I said I was going to write more. I’m going to write, and to write daily for a bit, to practice. I’m going to post nonsense and garbage and ramblings and things that don’t make sense. Bad attempts at prose and poetry, strange reflections on my being. Not because I want to share exactly, but because the finality of a post is something I need to grapple with. I need to grapple with the practice of practice. 

When I was finishing up my undergraduate studies (that sounds too legit- what I mean by that is scrambling for the appropriate number of credits with the Continuing Education program while also working two other jobs and borrowing a car to get up the University in the afternoon), I had a writing professor who is probably the person who I had the closest academic relationship with at that time. One of the very few professors that I felt I could connect with, and who wanted to listen to me, even read the things I wrote. This relationship was healing and important for me, since I’d been kicked out of college on the first go (and was still angry at the business professor who told me I needed to buy new clothes because I didn’t dress nicely enough…). This professor and I, we had some strange things in common, and I think he felt an affinity for me. He taught the required junior year writing course and a course about literature and economics. Along with the Marxian economics courses I was taking, these courses were the first time I ever enjoyed learning and felt more alive because of it. I felt like I could be myself in those classrooms, even if I was just sitting there taking notes, in between running to my other jobs and checking to make sure I wasn’t getting too many parking tickets. 

That is a long way of saying, this professor knew me quite well, and to get back to the point, he said something very profound to me one day when I was crying in his office (I’d stop by to see him and his elderly pug named Buttons): he told me I wasn’t afraid of failure, like most people, but that I was afraid of success. And even more, I’m afraid of finishing things because they might be okay, even successful, and I have no idea how to deal with that. I’m a bit of an ongoing failure. Failure is a comfortable place for me. The stakes are pretty low, and you can stay hidden, safe, comfortable.  

That said, my comfort with failure matched with my fear of success also means a discomfort with practice. Practice might actually make you good at something or another. You may even get praise for it! Be perceived!

When I was a child, I wanted more than anything in the world to make music. I wanted to play guitar. Since I was about seven or eight years old, I worshiped at the occult alter of Jimmy Page and thought there was nothing cooler in the world than whatever he was doing. I got a guitar, a few in fact. But, I’d never practice. I was terrified to hear myself. Terrified of someone hearing me. Terrified as the possibility of perception. Terrified to actualize. Terrified of practice. 

Anyway, facing my fears. Here to practice, for now. Still not interested in “success” or whatever that means. But I’m here, practicing. Perceive me if you must.