Too Much F*replay, Not Enough Action

All this talk is getting us nowhere. A comment on Rebecca Thorman’s recent post got to me:

“…we have too many choices and life may be easier in many ways, but we also spend more time alone. Words are very powerful, but there’s nothing as contagious as another person’s enthusiasm face to face…I also think that constantly consuming so much information can almost make you feel like you’ve been involved in something, because it does feel like a giant conversation going on around you. But it turns out that you’ve actually just been sitting there.” Comment by “Mary”

When I tried Reading Deprivation, I was lost. I needed my fix. Reading, blogging, theorizing, and philosophizing – while it’s a stimulating and constructive use of time, it prolongs the “getting to action” part of what we are yearning for. Action will move a conversation forward, while talking about it ad nauseum will keep it stagnant. Isn’t that why we find the political milieu dismal? All talk, action mediocre at best?

I’ve been writing a lot - about creativity, death, renewal, whatever – which is great for fine-tuning my creative side, but the unromantic reality is that I’m sitting in my hot bungalow bedroom, bleary-eyed, typing away with a cup of coffee. Fun, but hardly the kind of thing that gets you anywhere. Even published authors with tenure positions don’t feel the perceived glamour of their lifestyles.

We had a moment last night where I said something sort of off-handed to my husband. I was talking about my father, and his crazy-ass life full of adventure. Then I declared we are nothing like him.

He was born in Serbia, on a mountain, in a house with a dirt floor
He used to dive for dead bodies as a service to his city’s police force
He used to jump off 10 story bridges
He was a wandering poet. No shit. Telling poetry in cafes, sleeping on train station floors.
He was accepted to the National Croatian Ballet and National Folklore Ensemble as their principal dancer with no formal dance training
He came to America after a mandatory service in the Communist army where his courtship with my mother was under scrutiny as possible espionage
He started his American career as a rig repairman
He soon owned the company
He soon ran a business winning accolades
He threw out the opening pitch at Tiger’s Stadium one year
He was a generous, loving, doting father - the best snuggler that ever was
He took risks
He lost everything
He kept going

I think this freaked both of us out. “Wha’ happened?” We’re thinking slowly. “We’re cool, we’re artsy, we’re risk-takers…” We glance at ourselves in our Saturn SUV, pulling up the drive to our neat little home, in a neighborhood full of other…yuppies…dog in our lap…

We met for reasons other than driving cars that are not mini-vans thank you or because we go to our jobs dutifully every day. We met because we are both artists. He went to art school, I went to music school. Luckily we’re not the annoying bleeding-heart types – but we love creative expression. We spent our early time together on musical projects, going out on dates. Impressed with each other, ourselves. We haven’t lost anything, but we miss that part of ourselves, it’s been lying dormant. So – tonight I propose reclaiming what’s already ours.