These are the manic ramblings that go through my head at all hours of the day or night.
Congressman Steve Cohen tears into Attorney General Eric Holder over marijuana. (via think-progress)
Back off DoJ
I’m not, like, an activist on this question, but hasn’t it sort of got to the point where…like…seriously? I can go down to the liquor store right now and buy enough booze with which to actually destroy myself in one evening. If they sold weed, it would be actually impossible for me to do equivalent damage to myself with what I’d buy there. These are both hypotheticals: I don’t want to drown myself with booze, and as an at-home dad to a toddler I won’t be spending any long days with a vaporizer and the TV any time soon. But the point stands: alcohol is a much harder drug than marijuana. Much. If I’m not super-engaged with the question it’s just because…like…to whom exactly is this not as plain as the nose on your face? Besides which, and much more importantly, there are people with terminal diseases who report that use of marijuana improves their lives. Their anecdotal evidence is the only metric I really need on that question. When “anecdotal evidence” is a sick person telling you “I need this, it would help me,” then it’s actually good evidence, in my opinion.
Tell it, JD.
Ahhhh. The cure for my restlessness: inspiration.
I wrote today, first time in awhile. It wasn’t much, but I haven’t been feeling qualified to do much more than list on eBay, jog, and catch up on episodes of the Simpsons that I missed over the last 10 years (turns out I stopped watching about halfway through Season 11, the last episode I saw being the great “Max Power” ep. Quality).
It calmed me: that perfect, pleasant exhaustion of the nervous, fidgety energy that too many Coke Zeros and nights alone can work up in you. It felt good, like flexing a muscle you forgot you had. I’ve never really struggled with writer’s block in the traditional sense; I’m never short of ideas. Rather, my issue is always motivation. It’s easier to sit around and watch TV, or goof on the internet, to just lie perfectly still under your bed, staring up at the wooden planks above you and try and figure out how long it will take for those planks to finally give out and crush you. It’s harder (and scarier) to just sit at a desk and type out words or fiddle with knobs, or try and get that perfect guitar tone. You trade the possible wrenching existential horror of potentially failing at producing something legitimately good for the assured vague ennui of knowing you didn’t even try.
But ultimately, procrastination is more toxic to your soul than producing something subpar. So many people obsess over creativity, thinking it must be this covert, silent, and ultimately efficiency driven process and that anything less is a waste of time. These people tend to labor under the delusion that they’re going to immerge from their caves/cabins/subterranean bunkers with this fully formed, Brilliant New Idea and people will just coo. It’s like a bloody magic trick, complete with it’s own “Ta-Da!” moment.
I find that style of “creativity” very tiresome. It usually has this heightened sense of gravitas and involves a lot of hype, both for yourself and for your potential audience. It’s like talking about all the bands you could be in, all the scripts you could be writing, all the paintings you could be… painting.
Maybe there are people out there who make it work for them, but it’s not for me. Creativity is a very satisfying process for me as long as it’s simply process driven. Simple, small steps as often as you can manage. Just do it. The second part of that slogan really should be, “It’s not like it has to be good or anything. It just has to be.”
It’s nice to know that, when you set your mind to it, you can still make it happen. It feels good to be able to will my ideas into the world. The muscles fall into their old rhythms; curved, gnarled fingers hunt and peck. Guitars screech and squeal. And I can sleep soundly tonight.
Not too shabby.