This (March 1, 2019)

My desks are a mess
and I’m caught between 
this feeling of
there’s so much to do
and none of it needs done;
there’s soap that could be boxed
but since orders are so slow
I don’t need them boxed 
Right Now;
there’s planning and scheming
and big dreaming
but it just doesn’t feel
necessary.
There are little work things that get done,
of course.
Satan the Curio,
the die cutting machine that cuts our boxes,
it runs daily,
cutting soap and incense boxes,
because we’re always low on those,
and I’ll glue a few together,
or label a few soaps at a time,
and I’ll make a social media post here and there.
But other than that?
Things are so slow
that I don’t need to do much more than
maybe four batches of soap a month,
add a few new wax tart fragrances,
and box some incense –
not until an order comes in.
Which leaves me
(entirely too much)
time to think.
Time to think about 
a just-passed birthday,
and forever feeling
too young to be taken seriously
as if the goal post
is always moved
a decade ahead
of where I am.
Time to think about
how I’m not painting
my experimental pieces
because I can’t afford the materials,
and how I’m only now
itchy enough
to maybe add to an older series
just to paint something again.
It leaves me time to think
about drawing
and the (admittedly bizarre)
relationship I have with it,
and with the otherwise unspecific
Viewer-Other
that I carry around inside my head,
and the tangled mess of
self-worth and ego
that it all uncovers,
a mess that that,
well, that I’m still giving the side eye
instead of dealing with. 
(And, perhaps, yes
this is why people see artists as weird,
because some of us
have relationships with
activities
and
people that have never existed.)

I almost think
it’d be better if work picked up
and I didn’t have time enough
leftover to think,
but then there’s
reading about Druidry and 
medicinal herbs,
and burning incense and
listening to music at full volume
in the tub
at midnight
with my eyes closed.
And then there’s
propagating pomegranates
and lavender and 
repotting
succulents and hot peppers
on the front porch in the sun,
and then there’s grinning at
Beast, our biggest rooster,
trying to be
apologetic and charming
after weeks of being
a total teenage jackass,
and smiling because of Pepper,
my former Pirate Chicken,
and how she still follows me around
and consents to being snuggled.
But there’s also
worrying because it was a slow month
and there are bills to pay
and I’m at a bit of a loss
at how to keep business going and growing,
even if with baby steps;
I worry that I’m not doing something 
missing something
and there’s just no definitive answer out there,
and that unknown territory
well, it’s scary to navigate,
dark and map-less,
and it feels most days
like I’m doing it
very much alone,
when it’s all said and done.
Metaphor for life and death,
and all that. 

So I think,
because there’s time for it right now,
and, then, I remind myself
that this is the only time
life will feel like This –
and to go ahead and think but 
don’t get so lost in the thinking
that I miss this chance to enjoy
This –
This, in all it’s 
glorious adrenaline-tinted uncertainty,
This, and
all these radiant-front-porch-framed
moments.

 

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