Socializing is hard

Being an introvert can sometimes be challenging. I mean, I like being social and hangin' out with peeps and all but I can't do it continuously, and unlike extroverts who are energized when around people, being social depletes my energy reserves. And if I don't get regular periods of downtime, I start to lose my shit. As in locking myself in the bathroom for a while because it's quiet. A solitary confinement of sorts.

Chaos is my enemy. I know, sometimes I need to allow for spontaneity but chaos drives me a bit bonkers. Noise, people, unplanned events, etc... it all rattles my cage.

I sense introverts are not really celebrated or understood. Let's face it, it's an extrovert's paradise out there. People don't get people who would rather be quiet or alone for a while. It makes no sense to them.

I even get tired of socializing on Facebook and Twitter. I've got social media fatigue. At one point, I just need to shut off that constant bombardment of information, even if it's about people I care about. It's like an assault on my senses, and I must retreat to sensory deprivation.

I've got a copy of Susan Cain's book Quiet, which is dedicated to introverts, but have yet to read it. I've actually got a whole library of unread books which will probably take me a lifetime to get through. But I digress.

I'm actually tired now. Tired of writing. Tired of worrying. Tired of thinking. Must learn to do nothing.  

The space in between

You know when you get to that point, as an artist, where you have to let go and let the Universe do its bit? Where you need to relax after an intensely creative period but you're not sure how? It's like allowing yourself to do nothing is a crime against humanity, so soaked are we in our puritanical work ethic.

I'd like to permit myself to explore the art of doing nothing. Not forever, but for certain periods of time, amid those crazy creative spurts, the space in between. However, it's in those pauses that my fear of doing nothing emerges. If I do nothing, then I must be nothing. Except that being is enough. I don't do enough being. I do too much doing. I need to relax.

Here's a great quote by Paolo Coehlo: "If we are wasting time and enjoying ourselves, we are not wasting time." I wonder how much we miss because we're moving through life at breakneck speed, not stopping to "smell the flowers", as they say. I like to smell flowers.

But I need to train myself to smell flowers. It doesn't seem to come naturally. I used to be really good at doing nothing. I've somehow lost my edge when it comes to sloth. I now have an opportunity to revel in slowness, in frivolously wiling away the hours. If I do nothing, I'm still here so my theory doesn't hold true. By doing nothing, I'm still something. And by doing nothing, I'll be able to do something else, later on.

For us Westerners, doing nothing equates to lack of ambition, that revered quality that we must all possess if we are to be successful. But how do we measure success? Is time spent luxuriating in inactivity considered a shortcoming or a talent? I think it should be considered a talent since it can be quite difficult to truly give oneself over to idleness.

But once you do and drink the sweet nectar of slackness, it's a beautiful thing, a life skill that will come in handy for the rest of your life. Never underestimate the power of stillness, the yin to all our yang activity. (I'm actually trying to convince myself here as well.)

The writer's lament. Translation: pity party

Warning: the following is a writer's lament and therefore may be vomit-enducing. Don't say I didn't warn you.

Apart from blogging, I'm also a playwright, an "emerging" playwright, meaning I haven't gotten that first professional production yet. I'm still plugging away, writing, networking, writing some more, working with some great dramaturgs, etc, etc...

I can go for long stretches where I'm focused, positive and productive. Then, I'll hit a snag. My confidence falters. My expectations aren't quite met. I'm not as brilliant as I thought. The script needs work and I have no idea where to go with it.

Added to this is the feeling that I'm an illegitimate writer until I have that first professional production, and put myself on the theatrical map or until I'm published; basically, until some outside entity says: "Yes, you are a writer".

Pouring hours into a project with an uncertain outcome can be daunting. The script may go nowhere. Or maybe someone will take interest in it a few years from now. You just don't know. But letting go of concrete results is a difficult thing.

And let's face it, artists have egos, and if they aren't fed, well, they don't starve. They gorge themselves on delusions of grandeur, only leading to further disappointment. I try to remind myself to get all The Secret on my ass, you know, visualize what I want, believe I deserve it, and that I'll receive it.

But sometimes, self-doubt creeps in, and it's quite insidious. It would have me believe the worst, that I won't amount to anything, that all this work is leading nowhere, that I'm really not that talented and no one is interested in working with me, or ever will be.

I sure as hell won't quit, because I know, with every fiber of my being, that it's my calling. It's what I was meant to do. It's what I love and what brings me joy. Writing is what puts me in "the zone", where time stands still. And I need to remind myself of those small, daily victories, those fortuitous "coincidences", all leading to one goal. I know the Universe is on my side. I just kinda wish I was.

Signs of burnout

Hearing Christmas music at Home Depot while buying a tree makes you cry.

Someone walking too slowly in front of you on a sidewalk with no room to pass makes you cry.

A repeat of Modern Family when you were expecting a new episode makes you cry.

Homicidal internal dialogue because you're convinced everyone but you is a complete idiot.

Fast and Furious 5 seems like a good movie to watch.

