“We Just Go”

Over the weekend, with Big Bro A visiting, IP and I decided to seize the prize of a D.C. novice and force him to visit a museum we’d never been to before. Our touristy inclinations left us long ago and we’re always looking for new vict—, I mean, people to entertain downtown.

We settled on the National Gallery of Art because a) it seems like it’s been closed since the last millennium and 2) there was an exhibit there I wanted to see. As with all museum visits (save Air and Space; if I never see Air and Space again it’ll be too soon), I was struck by the overwhelming beauty of the art. Not all of it, mind you (there is much that passes over my simple mind), but the West Building of the National Gallery of Art just seemed to wrap itself around me. There was such sheer beauty on the walls and on the pedestals that I know another trip is in order. Perhaps next we’ll sacrifice one of my new brothers-in-law at the altar of D.C. museums.

The one thing about visiting an art museum is how it fosters the desire to do something creative in me. I’ve long said I wanted to start writing the great Mexican-American novel, but I’m joking about 55% of the time. However, catch me after a visit to an art gallery and that desire increases substantially.  I can’t draw to save my life, but I’m fairly decent at telling a story; if I put thought and care into it, I am good with words. This blog notwithstanding (which is really just a stream of consciousness/complaint forum), believe me when I say I love to write and have been complimented on it in the past.  And I don’t know what holds me back from writing, honestly: I have an idea and I think I can make it work, but either a fear of failure or inertia keeps me from starting. I sometimes fear I suffer from a deep, disruptive case of ennui—very little these days grabs and holds my attention, and I am bored and intellectually stunted because of it. Do I need structure (such as in college and grad school) to retain interest? I’ve always said I wanted to be a lifelong learner but I am not holding true to that statement. Be it politics, current events, work, and sometimes even literature—I cannot get on the ball.

I know that sitting around bitching and moaning about not being able to write has been a recurring theme on this blog. IP has given me wonderful suggestions on how to break my block, be it in terms of writing, intellectual curiosity and work. I know I have the time to do a little bit of each every day: write some fiction or its beginnings, do some academic reading, apply to new jobs—sometimes, though, it all seems to require so much effort. I am infuriated and embarrassed to be admitting this, but it’s the truth. I’m so bored of being bored, but for some reason I’m afraid to not be bored. Gah.

I don’t want to waste more time, though. I know I need to get on the aforementioned ball. I would like to live my life knowing I tried to create something beautiful. It’s not about fame or trying to reach a huge audience. It’s about being happy with what I’ve done, knowing I let my creativity loose. Why I hold it in when I know it’s there seems like a crime against me.

I leave you with Jonathan Coulton’s “A Talk With George,” which has been popping up when I shuffle my music. I like to think the ghost of George Plimpton and my iPhone are trying to tell me something.

I need to start listening.