manufacturing hope in status updates

a hopeful visualization of the future as a facebook profile

Three years ago, in my darkest months of 2013, in order to manufacture for myself some small light of hope, some small relief from the reality of my depression and the depression of my reality, I set up a Facebook account and profile for my imagined future self, living and posting in circa 2016.

 

I added to this page my dreams and my wishes in bits and bytes, in the form of photo posts and status updates, a visualization of the future I dared to want, built with Facebook and Google images, designed with ambition and hope.

 

And here we are now.

 

Now as I write this, falling into the latter half of this final day of 2016, I am lying on cotton cushions shaded from the high Sri Lankan sun, pondering adjectives and memories; I am trying at every sunrise to learn my turns on the glassy blue-green waves of the Indian Ocean. I have one dozen sentences in Sinhala to speak with locals as I swat at the flies competing for my food; I have a book in Russian on my bed to attempt and often fail to read at night. I sleep next to a red suitcase of scented mosquito repellent, sunscreen and hair oils, two bikinis and two rashguards, some books in languages I can not yet read, a set of tightly rolled black hand wraps for muay thai, a pair of decrepit, mismatched dancing shoes, their battered heels still with some glitter, along with the roll of duck tape I use to fasten them onto my feet, and, of course, some various means of recording my intentions, my reflections: two withering spiral notebooks, a leather journal, one MacBook Air.

I have a one-way ticket to fly, at last, to Kuala Lumpur.

And I am, after all, writing a blog.

a PERFECT FIRST POST

My will is great.
But I am stuck.

I grapple every sentence. I trip every third word.

Every sentence fights for glory—to glow, to shine, resplendent—
Demanding my attention and devotion,
Demanding structure, thoughtful and balanced,
Demanding originality of content, and wit of expression.
Every sentence, demanding to be memorable, bold, and brave
—becoming in its brevity…
…yet captivating in its complexity of thought!

But after every round I tire more, and
…I am stuck…

with nothing to show for all the strife,
all these ass-cramping hours,
slogging by on latte after latte,
willing my hands to craft a… something…
a something!!

Stop the fumbling, deleting, retyping,
—the stalling, the stalling, the STALLING!!!—

and. build. a. something—!

Months, I have endeavored with the single, simple goal:
to write a blog.
Just a single, simple blog— But months pass and I have still

—no blog.

Something inside me is reluctant.
How it drags behind every word, every thought!
Its rigid claws rake deep trenches trailing behind me—with wretched persistence—
Evidence of a desperate cowardice!
Maddeningly unwilling to venture forth!!

I am stuck!

I’ve had it with this silliness. This Wretchedness.

My first post to this blog will be:

a Declaration to embrace
Imperfection, the
Incomplete, the
Not-Masterly, even the
Banal, Cliché, Incompetent, even the
Embarrassingly Redundant and Irrelevant! but…

at least things will be written—Built!—

and not stymied, stuck in perpetual rumination, which, however earnest,
renders sentences useless, and ambition is left
to rot in its own staunch stench of delusion—

delusions of conceit and self-importance
DELUSIONS of perfection!!

And FEAR— fear of mediocrity.

So here you go:

This is my first post.
This is my Declaration of Imperfection.

And it is Imperfect.

It is ABUNDANTLY,
Delightfully, Rebelliously, Characteristically,
Run-on-sentences-fully, & OverRUN-by-Adverbs-&-Adjectives-ly,

and COURAGEOUSLY

Imperfect.

. . . . . . . . . . . . perfect!