To that I say fuck you, AND your advice. It is easy to say that, but what if you don’t know where to begin? Are you supposed to take all your money and go spend 3 days listening to Tony Robbins telling me how to “Live With Passion,” or “Get The Edge.” Maybe even I can “Awaken The Giant Within.” Maybe I need to just relax, throw on some old school neurolinguistic programming cassettes and be on my way to health, wealth, or success.
You may find it hard to believe, but I am actually a bullet journal kinda girl. Oh yeah, I even have my bullet journal broken down into separate areas of my life. Yes, I compartmentalize a bullet journal. And currently, my weeks tasks are roughly at about 97. I’m looking at a lot of it, and you know what. I COULD begin. But not today.
I’m not quite sure what it is going to take to get me to push myself to the point of waking up with a nice cup of coffee (perhaps infused with a little cardamom because I decided to use the coffee grinder to grind some cardamom pods) and say “Hey! Yes! Hell yeah i want to get started on that advanced directive, living will, online will, insurance documents, the trip to Home Depot to buy glass mortar so that I could fix some 1990’s Miami Vice looking home decor that was not of my choosing.”
Yeah. I need that person. An accountability partner. Someone to have a phone call with in the morning while I drink that coffee and pushes me to do these stupid little tasks, that literally can all get done in what? Two hours? Maybe a little more? If I spent one day I could knock it all out, including the actual installation of the broken mortar and the Miami Vice blocks.
If I got all that done, I could move on. To my artwork. To an online course. To reading something that would better me. I actually have to label and pack 10-12 pieces of art for a show that I have to drop off this week. Not done. And it better BE done … fast. Nervous and trying to figure out what is going on with my potential business partner, and she is being far more “vague” than I would like. But this is how I feel right now …
Maybe I was hoping that the business thing would push off JUST a little quicker. That would force me to have an accountability partner. Right now I am in the land of God damned straw hats with long flowery skirts and crocs with socks. Well, sometimes Birkenstocks. Thrift store not so chic with all of the clothes not quite being the right size. They sit at green lights staring into the sky looking for a rainbow, wondering why people are honking at their forest green mid 90’s Subaru Outback with dog cage in the back, and the COEXIST bumper sticker.
I can’t say that I go running about town trying to make friends here. And the ones I do make are from somewhere else. We sit in the parking lot outside of the coffee shop and share a cigarette and laugh at the fact that the most overpriced pseudo hip coffeehouse in town not once can get an order right, yet scowls at you if you want a lid on your damn to go cup because that lid is going to destroy the environment.
The people who run the gallery right next door told me that I am “too cool to live here.” Yeah, well … I don’t think that is the case, because I think that it is impossible to be cool here. And even if you were, no one would see it, because there is nowhere to go.
That’s right damn it. Tomorrow is when it is going to happen. I am going to walk outside to get the mail after I am done with this. I am going to look up at that clear sky, pretend I see that rainbow that the metaphorical crunchy lady in the Subaru found such inspiration and clarity from, I will turn, look at the mountains, realize …
I AM IN THE LAND OF ENCHANTMENT GOD DAMN IT!
Yeah. That’s right. I can do it. Because I have a possible business to start. Art to sell. People who give a damn somewhere out there. People that still remember me even though I moved off the map to this granola punk wanna be art town. I’ve got some short white dude with dreads that likes to be a dick about packages coming when they are addressed to me. Maybe as I go to get my mail, as he scowls at me, perhaps I can start up a conversation in regard to whether he wears those dreads for some religious belief, a spiritual conviction, some sort of ethnic pride, or perhaps it is some outdated crunchy political statement. Maybe he will just look at me and say, “Dude, I just wear ’em ’cause they match all my slightly wrinkled, somewhat beige hipster Dockers and my crocs.”
Because, what the fuck. I’m wasting so much time. In fact I just realized that I am late for leaving for an appointment. Better hit the dusty trail cowboys and girls.
Until next time, ’cause I love ya. Even if you wear crocs. Though I may be embarrassed to walk with you in public.