The new year brought with it one of the most momentous of such moments for me: the move to be closer to the natural world, to a quieter place. In a way I suppose it was partly just fulfilling my hermit-y-er side, but there were some of those scattered hopes and dreams along with that placation. Desires to do more to reduce my impact on the world, become more self-sustaining and -sustainable; to contribute in a broader sense to the society which I revolve between despising and embracing.
To write.
Or, in a broader sense, to create. I felt stifled, where I was. Not from the city, not really, but rather from the pressing of other selves onto my own. I'm not perfect. I can be petty and spiteful and vengeful and selfish, but I nonetheless feel a constant drive to embrace the people around me. I'm compelled to give them my time and attention, when all I may want is to shut out the world and play with my toys (whatever form those may take at the moment). My time in the city showed me that - unlike life in Owen Sound had led me to believe--I did not hate humanity. I may be overwhelmed by disgust at times, sickened by the wrath and greed of people, but in general I'm empathic. Human-pride and inclusivity can move me nearly to tears in the most absurd of situations, and on a more personal level, I just enjoy being around my friends and their friends, and uniting in nothing more than being in the same room without hating each other.
And I've lost my train of thought... I like people, when they aren't being monstrous. And that led me to too much fraternizing, slowing the already glacial crawl of my creative output. I miss the close companionship of my friends, without a doubt, but this wonderful age of communication means that I'm really not all that far removed, and our living space means that our door can be (almost) always open when the distance can be overcome.
Of course, none of this will have been for anything if I don't put my foot down. My first couple of weeks were full of settling in: to the new house, the new work, the new situation. Now I find myself again falling into the same familiar thoughts. Why aren't I writing? Why aren't I creating? Why aren't I doing?
Along with these familiar thoughts, I've been starting to notice their accompanying feelings, the self-reproach and loathing breasting the horizon. For what may be the first time in my life, I've put my foot down and said "Then just fucking do it already!" What good has the railing against my self ever done me? What excuses do I have to bring to the discussion this time? I've excised myself from my greater distractions, at the cost of the proximity of my friends and peers, and if all I can do is to continue to bemoan my lack of drive, then I'll have done it all for naught.
I'm a big boy now, and if I want something done, by golly I'm going to get off my ass and do it.
Unless, of course, I can do it while on my ass. Work smart, not hard.
A postscript for any of my friends in Owen Sound: You mean as much to me as those I've more recently moved from, but you were few and far between in a cesspool that seemed to be doing its best to drown me in human shit.
