Title : Monday, Noisy Urban Monday. . .
link : Monday, Noisy Urban Monday. . .
Monday, Noisy Urban Monday. . .
Monday mornings often find me dragging my feet a bit over writing a blogpost. Yes, it would be smart to work on the Monday post over the weekend, have it ready to go so that I don't have to work through those reservations again. But there's something like wisdom that tells me to keep the weekends to myself, to family, to friends, to other creative pursuits. That believes two days away from this keyboard might be healthy. . .
Except then, yes, that Monday reluctance. This morning it felt particularly heavy. And noisy. Questions about ruts and authenticity and exposure and vulnerability. I'd recently noted a social media friend fielding some critical comments about what she was writing, what she was wearing, and then on Instagram this morning, I saw a comment on Parisian Cashmere Queen Linda Wright's Instagram post that responded to the combat boots in her stylishly practical outfit by shrieking "Quelle horreur!" You're all very kind here, I know, and my posts only occasionally feature what I'm wearing, but I put my lifestyle and my personality and my likes and dislikes here on view. Sometimes when I wake in the early hours (2 a.m. this morning, although insomnia's been much less frequent lately), it's with something like panic about having removed one veil too many online. . . .
The questions about ruts and authenticity, you will understand, take on increased weight as time diminishes. More specifically, while I have more daily time available for personal and creative pursuits now that I'm retired, my awareness of the limited number of years ahead has exploded since turning 60, then 65. (Although I remind myself that the wonderful Diana Athill, who died last week at 101, was still writing through her 90s -- there's always an Internal Critic who's quite ready to counter by reminding me I'm no Athill). To be clear, I'm not looking for fame nor fortune at this stage of my life (if I'm honest, I'd probably like to be published, but if that were truly a driving force, I hope I'd be working much harder at it).
Neither fame nor fortune, but I do want to be making progress still. Learning, trying new things, taking a chance or two. And a blog of eleven-plus years is a beautifully mixed blessing: it not only proffers an audience for those new things, but it also imposes a sense of obligation and a projected expectation (whether faulty or accurate) of what that audience might prefer. Hence the concern about authenticity. . .
This morning, then, to move from the general to the specific, I was once again caught up in doubts about the validity of the enterprise. I'd planned to write about the contrast between the view from our condo windows (50 to 75 feet away from us, neighbours moving in their kitchen, sitting at their desk, windows and residents and lives stacked one atop the other) and the view we used to enjoy from our island waterfront home (languid waves or stormy seas, cyan heaven or lowering skies, fog-shrouded horizon or distant, beckoning shoreline).
Circling the topic, I was distracted instead by the huge, noisy contraptions chomping through layers of concrete and asphalt into strata of soil just across the busy street at the end of our block. Not even the length of a football field from here. . . Procrastinating, I began sketching in pencil. Then erasing. Then sketching, then erasing, then swearing at my ineptitude. . .
And then just committing to the limits of my skills.
I spent more time looking and chose a few elements I could manage. Seeing that I'd not left room for some important foreground buildings, I decided they weren't as important to my story as those diggers and the city behind them. I embraced the crudity of my skills and boldly inked over the apologetic pencil lines. That done, I reached for the grandkids' felt markers -- if my buildings and vehicles were going to be childlike, why not, right?
I wish I'd kept track of my progress at this stage, because I was surprisingly pleased with the energy of the Urban Construction sketch I'd rendered (the coloured scribble just above/between the two diggers represents--poorly!-- a mural I love). So pleased that I decided to spend some time playing with scissors and glue, the weekend newspaper and a magazine. . . .
Obviously, I've ended up writing this post about Creativity and Process, but I hope I've also managed to say something (visually) about the urban living that was my intended focus when I began. There is so much to love about living in the city (not least the reduced carbon footprint that comes with urbanisation). No denying, however, that it can be noisy and dirty and stressful. . .
