A few days ago, I decided that my policy for this blog will be to post every other day. Not every day, not twice a week, but every other day. Somehow that frequency will ease my anxiety.
So this is today’s post (obviously), after which the next post will be on Wednesday, and the one after that on Friday. I say this so that you’ll know what to expect.
I would have posted earlier but one of my anxieties had not yet been addressed, and it would unfortunately have kept me from posting. That anxiety is the father’s anxiety concerning the welfare of his daughter, from whom he hadn’t heard for an uneasy period of time. She did answer the phone just now, she does seem fine, and all it took was a brief phone conversation for my paternal anxiety to be assuaged.
So – now I can post. As to what I shall post, I can only say that the psychological issues regarding anxieties, resentments, mania, frustrations, confusions and so forth have been predominant in my consciousness of late. I might be able to create a blog post when hassled by these things, but I certainly can’t create a good Act 2, Scene 2. Somehow, I feel as though my psychic slate needs to be cleared before I can proceed.
Case in point. After I “finished” Act 2, Scene 1 on Thursday, I emailed the script to a friend of mine whose opinion I esteem. I then remembered that people tend to look at the beginning and the end of something before deciding if it’s worth their time and energy to bother with it. The ending sucked, but I was exhausted by the effort, and my own perfectionism was a deterrent, so I slapped it in place pretty sloppily and decided to move on. Then, when I realized that she would probably look at the ending before reading much of what came before it, I couldn’t live with myself.
So, on Saturday, I sat in the same spot for six hours rewriting the lyrics to “Children of the Universe.” Now, even if you know nothing whatsoever about Music, if you choose to indulge me with four minutes of your time and listen to this clip, I’m sure you will easily discern how difficult the process of creating all those lyrics could be. Click here:
I wrote that piece about four years ago, wrote about half the words, and left it – knowing that one day I was going to have to finish the lyrics. Due to the arduous nature of the task, I procrastinated. But did I “let go?” Of course not. If I had, I’d have never come back to it — even though it took four years to get around to it. I thought about it consistently. I had to do it — I just kept stalling.
This time, I was through stalling. I hammered it out until I truly was satisfied. Then I let go. But here’s my quandary: why do I not let go before I finish an arduous task? Why did I have to sit in one spot for six hours without taking a break before I could reach any peace of mind about it?
It seems to me, now that I really stop to think about it, that the difficulty I have “letting go” of a task is psychologically akin to the difficulty I have in “letting go” of broken friendships, shattered hopes, and so forth. I have a couple friends who haven’t talked with me for years now. One of them even hung up on the phone the last time I called him, and I honestly can tell you that I have no idea why. However, since then, he has not answered any emails or phone messages. Try as I might to find out what I could have done to have deserved such disrespectful treatment, I will never know the answer unless he decides to tell me himself. That was four years ago, and not one word has been spoken. Therefore, I must “let go.”
Now, another person might more readily let go of such an unfortunate event. Another person might just shrug his shoulders and say: “Who cares?” Another person might let go of the entire friendship right of the bat, saying: “Well, I guess there goes that friendship! Now – what’s for dinner, honey?” To the point, another person might have taken three or four breaks in the six hour period of time in which I insisted on not leaving my desk until the lyrics to Children of the Universe were complete. But you know what?
Another person would not be about to finish the first musical in the history of American musical theatre that will depict classism in its most sordid form; and yet still engage, entertain, and even inspire the audience. Another person would never have dared even begin trying to write a musical of such gargantuan scope, let alone finish it. Another person would not have dreamed about writing Eden in Babylon. But I not only dreamed about writing it — I *am* writing it.