Dismantling

A white glove approach when you’d rather use a blowtorch.

Haven’t entirely dismantled Christmas yet, but Nyla doesn’t judge.

But first, an apology.

It feels like three lifetimes ago, but I used to get on a mic and insist that my listeners find time in the peripheries of their days to create a sketch, a stitch, a few lines and call that one inch closer to their wild and dreamy goals. I really do love that for past-me, that gal sitting on a heap of golden, shimmering time and from that vantage point, it does seem so simple: just do it. And now, being someone with a high-demanding fulltime job, the first thing I want to say is, “Bless her heart,” but in a slightly less surly way than I would normally say it. Performing empathy isn’t necessarily a bad thing, you don’t know what you don’t know. Now I know. If I inspired anyone reading this back then, great. But if I made you feel you weren’t doing enough, I am truly sorry.

And also, here I am taking my own once-earnest advice. I have thirty minutes this morning and in spite of a litter box full of days-old cat turds and 157 assignments that need to be graded by the end of the day, I’m writing this instead. Look at me! I’ve had these same thirty minute opportunities for the entire month of April but instead of sketching, stitching or writing, I’ve been sitting in my hovel, cat in lap, and in what to an outsider would appear a fugue state. Except if one were to somehow land in the tender folds of my cerebrum, it would actually be lit up like a southern Christmas tree. And no, not thinking about all the art I wasn’t creating, but instead contemplating my current state of the sandwich, how now was I not only caring for my mom from sixty miles away but now also my disabled sibling, nurturing my own two in the nest, all the never-ending errands to the grocery store and the pharmacy and all while never not worried about my own chronic condition. And you know what is extremely satisfying in this scenario? Knowing that perhaps a third of you reading this are nodding your heads in resonance.

Making and consuming art has saved me from my destructive tendencies my entire life. When alcohol almost killed me, these acts rescued me once again. Wading into a sea of anemones coming on twelve years ago, all with their little tentacles raised in ‘me too’ reminds me that if I’m a leader in any way, I’d rather do it from there than perched atop a hierarchical rock, prescribing the right way you should things. So I’ll follow my apology with gratitude: for those that were there, thank you. I owe all of my confidence and strength to the collective.

So yeah, I’m not killing it. I’d even settle for half-assing it except there are some things that I’m finally ready to admit are making me feel like I’m wading with jeans on (please pardon all the water metaphors, it’s been raining here for days). I’ve an itchy finger to fix it too, except I’m determined to do it differently than per my usual. You can ask any of my exes, perhaps there were cold-fish vibes I gave off leading up to any break-ups of which I initiated, but once I said I was done, I was done, matches still smoking as I walked away. When I wake up once every few years and decide I’m ready to change my hair, I’ve got a pink bob before the sun goes down. I’m impulsive and quick and some things call for this kind of swift precision. However, there have been occasions that in hindsight, I’d wished I’d dismantled with a little more care than a blowtorch. So I’m swapping hindsight for foresight. Not meaning to vague-post, but by summer’s end, the ways I’ve offered my creative work online (okay, my website, for one) will be tenderly archived so that I can finally feel like I’m swimming in the nude again.

If you are one of the few who have continued to allow Special to draft your bank account every month, I want to say, Thank You. In a Substack world where creators are offering paid subscriber perks like it’s a competition, you have remained unwavering in spite of the crickets I’ve offered. If you hang on for one more month(ish), I have a big project I’m working on that is tangible and will arrive in your mailbox, so look for a mailing address request soon. Take that, paid-subscriber-perk-wars. Next time, I’ll write about more process when I’ve made more progress toward my wild and dreamy goals, thirty minutes at a time.