procrastination

In light of the continual push-and-pull-and-fuck-about us Wertern millenials call “being an artist,” I present an abridged list of procrastinations here on my side of Freelance Arsehole blvd.:

1- A relatively lucrative week among the shills down here means that while writing should follow an afternoon of catching up on my more quixotic reading pursuits, I end up inevitably down at Simons looking at their latest cotton knit collection and buying a comfy, blindingly orange sweater.

2- The issue with the hustle and bustle of being boss No.1 in one’s working life—i.e., being entirely reliant on one’s own motivation to get shit done and mo’ money sans mo’ problems—is that something like Instagram, a very recently disdained and ignored network in the ether, suddenly becomes a “creative outlet” for a “constructive” “presence. In light of sweater guilt, I take the following pic and compose the following Insta-poem: “Everything is starting to look like Chandler…” It is liked by strangers, which only further serves to reinforce the time-suckiness of “presence.”

3- While there’s nothing quite as refreshing as waking up to a warm, svelte body, being woken up by one at 8AM and spending the rest of the pre-dusk day delving deeper into it’s most naked of hyperrealist nuances, and breaking only for bacon and eggs and Nutella pancakes, is by no means a way to “hit the books” and/or “make literary history.” It’s fun, though—so duh.

4- Friday: 1AM. In a much avoidable attempt to foul my own sleep before a 7AM photo shoot that may lead to some paid writing work, I mentally argue the pros and cons of using the word “bitch.”While I find no more qualms with the gendered nature of the expression as I do with that of “asshole” or “motherfucker,” I find it is undeniable that when used as a blanket term for women—outside of a self-aware, ironical context—it is indefensible. For illustrative purposes only, consider: “Don’t be such a little bitch about it.” Ew. Of course, I write none of this untimely mental practicum down, which I totally could have made into something (still trying, but failing, apparently).

5- While binge watching, the former 8-hour daily scourge of my writerly existence, has finally, I think, been gotten out of my system, the sudden return to form of Frasier in the second half of season 10 does threaten with the possibility of a relapse. For those interested who have access to American Netflix (a binger must-have): S10e11, titled Door Jam, is a Niles-and-Frasier dandyism must-watch hoot!

6- Irony alert: Internet articles. Though I’m aware there are remaining vestiges of qualified and worthwhile reading on the web (interlocutor clears throat), the vast majority of what is posted, shared and indeed trafficked shadily online is so foul and indicative of a devolution of any kind of journalistic or editorial standard that I’ve basically stopped reading anything unrelated to clothing, art and/or kittens that appears on the Internet. That being said, some time this past Sunday afternoon, I read an ill-informed FB post about the alleged “content-less” nature of Gravity that drove me up the wall, comment-reading as I went. Before I knew it, I’d commented on it, and read five unrelated, un-researched articles, and looked over the Internet edge to see how deep its shit-maelstrom now went, and I’d ranted to my naked lover about the antagonism of this “democratization of ‘information’” and the general misinformation most Web 3.0 dwellers feel entitled to spew in light of our socially networked era and how PEOPLE’S OPINIONS ARE SUDDENLY JUSTIFIED BY THEIR ABILITY TO CLICK ‘POST.’ By the time I had come up from the void of my own melancholy, and though my lover seemed oddly charmed by the haughty rant, I thought to myself what a waste of bile. I felt like an angry tween with all the shoulder chips that might, at its worst, suggest, and I had nothing constructive to show for it. Oh well. The Internet can be depressing. If you allow it to be. I cuddled it out, for shame.

7- Though I’ve been good enough to eradicate most shit-maelstrom bound WWW tangents, I still fall into the perhaps twice-weekly concussive wormhole of clothes creeping. One minute I’m exploring the edge of some polemical creative spurt against mass dysfunction, or reading something ingeniously printed on paper—the other I’m creeping agatine eyelets, ravello cordovan leather, and alpaca insoles, wondering if I’ll ever see the last two hours again. Short answer: I will not. I’ve killed them.

8- Work. This one is tricky and entitlement-drenched and gross. I like work. But I like it best when I get sent a 600-word, $150 translation that takes up an hour and then I can call it a day at noon. Sure, I love the final product of the odd $1000 week, especially in the aftermath of a $1000 month, but then I’m also left with embarrassment and the faint, sustained sting of what seems to be my own hackishness: a non-reading, non-writing and non-anything-prioritized kind of week. Hence the sweaters, the Instagrams, the lovers, and, again, the rants. MUST RUGGEDIZE 4 REAL WORLD.

9- Taking pictures of my cat . . .

10- Myself. Let’s not dwell on this one. A catchall term, let’s face it. Own worst enemy, the lot of us.