, and into the sea. Stress is part of it, but so is relief, and pain and growth. Take the feedback and do your best, but don’t kill yourself over it like you would for your own work, that’s the price they pay for it not being entirely yours. You can only give a limited amount of yourself. And that’s good, and that’s ok. This is the ringer you felt inspired to push through, and if you’re honest it could be a lot worse. You’re still doing your thing, but as a contractor. This would all be easier to swallow washed down with a paycheck, but hey, your first steps can’t ever be your most comfortable.

quitvision Pieces, Writing

I Have A Lot Of Staring To Do Today

I have little to say today. 
My thoughts sink off from their posts to dream of napping on the firm brick of sofa upstairs. 
Sailing on a large airy carpet, stretched under big windows and high beams. 
The traffic noise laps at our commercial shore in waves of loud ugly whispers.
High tide in a noxious machinery sea.
Wrestle my slippery self all day in cancelled out strength.
The boring tasks aren’t as demanding as hopping the mental fences around them.
I’m a corporate slug. 
A loaf of slow mucusy administrative muscle.
Today’s paperwork is delivered inside individual halos of table salt.
Inaccessible, but visible for a quick dull taunt.
Can’t tell if it bothers me.
Of course, enough to try and tell.
But clearly not enough to actually tell.
So whatever, another unseasoned leaf please…
...And maybe some more functionless coffee too, 
I have a lot of staring to do today.
quitvision Pieces, Writing

The Beauty Of Internal Accomplishment

Yesterday you were a machine and it felt good. You didn’t ask permission from your fragile emotional makeup, you just did what you had to and it felt bad and then it started to feel good. You struggle to build speed against the resistance of the day, but with each step, it hurts less until you are running. And you realise that the work isn’t getting easier, you are getting stronger. You are building up speed on a slip road, and when you’re shooting fast enough that you no longer notice, you’re ready to merge into the lanes of the flow state. This is the highway that really takes you places, blasts you further than the distracted surface roads of the day ever could. Your movements become elegant and the effort becomes fuel for the engine. Speed isn’t really even in your consideration anymore, the way rich people don’t worry about money. The struggle to start isn’t forgotten but sucked up into the equation with the pain extracted and the rising pattern reinforced. You know you’ll feel it again tomorrow and it will shred you to start, but right now you could lift that initial starting responsibility with your little finger. You remember the pain now, and when you face it again you will remember the beauty of internal accomplishment that sings within the strength you have summoned and embodied on a day that started painful like today.

quitvision Pieces, Writing

Everyone Is Headed Somewhere

I ride a chugging bus as it sails towards the city centre, double-checking the directions on my phone. I don’t enjoy connections, hoping that today perhaps the digital display overhead will match the delicate timings I planned from my bedroom. Pedestrians are beginning to bloom, more than I expected so early in the morning. And then stretching suburban streets with no one at all. It’s comforting to take such a familiar artery in, even when it is transporting you straight into the unknown. Helping a little to balance out the woozy nerves. The consuming dread. The mundane shrug. I lean against the smudged safety window as they arc past rows of empty student houses. Passengers gamble on their centres of gravity as we climb a long chain of roundabouts and parkways. I struggle but try to enjoy a morning view of the empty, rolling version of a city park that will flood and  saturate by the time I come back past in the relieving afternoon. My mind drifts to hypothetical adventures I could be getting up to across these fields, dreaming of times I had nowhere to be.

  1. Journey To Job Interview (23)
  2. Journey To Job Interview (18)
  3. Bus Ride To Call Centre
  4. Van Ride To Warehouse