We can talk about that noise and dirt and stress later, though, given that I'm now two hours into this post. Time to wrap it up and surrender the mic. I'd love to hear from you -- those of you also living an urban lifestyle or those considering one. Those intrigued by the notion but skeptical they could adjust. Even those who abhor the idea. Let's get all the voices in the mix ;-)
Except then, yes, that Monday reluctance. This morning it felt particularly heavy. And noisy. Questions about ruts and authenticity and exposure and vulnerability. I'd recently noted a social media friend fielding some critical comments about what she was writing, what she was wearing, and then on Instagram this morning, I saw a comment on Parisian Cashmere Queen Linda Wright's Instagram post that responded to the combat boots in her stylishly practical outfit by shrieking "Quelle horreur!" You're all very kind here, I know, and my posts only occasionally feature what I'm wearing, but I put my lifestyle and my personality and my likes and dislikes here on view. Sometimes when I wake in the early hours (2 a.m. this morning, although insomnia's been much less frequent lately), it's with something like panic about having removed one veil too many online. . . .
The questions about ruts and authenticity, you will understand, take on increased weight as time diminishes. More specifically, while I have more daily time available for personal and creative pursuits now that I'm retired, my awareness of the limited number of years ahead has exploded since turning 60, then 65. (Although I remind myself that the wonderful Diana Athill, who died last week at 101, was still writing through her 90s -- there's always an Internal Critic who's quite ready to counter by reminding me I'm no Athill). To be clear, I'm not looking for fame nor fortune at this stage of my life (if I'm honest, I'd probably like to be published, but if that were truly a driving force, I hope I'd be working much harder at it).
Neither fame nor fortune, but I do want to be making progress still. Learning, trying new things, taking a chance or two. And a blog of eleven-plus years is a beautifully mixed blessing: it not only proffers an audience for those new things, but it also imposes a sense of obligation and a projected expectation (whether faulty or accurate) of what that audience might prefer. Hence the concern about authenticity. . .
This morning, then, to move from the general to the specific, I was once again caught up in doubts about the validity of the enterprise. I'd planned to write about the contrast between the view from our condo windows (50 to 75 feet away from us, neighbours moving in their kitchen, sitting at their desk, windows and residents and lives stacked one atop the other) and the view we used to enjoy from our island waterfront home (languid waves or stormy seas, cyan heaven or lowering skies, fog-shrouded horizon or distant, beckoning shoreline).
Circling the topic, I was distracted instead by the huge, noisy contraptions chomping through layers of concrete and asphalt into strata of soil just across the busy street at the end of our block. Not even the length of a football field from here. . . Procrastinating, I began sketching in pencil. Then erasing. Then sketching, then erasing, then swearing at my ineptitude. . .
And then just committing to the limits of my skills.
I spent more time looking and chose a few elements I could manage. Seeing that I'd not left room for some important foreground buildings, I decided they weren't as important to my story as those diggers and the city behind them. I embraced the crudity of my skills and boldly inked over the apologetic pencil lines. That done, I reached for the grandkids' felt markers -- if my buildings and vehicles were going to be childlike, why not, right?
I wish I'd kept track of my progress at this stage, because I was surprisingly pleased with the energy of the Urban Construction sketch I'd rendered (the coloured scribble just above/between the two diggers represents--poorly!-- a mural I love). So pleased that I decided to spend some time playing with scissors and glue, the weekend newspaper and a magazine. . . .
Obviously, I've ended up writing this post about Creativity and Process, but I hope I've also managed to say something (visually) about the urban living that was my intended focus when I began. There is so much to love about living in the city (not least the reduced carbon footprint that comes with urbanisation). No denying, however, that it can be noisy and dirty and stressful. . .
We can talk about that noise and dirt and stress later, though, given that I'm now two hours into this post. Time to wrap it up and surrender the mic. I'd love to hear from you -- those of you also living an urban lifestyle or those considering one. Those intrigued by the notion but skeptical they could adjust. Even those who abhor the idea. Let's get all the voices in the mix ;-)
Thus articles Monday, Noisy Urban Monday. . .
that is all articles Monday, Noisy Urban Monday. . . This time, hopefully can provide benefits to you all. Okay, see you in another article post.
You are now reading the article Monday, Noisy Urban Monday. . . the link address https://letsexploretravels.blogspot.com/2019/01/monday-noisy-urban-monday.html
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