Perfectionism Does Not Prolific Produce

17 days.

That’s how much time has passed since my last entry. The mouse fiasco was winding down when I started this blog. When this blog began I thought, “Hey, I’ll have time to write every day since this mouse craziness is over!”

Did I?

Freddie, a Chinese swan gander, named after Queen's charismatic (talented, beautiful, genius, the list goes on) frontman, Freddie Mercury.
Freddie, a Chinese swan goose gander, named after Queen’s charismatic (talented, beautiful, genius, the list goes on) frontman, Freddie Mercury.

Does photo documentation count? Freddie says it does. He’s right here, staring at me over the back of the laptop from the other side of the picnic table. We are outdoors. Thunder and lightning, he says is “very, very frightening”, kept him indoors until around ten a.m. today, which does not make him happy. He practiced his coy prancing back and forth in front of the tri-pane window of the duck shed because he knew my guests and I could see him from the kitchen. But still he had to stay in. I guess that’s the frustrating part of being a rock star reincarnated as a goose; you have to rely on some dumb human to promote you.

Freddie is a perfectionist. But you already know that, don’t you? He does whatever he damn well pleases no matter how long it takes and he tends to be persevering and somewhat frivolous with his funds. Some might say he’s a good friend to “have”. Freddie will tell you to interpret that any way you like, that he’s not going to spell it out.

“I hate actually trying to analyse my songs to the full. You should never ask me about my lyrics. People ask, “Why did you write such and such a lyric and what does it mean?” I don’t like to explain what I was thinking when I wrote a song. I think that’s awful. That’s not what it’s all about.” –Freddie Mercury

Along with perfectionism, Freddie has drive. He stays up all night, keeps his honker in tune in case he needs to bellow out a Hong-hoooonnnnnnnngggg! at 3 a.m. just to jolt the neighborhood. Sometimes, like right now, he utters a melodramatic, “Hoooooooooong…” while standing on one leg with his neck arched gracefully and his eyes closed. Then his head dips forward with a start and he opens his eyes and shakes his head as if to say, “I meant to do that.”

So I can imagine he would ask me why I don’t just get on with it already. This isn’t junior college back when I scrawled each letter by hand on a page of ruled paper as if each letter I wrote on a page had to be the bearer of perfection, as if I’d invented the alphabet with all these little curls and swirls and small handwriting that had to be better than anyone else’s in class. I didn’t get it then. I held on to what I had: focused handwriting techniques.

Well, you still don’t get it!

THAT. Coming from a goose.

I suppose I should listen. After all, he knows how to ponce about while hundreds of thousands of people sing along in a trance. He’s proven himself. I haven’t.

There must be more to life than this.”

I’m searching for that drive I once had. The same drive that kept me in my bedroom hour upon hour as a preteen who couldn’t put a pen down as she filled notebook upon notebook with fiction stories. The same drive, I suppose, that pushed me through ten years of schooling while I worked full-time. I couldn’t do that now. Exhaustion. I found out the hard way that some things in life are not for me. The big bang socializing scene, the 9-5 work-a-life-away within four walls with people I do not understand–didn’t work out for me. But I won’t declare myself a failure. Yes, I’ve had to give up trying to succeed through those old avenues. Hold the phone.

So                       here                           i                                  am.

I’m a solitary duck whisperer who has recently learned she can cook.

I’m a backyard farmer who records what may appear to be frivolous details.

I’m a human being who entertains herself with bizarre notions of Freddie Mercury reincarnated as a pet goose.

I can’t wait to experience more joyful moments of what makes this world so fascinating. Because it really is fascinating. We’ve all had that moment when we’ve looked up at the sky, particularly at night when the stars are like tunnels of light gently pulling us towards…what?: the heavens; our destiny; our imagination; aliens? I don’t know. We don’t know. But we’d like to, wouldn’t we?

So let’s pretend.

A few moments ago I was doing the same thing I’ve done for a long time, which is to walk back and forth with what I like to think of as a sense of purpose, replacing objects where they belong (picking up), looking for particles to disturb (cleaning), using water molecules to expel particles from within fibers (laundry) and so on. As I was doing these things I kept thinking that I’d promised I would write this blog and that I wasn’t writing. Why wasn’t I writing?

Perfectionism.

I wanted to begin at the beginning of something. This beginning I had chosen meant I needed to upload photos from my phone to my computer, but I couldn’t find the cord. How could I begin without those photos?

There are too many options when it comes to a perfect beginning. (Or so I’d like to believe.) <—Now that’s sillier than Freddie Mercury reincarnated as a pet goose. Where/when/what is the beginning anyway? Is it the beginning of my life? Well, I don’t remember being born, so that’s out. Is it the beginning of this day? Perhaps. I wanted to begin, of course, with a duck and I needed duckling photos. Now, talk about a way to hold myself back, eh? Those duckling photos I needed…on my phone, which I don’t have the cord for.

How convenient.

Many a vignette for skipping too many a day. 

Here goes.

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One thought on “Perfectionism Does Not Prolific Produce

  1. I loved this stream of consciousness, sharing your self realization and fowl adventures type blog post. Can’t wait to read on. Oh and I’m totally with you on the “can’t do the 9-5” thing. It’s like wearing a straight jacket while attempting a cart wheel.

    Like

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