Sometimes, at night, before I go to bed, I’ll feel a sense of restless can-do determination towards how I’ll attack the new day (or this old but new life). This usually happens when I’m scrolling through Twitter where I’m reading poems, and reading about writing and magazine acceptances and submissions. This usually happens when I’ve had a day where I haven’t exactly set the world on fire and I begin to feel as though I’m capable of so much more.
In those moments of scrolling, I try to remind myself that sometimes I write, and that some people have told me I’m good at it. In those moments of scrolling and reading and listening to some music with a glass of wine, I’ll feel as though I’m on the brink of discovering some larger truth about the human condition (or at least my human condition). I’ll begin to feel as though I have a ton of potential as a writer, as an employee, as a partner, as a lover and sharer of life… and not experiencing much success in any of those domains (except the lover of life domain), I’ll feel both determined and frustrated because I don’t know how or where to start, much less how to deliver on any of my capabilities.
When the evening’s sense of determination and gumption gets really out of control, not only am I going to wake up early and grab life by the balls or take the bull by the horns (which I suppose is better than taking life by the horns and grabbing the bull by the balls) and write for hours, and edit those poems I’ve been meaning to wrestle into shape… but I’m also going to look for and apply to jobs, and exercise (maybe twice), and tone up, and restart my Spanish lessons, and drink more water, and get a haircut, and go to the doctor, and take those online painting lessons I had been meaning to take. Then I go to bed and let my restless dreams wash away my plucky ambition.
Last night, I was having one of those evenings. I was re-examining my many small and unfulfilled commitments to bettering myself and the world in which I live. Every song I listened to cut a little deeper. Every poem I read felt like it was talking directly to me. By normal adult standards, it had been an unproductive Monday. It was a rainy and windy federal holiday. There weren’t many new jobs to review. I didn’t get out much. I didn’t really talk to or text with anyone. This may have set the stage for a Monday night in which I believed that a richer, better, and more connected world was just beyond my grasp. My mind and body felt full of promise, yet locked behind some riddle – if only I had a skeleton key in the form of a good routine, calendar, schedule, or even a few small wins to get me going. Feeling rudderless, I wanted something to point me in the right direction, to point me in a direction.
It’s strange to sit with this mix of potential and possibility that is both unfocused and underutilized. At its worst, it manifests as a feeling of mental restlessness. Even as I’ve spent my Tuesday morning trying to put these few inconsequential thoughts down, I’ve gotten up from the computer at least six or seven times: to open the blinds, to make the bed, to look in the mirror, to turn the coffee maker off and pour a second cup of coffee, to do the dishes, to peel the stickers off of the bananas, and to brush my teeth after the second cup of coffee. As I’ve been trying to focus and narrow down my thinking, I answered one email, checked the dating sites three times each, looked at Facebook once, and checked web stats twice. I’ve also re-read and fiddled with the first few paragraphs at least five different times and fiddled with a few partially written scraps of paragraphs another three or four times.
Ironically, capturing these messy moments, these feelings, these distractions and machinations, here in this turtley and slothy space may be a part of the solution and a part of the problem. It’s a part of the solution in so far as this is one of the few spaces in life where I will beat my head against the wall until I get it (whatever I’m writing about) close to where I’d like it to be. Even though I’ve gotten up a dozen-ish times, it’s a little like a meditation in which I continuously practice re-focusing my attention. It becomes a part of the problem because it takes time and energy and the end result seldom provides greater clarity or “progress” in any of the other domains about which I care and should be investing my time (finding a job, writing poetry, meeting new and interesting people).
I got up again, went for a run, got a shower, ate lunch, drank more coffee.
So what’s this about? That’s what gets so hard to pinpoint. As best as I can surmise, it’s about attention (or lack thereof) and effort (maybe).
Some of what I’m “working through” is what feels like a debilitating combination of fatigue and a severely diminished attention span. Or perhaps it’s about having too many choices and not getting enough traction in any one direction to provide adequate motivation to keep going in that direction. Apply to enough jobs without results, go on enough dates that are more fizzle than sizzle, start enough poems that never result in a finished poem, and suddenly, the words “why bother” become a refrain that feels like both an anchor and a noose. A constricting weight from which any distraction is a welcomed escape.
Admittedly, that’s too dour of a description: debilitating, anchor, noose – those are only half-truths and mild exaggerations. However, a truth that I am noticing is that each of those activities (job searching, dating, writing/publishing) is a form of seeking that carries with it the expectation of an outcome. When that outcome isn’t achieved, there’s a level of disappointment. After all, “expectations are resentments under construction.” When I think about the many very simple things that bring me joy (sitting by the water, watching people and nature, walking, going to shows and bars and museums)… I begin to see a significant difference between those things I want and need out of life (job, partner, accomplishment/recognition) and those things that naturally, organically, impulsively inspire that mad-dash rush of exuberance that I call joy. In some respects, I feel (and almost worry) that I’ve gotten good at one form of attention (the form required to be present and smiling in the world) at the expense of another form of attention (the form required to push through the setbacks and not get bored or tired with the process).
Yesterday (Monday), earlier in the day, I had read a quote from the psychologist Adam Grant:
We haven’t lost the capacity to pay attention. 179 studies, 32 countries: on tests of concentration from 1990 to 2021, children didn’t decline—and adults actually improved. When we want to focus, we can. Our distraction issues are a matter of motivation, not ability.
By the end of the day I had stumbled onto a quote from the author Italo Calvino, “I’m a daytime writer, but since I waste the morning I’ve become an afternoon writer.”
