I am frequently paralysed by
the choices of the modern world: from how to spend $50 to how to spend my own life which streaming service to keep? which show to binge next? Leaves me flailing on my back, like a slater Perhaps this has always been a problem on some level, no doubt exacerbated, by optical fibre but, how do you choose what you do with these ticking hours? Mary Oliver phrased it beautifully; ‘What is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?’ But sometimes I want to say back to Mary ‘What is it you plan to do with this one wild selection of Netflix originals?’ Of course, Mary Oliver, Saint that she was, probably wouldn’t have made the first choice to even entertain the notion of the Netflix scroll She was just choosing which flower to write her next poem about and would probably gently encourage me towards the hum out the window of life pulsing electric through stardust and soil Ghost Mary reminds me the choice was never just whether to rewatch the Matrix trilogy or try something new The choice was (and is) to show up and write some words on this page or to distract myself, from myself catching up to myself. Of course you can watch movies and show up to your creative life (arguably, it’s essential) but I know when my own scales are tipped. So Mary, here I am beneath a thumping fan in the kitchen writing. I want to write the poems, like you.
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Every now and then
in quiet moments, the desire for ‘greatness’ wells up to my surface and takes the open mic in my mind’s stage ‘Where is your magnum opus? Your mass following? Your literary agent? Your flowing royalties? What have you been doing?! How come you have not been ‘found’ yet? Why have you not toured the world yet? Why are you not publicly adored yet? Well…what will you do about it?’ It is like my ego has had a few too many drinks and become narcissistically confident and deeply self-critical simultaneously I feel both berated and intoxicated remembering that I am apparently someone special Worthy of best-seller status and viral TED talk fame a bulging bank account Though I have also slacked off missed the boat, the train, the spaceship I have turned at the wrong times paused when I should have moved moved when I should have paused I have failed the all-important and never-satisfied god of hustle. The crushing weight of my not-so-specialness presses down upon me And I’m washed by a wave of disappointment anxiety sadness that I have not become great yet that I have not yet risen from the ranks of apparent mediocrity I’m still just here where life is happening steadily and quietly And then, I pour my ego a glass of water gently caress the microphone from his trembling hand sit him down at the bar I slap him hug him, look him in the eye and say, You are loved. and forgetful, and arrogant, and afraid. Do you think something is only great if a million people see it? Do you think being known by strangers would make you feel more seen than the eyes of your own children? Do you think there’s anything out there you don’t already have, right here? Do you really think the wildly successful version of you in an alternative universe isn’t still losing sleep over your crap? Sober up, Chin up. And let’s keep walking the beautiful path before us. He drinks his water, wipes a small tear from the corner of his eye and nods. I breathe deeply in the wonder of my life and walk outside. It is happening just like they said it would:
they are growing up fast I used to hold him like a football Yesterday he kicked one over the fence He used to know no words Yesterday he told me he could see ‘The soft-feathered wings of the day’ 6 and he already spins better poetry than me His brother, dresses up like a pirate like a paramedic like an astronaut And I’m still wondering is he dressing up as a 4 year old? or has that much time actually passed since we first met? They are growing up fast And you find yourself uttering that phrase even though you know how cliche it sounds And I wonder, if it is just an easy-to-reach-for substitute for things that are more difficult to say If you pause too long to ponder the volumes you’ve already forgotten the mispronounced words the day before walking the night after coming home it’s dizzying to think about the rollercoaster tracks in the rearview And when I say they’re growing up fast I think what I really want to say is that I’m horrified by how casually I am passing through this gift shop And I know, it’s easy to be sentimental when the household is asleep and you are writing poems in the quiet hour And I don’t want to romanticise the slog of it the shit of it the thousand little deaths of it There are honestly days when I fantasise about going back to before back to morning sex and midday movies and deciding to go to the beach and then just going, straight away And, maybe this is what horrifies me more than my kids growing up It’s the curse of casually spending every season of your life wanting to space-jump backwards or forwards when the miracle, in all its bloody wonder is always and only ever happening where you are now. And you casually let it play like background music. You are skim reading the body of your life You are swallowing without chewing your life You are driving on auto-pilot through the rich landscapes of your one life, Sometimes I feel like every poem I write is the same I only really talk about trying to be present trying to see the wonder trying to live and give from a deep well of gratitude I write about it so often because it is as important as it is difficult And the best things are often so like raising these kids who are growing up at the pace of growing up And maybe all you can show them is that none of it is casual none of it is granted none of it is cheap Every time oxygen fills those God-given tanks Every beat that is thumped from that drum in your chest every blink, every tear, every word, every touch It is all more dazzlingly wondrous than any Sci-Fi reality anyone’s ever dreamed of It is nothing to be casual about. This everyday miracle. |
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