Feet and the Triborough Bridge; Astoria Park, Queens
I haven’t been writing enough. I have a good excuse – I’m busy in the studio, happily toiling over paintings and drawings for upcoming exhibitions in New York and Los Angeles – but the predominant cause is not so benign.
I’m preoccupied by the perception that I’ve lost some degree of control. This loss isn’t all unpleasant – in fact, I’m as content as I’ve ever been – but it makes me anxious nonetheless. I thrive on order and routine. The morning workouts and afternoon jogs, the biweekly apartment cleanings and snake feedings, the dietary restrictions and alphabetized accordion files, the monthly gallery slogs: all of these are now absent. My waist is softening, I’m not sure when I last made gallery grand rounds, and the snakes sometimes go months without a rat offering (which isn’t unhealthy, but neither is it ideal).
This has to change.
When my girlfriend asked me last week how many times I attempted to quit smoking cigarettes before I succeeded, I explained that I never really quit. Sometime in 2003, when I was twenty-five years old, I realized that I was ready to ditch the expensive, unhealthy habit. I started by limiting myself to social smoking. Gradually, I smoked less and less, until even the ceremonial appeal of smoking lost lustre. Today, I’d be surprised if I smoked ten cigarettes a year.
I need to make a similar choice with regard to my work ethic. I’m thirty years old; it’s time that I adopt an adult approach to productivity.
There must be a way to fit in the art-making, the writing, the day job, the necessary chores and the relationship without sacrificing adequate sleep. Right?
Seriously, suggestions or experiences are appreciated.
Photo credit: Hungry Hyaena, 2008