I don’t quite know how to connect those two thoughts or if they’re all that contradictory, but they seem to be the paradoxical conditions under which I’m trying, with some difficulty, to function – finding that sweet spot between effort/work and doing what comes naturally. Finding adequate motivation as Grant suggests and also wasting my mornings like Calvino. This is what hits me hardest late at night after an unproductive day. This is when I see-saw between wanting to be laser focused and wanting to be an impulsive flake floating whichever way the wind blows. This is when the lyrics and poems are both the bee sting and the salve.
Where this tension between effort and effortlessness, attention and distraction has played out most significantly for me is in my approach to meeting people. Because of Valentine’s Day, dating and dating apps have been in the news recently. Not coincidentally, also on Valentine’s Day, a class action suit was filed against Match Group (owner of Tinder and Hinge) accusing the apps of being “purposely addictive.” Add to this the recent lawsuit from NYC that blames social media “for fueling the nationwide youth mental health crisis” and we begin to see a picture of a not so benevolent tech industry that claims to remove barriers to building social connections while building out a business model designed to capture our attention and keep us engaged with the app (as opposed to allowing us to focus on those connections we desire and were promised). As a funny aside not related to dating apps, this morning (prior to starting this rambling mess) I read a humorous (because it’s true) article in The Guardian, “No Focus, No Fights, and a Bad Back – 16 Ways Technology Has Ruined My Life.”
As part of the late night “get my life in order and wow these lyrics are deep and I should write more poems like this one and submit to journals like that one” reflection, I was replaying in my head some of my past dating escapades and the heavy, if not burdensome, value I place on shared interests and experiences.
Specifically, I was thinking about a woman who went to a show with me. I don’t think either of us are/were feeling the spark – which, in and of itself, is fine and quite normal. She’s cute and nice, and has her life together – which is more than I can say for myself. What hit me was that there were times during the show when I kinda wished I had been there on my own or could roam about and meet new people. Suddenly, I had to worry and wonder about this other person’s enjoyment. Were we too close? Too far? Was it too loud? Not her style? Too late in the evening? Too crowded? In reflecting on the experience, I couldn’t tell if this was a “lack of connection” thing, if this was a “I don’t really want to date” thing, or if it was an “attending a live show for a second date is a bad idea” thing. I suspect it falls somewhere between option one and option three.
We had gone to a pretty famous venue, The Fillmore. It’s a small venue that holds under 1,500 people and has hosted everyone from the Grateful Dead and the Doors to Metallica, Ben Folds, Willie Nelson, and Beck. Upstairs, they have rooms dedicated to the history of the venue – each room is lined wall to wall with psychedelic concert posters in chronological order. It was pretty cool to see and to take it all in – a mini museum of American music history.
My date, who likes music but maybe not as much as I do, didn’t seem to know much about a lot of the bands. Which, again, is fine and normal… I was equally uninformed when it came to TV shows and movies. But I think that’s where the disconnect was. I’m not sure I could date someone who isn’t into music on a level that approaches my enthusiasm/appreciation for it. The deeper questions, the ones that nagged me on a Monday night as I listened to music and scrolled poetry and thought about what grabs my attention and what doesn’t were: how far am I willing to extend that dating logic and why? Would a potential partner also have to like poetry? Art? Hiking? Am I really just looking to date a female version of myself? Does my enthusiasm for things suck all of the air out of the room and leave no space for the other person’s enthusiasms? What are the tolerance levels for these sorts of compromises? What if they love love love music, but only polkas, Weird Al, and country (styles not high on my list of things I enjoy)? How compatible is compatible and what’s the line between going with the flow (wasting my morning like Calvino) and paying attention because I’m motivated and interested (Grant)?
As I sat there at night, just before bed, and ruminated over these questions, I thought about some of my past relationships. I was a little angry towards / disappointed with an ex – mostly because we met through an app and she seemed like a much better fit in terms of shared interests than a lot of the other people I’ve met through apps… I was mad/disappointed because I don’t feel like going through a lot of trial and error in order to find another person that seemingly clicks. And as I pondered, I was wrestling with the very real possibility that compatibility (at least early on) is an illusion. A game of concessions and minor deceits two people make in order to get some traction.
As I sat there last night and as I wrote this today, I found myself wondering how reasonable is it to expect someone else to like my life as much as I do and for me to reciprocate those feelings. That’s not to say that we like the other person’s life better than ours, but that them going to a show with me and me doing something they enjoy should be this dance of mutual enthusiasm. I’ve had relationships where the other person seemed along for the ride, but secretly resented that I was doing all of the driving, and I very much want to avoid those. All the while, I could here the counter argument being made (maybe in the voice of an ex) “why don’t you just go to shows on your own?” The truth is, I don’t expect my partner to do everything with me or vice-versa, but I think there’s a sweet spot in finding someone with whom you want to share your life and your interests… The alternative, of course, is the current status quo (which ain’t so bad): a life in which I go to lots of shows, museums, bars, and events on my own.
I wasn’t nearly as plucky about accomplishing things this morning as I felt last night. I managed to get in a three-mile run. I managed to look for some jobs. I managed to write one very long and mildly coherent blog post. I didn’t drink more water, or get a haircut, or practice Spanish (Duolingo sent a snarky email with the subject line “How do you say “quitter” in Spanish). As predicted I’m no closer to figuring out my own psychology than I was twenty-four or forty-eight or three-hundred and seventy-two hours ago. I checked the dating apps, as habit has instructed me to do, and I wrestled with my attention span through 2,500 words. At this point, I’m not sure whose horns or balls have been grabbed or taken and if it even matters.