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Hidden
within her handiwork
Babushka lives
longing for her children
remembering
their shaping
The maternal Bubushka’s, who have turned nesting in to an art form, have unceremoniously confronted Enchanteur and demanded to know where her compassion has gone. ‘It is not three months’ says the stern firebrand leading the troops. And if the gritty look of determination on the faces of the other’s is any indication, le Enchanteur is not going to get a hearing about procrastination, avoidance or distractions.
Enchanteur is trying to establish
Which of these
lovelies
who disguise cast members
that help comprise
Heather Blakey
is the sniper
who has her good friend
lying
procrastinating
Enchanteur is on the warpath!
which of these
lovelies
sidetracks and distracts Heather
stops her from being at
Enchanteur’s beck and call?
What do I NOT do to distract myself from sitting down to write? Connect to the ‘net is the first fatal move. Well, of course I have to check my email, look around the blogs, do some research, read the online news etc etc. When I finally force myself to disconnect so I can get some work done, well – without a cup of coffee, I’m simply not going to get anything done, and while I’m making the coffee, I might as well take the rubbish out to the bin, feed the cat (he won’t leave me alone otherwise), water the plants, make sure the car windows are shut because it looks like rain, clean out the front of the car – and so on and so on.
I am the veritable procrastination master. I could teach it. I could find ways to distract yourself that you have never heard of. I could hold seminars. In fact, I think I’ll draw up a plan now, and doodle around with the idea until it gels, and then I’ll very definitely get down to writing a satirical piece on teaching yourself the art of procrastination.
But first I need a cup of coffee…
What stops me from writing, creating, making ‘art’? Why don’t I have a schedule where I know there will be hours devoted to the muse everyday in a professional, self-disciplined manner? I venture to suggest that it’s because I’m not…..professional. I don’t earn a living from writing, if I don’t write I won’t starve or lose my home so it’s not like I’m chasing a quid. Is this why I find other things to do such as playing computer games, watching the TV, messing about …you know, messing…I don’t have to describe messing do I? I would wager you are all familiar with the activity, messing about with such consummate ease it’s like you were born with it as a gift.
So – if I know that I’m doing anything to avoid writing, creating why don’t I have a word with myself and get on with the work? Why don’t I nip it in the bud ( messing ) and open the computer – take myself to work – get cracking? Unfortunately because unlike the rest of you (contradict me if I’m wrong ) I’m not driven to write, there’s no Muse whispering in my ear, I do not have a calling. I read what the rest of you produce and it always seems to me that you are striving, creativity has captured your souls and runs riot in your imaginations. You NEED to be creative, it’s your passion and cannot be ignored.
My distraction is the lack of a ‘calling’; I have no goals, targets or ambitions. It would be fair to change the question on its head and ask me why on earth I bother. I don’t have to distract myself because there’s nothing going on that it’s imperative for me to express. It actually astonishes me that I’ve kept it going this long – it’s not an enjoyable pastime. My question should really be why am I using writing to distract me from real life?
Jan
What is procrastination — laziness or fear? Is this inability to just get started and begin whatever it is we are called to do, really a reflection of of our terror that perhaps we won’t eb able to do it, that we aren’t good enough, that everybody will finally see through us for the frauds that we are? Ooooh all these critcal inner voices!
Most teenagers are horribly familiar with these piosonous voices and I certainly suffered from more than my fair share. Yet these same freezing breezes that blew through my transparent and fragile soul, also birthed the longings and yearnings for something different. This was when I discovered the gift of soul dancing, though I never would have called it such back then, and in fact have only recently discovered that it is considered an acceptable route to ones deepest, darkest, inner sanctum. Using movement as a freeway to my soul I danced into my longings, alone with wild and fierce abandon. I danced when I was happyand the vibrant juices of life coursed through my veins, pumping my heart into overload until I was sure that it would burst and flow warm and dark through the edges of the worn out floorboards. I danced also when I was angry, allowing all that aggression and frustration to race through the highways and byways of my arms and legs, my limbs daring anyone who came near to try, just try and stop me now. Afterwards when my energy had spent itself, dissipating in rivulets of sweat that ran down my back, I lay down and wept in utter exhaustion and tiredness. Sadness often brushed her wings across my cheeks fluttering near my heart.
These days sometimes I dance, but mostly I don’t. Quite simply I am just too tired to even consider it, which ought to awaken alarm bells really that something isn’t as it ought to be. For a long time dancing was a way in to the creative rooms of my inner being. Recently my creativity is expressed through writing — poetry or journaling mainly, though sometimes it feels very adventourous to attempt a brief story, albeit very brief! Loud rhythmic music interferes with that. So for the time being at least turning on some rock music would have to join the list of possible procrastinations…..
The studio is cozy in winter’s reach to spring
Papers drift, display their wares to see what muse might bring.
