It's so easy to be distracted.
The art hasn't been the priority lately.
The cleaning has.
The "space making."
I keep telling myself, "it's for the art."
But then I don't pull out the supplies. I don't grab for the paper. I don't put the pen in my hand.
"More of a mess," I tell myself.
No scraps on the ground.
No troubled issues being turned over.
Water the garden.
Vacuum the floors.
Fold the clothes again and again so they are more compact.
Make a coffee.
Make a tea.
Brew a batch of dandelion wine.
Go to the store to buy champagne yeast.
Buy beer. Buy wine. Buy hair conditioner.
Think about writing. Think about drawing. Think about what other people should be doing to reach their potential. Think about workshops I could create for students. Don't do them myself.
Have experiences. Don't write them down.
"I'm not creating," I whine to Steven. He's chained to his desk pounding out a screenplay for hours every morning. "You've created such a body of work," he reminds me.
"It means nothing. It doesn't represent me anymore."
I used to tell Jamie, "I'm too busy living to create."
I make excuses.
Teaching has taken over creating.
I speak of Stafford's "thread" that I let go awhile back. When?
Stare at my phone. Look at all the pictures on my phone. Play games on my phone. Fall asleep with phone in hand. Wake up to phone in hand. Scroll. Stay distracted.
Nick left an adderall at my house months ago, I found it recently and ate it. Swallowed it? Took it. Forgot I took it.
Had an amazing day.
"I've finally woke up," I told myself, driving to work.
Remembered the adderall. Felt sad. It wasn't me. I didn't wake up at all. Couldn't sleep well that night. Woke up the next morning, back asleep. Sleep walking.
Coffee makes me breasts hurt.
Make a playlist.
Look at who's playing shows.
A Tribe Called Red. Cigarettes After Sex. Sturgill Simpson. Torres.
Spotify knows. Can tell me, when and where and how much.
Easy to be distracted. Hard to be focused.