When mortality stops by to shatter our illusions

Earlier this week, a 33-year-old female cyclist was killed in a traffic accident about three blocks from where I work. When I heard of the accident, I was immediately taken aback. It happened so close to my office, on a street I've cycled and walked on numerous times to someone who could have been me. A thirty-something woman on her way to work on a bike.

A "ghost-bike", painted entirely in white, was set up in her honour where the accident happened, and bouquets of flowers have piled up on and around it. I followed this story in the news, from the initial report of the accident, to the identification of the victim, to the notification of family members, to details of her funeral service. I felt compelled to walk down that street and see the memorial for myself. Upon approaching that ghostly, silent, white bike, I turned off my iPod, and suppressed tears. 

Why do I care so much about a stranger? Someone I didn't even know? Because on some fundamental level, we're all the same, in this human condition, experiencing life and facing death.

I struggled with the fact that someone died, on this busy city street, and now, life hums along, as if nothing had happened. I thought about her family, who had seen her just the day before her death, Thanksgiving Day, and who probably assumed they would see her again. 

I think of her, getting up that morning, getting ready for the day ahead, brimming with life and possibilities, not knowing what was about to befall her. None of us do. But somehow we think we'll know, that death won't surprise us, that we'll be ready, that it'll be expected. But we're just deluding ourselves. We don't know anything for sure.

I think of what must have been her last moments, lying face down on hard asphalt after having been hit by a car door that unexpectedly opened directly in her path, throwing her  into oncoming traffic, where she was run over by another vehicle. She was surrounded by strangers who tried to help, lifting the car under which she was pinned, calling 911. 

I think of the person who opened that car door, in a moment of carelessness, and of the driver of the car that hit her, and how their lives are also forever altered. Perhaps there are worse things than death, like figuring out how to continue living after having killed someone, how to get past deafening guilt, how to forgive oneself. 

In the blink of an eye, everything can change.

Raging against the machine

You can only fake it for so long. Then, truth starts to seep out through small crevices or squeeze its way to the surface like a cheese bubble on freshly baked lasagna.

Sometimes, I just can't fake it anymore. I feel claustrophobic or bored senseless and I gotta break free. Free from the prison of repetition, narrow-mindedness, inane rules, someone else's control issues. Peculiarity breeds contempt, and contempt I have bred, all in the name of thinking outside the box.

Occasionally, my "wild" ideas clash with the status quo and the shit hits the fan. I want to scream. Others want to "keep me in line". I feel powerless, silenced, surrounded by incompetence and rigidity. What are people so f*cking afraid of?

It's all about balance, and in North America, we don't seem to get that concept. We worship at the altar of workaholism, our sense of self-worth wrapped up entirely in outward achievements and our ability to comply without asking for too much. 

We have a miriad of remote communication devices at our fingertips, yet some still perceive that we must be chained to desks, trapped within cubicle walls, seven or eight hours a day, five days a week. And if we have other ideas of what constitutes a well-balanced work day, we must be lazy or unmotivated. 

I don't mind being on the fringe and floating new concepts but I was reminded this week of what I'm up against: deeply entrenched, antiquated ideas of what managing people consists of and a complete lack of understanding of what generates productivity. 

But I stay the course because, for me, this isn't a sprint, it's a marathon. I know where I'm headed,  and I'm well on my way to getting there. This is just a stepping stone, and when you're thinking long-term, you gotta bear down when the shit storms hit, stay the course and play possum.

Time to wake up from our collective coma

It kinda feels like our world is coming apart at the seams, the "free market" showing its gaping flaws, the middle class getting restless and tired of being f*cked up the ass by corporations and governments. Across the globe, countries are buckling under the weight of their accumulated debt. Unfettered consumption, it seems, has a price.

We've been good little consumers, brainwashed, distracted and molded into walking corporate advertisements. And we willingly continue to do so. Until the shit hits our own, personal fan. Then we start to question, to re-evaluate. Do I really need that second car, that 27th pair of shoes, that 10th pair of jeans? Whose "ideal" am I trying to live up to? Mine? Or someone else's marketing ploy? 

If you buy this, you'll be "cool". Can't afford it? Use your credit card! You don't need to save anymore! Saving's for suckers. Buy it now! You know you want it. 

The question is: who's determining what's "cool"? Why can't we each have our own individual ideals of what constitutes the "cool" factor? I heard somewhere once that true fashion is each individual's expression of themselves. Pure fashion is not "trendy", it is unique to each individual. Trends have a homogeneous effect on us which is exactly what corporations want. Don't think for yourselves! Let someone else tell you how to dress and eat and behave. 

When did we give up our originality? Our independence? Our creativity? When did we start to believe that we weren't inherently enough, by our very existence? That we needed "stuff" to feel good about ourselves? That we had a right to judge or ridicule those who didn't have the "right" stuff?

We've become corporate automatons, sipping our Starbucks latté, oblivious to the destruction of the natural world and sound, democratic political systems. We're in a trance, and judging from the current climate of international financial affairs, we'll be forced to wake up soon.