Clients work delivered, banking balances done
So I can have the afternoon to let the muses run.
The evening is promised to the husband who complains
that we don’t see each other often when others pick my brains
or soul or heart or fingers worn down to the bone.
He needs some real attention, he’s been too long alone.
I have all day! The studio calls, but then the cats begin
they want their food, the litter scooped, and then the doorbell rings.
The postman wants a signature, and when I turn to go
downstairs, I sneeze, and the top pant button blows.
I sew it up, and while I have the needle and the thread,
I might as well sew up the cuffs on the pants left on the bed.
The postman left a package, Jenna sent the jacket
to try and get some feedback, so I unwrap the packet.
And type up notes to send her, she works hard at her art
I can’t just leave her hanging, so I finish what I start.
Now, back to work, chasing the muse, she waits downstairs for me.
On my way down, I take the wash, my arms just can’t stay free.
I sort the clothes, the machine churns, the suds are getting clean
the clothing, but the towels, too, need their turn in the machine.
Upstairs I go and fetch the towels and throw rugs while I’m there,
Bring them down and pile them up, and now, it’s my time’s share.
I pull the stool, and flare the sheet of handmade paper crisp
I sigh with pleasure at the feel, but sniff a smoky wisp.
The brownies I’ve been timing for my spouse while he’s out shopping
are burning in the oven, timer’s ring too soft to get me hopping.
Quick, before he comes back home, whip up another batch,
The ones I burned were walnut, these are plain, but will he catch
this slip? Maybe not, but I want time, the clock says almost four
I slide downstairs and just ignore the crumbs left on the floor.
You know the rest, you’ve been there too, I never find the muse
The truth is: those distractions are things I, distracted, choose.
Because my art is silent, its voice echoes from mine
And it won’t speak until I stand, claim my voice and my own time.
* * *
(c) Quinn McDonald, 2007, all rights reserved. No copies unless you ask. Quinn is an artist and writer, certified creativity coach and cat owner. See her work at QuinnCreative.com
I let my inner critic have free reign this morning, and then punished her thoroughly for having the audacity to be so demanding. I had a day off from work, and I awoke with plans, but one look at my basement craft area turned that into Plans, and the critic took over as I stood meekly back in the corner and let her go. I did slyly suggest that she recruit some help, though.
We called upon the lone child home, the 16 year old off school for Good Friday, and grumpy because his track meet was cancelled, to be the helper. A verbal tussel later, he was fervently wishing for his coach to call and tell him his track meet was on again (no such luck for him) and was helping us- me and the inner critic, who was very grumpy with all comers.
Well, this is where the critic got her comeuppance. She wore herself out playing not just inner critic, but outer critic as well. While the boy-child did indeed help, he did so like a 16 year old boy. The critic was fuming, but I reminded her that this was a big job and we needed help. So, while picking up other people’s belongings and putting these in the correct room, sorting out books to give away, cleaning out a closet, and sweeping, my inner critic dealt with the fact that getting a 16 year old boy to do something he doesn’t like, and do it your way, is very like herding cats. She told him so, while I stood in the background and snickered. He beamed up at us innocently.
By the end of the morning, the job was done, and so was my inner critic. She was so exhausted from trying to get him to actually cooperate and stay on task for two minutes running that she packed it in for the day. She did not come up with 75 other tasks to do (which she normally does). She did not tell me that the job wasn’t perfect (which she always does). She simply left, and I washed up and headed for my writing. By the way, I should also be able to reach my papers and stamps and fabrics again, so she did accomplish something!
I will have to remember this technique the next time I feel that “get your work done, and all of it” version of the critic lurking around, waiting for a chance to pounce. Too many people to work on, and she folds up and goes away!
She tells me I can’t get out the oil paints right now because I can’t have the windows open and the house will smell of turpentine.
She tells me I can’t go outside to photograph because it’s too windy.
She tells me I can’t go do some pottery on the porch because I need to clean up out there first and it’s too cold anyhow.
She tells me I can’t because….
I have met the enemy…and she is me.
Posted by Mari with thanks to Pogo.
All is distraction
the house that will not clean itself of dust or ditritus;
garbage from a hundred trips of guilt
clogging the memory of a precious night;
the phone call advertising some useless other thing
and my shame at my rude reply;
the socks I did not mend
but thought it somehow important
enough to keep the socks;
the clothesline of life
pegged crooked
while I failed to see
the sun break pink against the pines
or scent of a thousand mornings.
05.04.07– This week at the the Bluestocking Lounge:
Now that we have recovered from one wild and raucus birthday celebration in honor of Vincent Van Gogh, I want to toss out this week’s Bluestocking discussion topic: Is there any activity or habit in which you indulge that distracts you from your writing and art-making? What do you do to break away from such avoidance activities.
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