Creative Control

Miscellaneous Mental Musings of an Emerging Artist

As we sit perfectly still, in a blank room drinking naught but weak tea.

Here’s the thing about perfectionism. The very act of having it is contradictory to one day perceiving your own perfection. As long as you have perfectionism, you can never feel perfect. Since this is already an irrational goal, the only logical conclusion is that perfectionism is madness, and must be ripped from the psyche at all costs, but for some reason cannot be.

A book from my youth told me that the only way to truly be perfect would be to sit completely still and sip weak tea. I should remember that, because it sounds boring as hell.

My callback being next Wednesday, and I wanting desperately to be welcomed into the fold of the Neo-Futurists, I’ve gone a little nuts, and am now subjecting my friends to an onslaught of scripts that I finish and revise and revise and revise until I hate them so much that I have to start another one to replace the one I revised and ended up hating, and the cycle begins again. And the other bitter irony is that my state of being nuts is driving me crazy.

Tonight, I will go attend a performance of “TMLMTBGB” and see if a recent viewing of the show helps inspire me. Part of me worries that I’ll go there and see everything I’ve just written being performed by people who had the idea first, and better.

Often times, I go to shows and my mind, in spite of itself, begins putting things together in the back of my head, occasionally drowning out my attention to the show I’m watching (not a polite thing, but it happens) until I actively stuff it back into the subconscious.

My grad show is also an object of scrutiny by my perfectionism, but it’s also a source of some tension due to ego clashes and hypersensitivities that threaten every so often to derail the show entirely. Two or three people have made it clear that they will not join the rest of the class for the introductory sketch, which I take as a personal affront because I wrote the fucking thing (and I wrote an alternate opener as well, which was also given the silent treatment), and which also annoys me because it means that right off the bat, a sharp-eyed somebody can see that there’s a rift in the class.

Sunday’s also a little tense because it will likely be the first meeting between my parents and my girlfriend’s parents. I figure it’s about time, she and I having been together for, oh, nearly two years now. I have higher hopes that my dad will be friendlier than my mother; he’s less likely to hold irrational grudges and more likely to talk to strangers.

Current music [1]: Fiona Apple, “When the pawn hits the conflicts he thinks like a king what he knows throws the blows when he goes to the fight and he’ll win the whole thing ‘fore he enters the ring there’s no body to batter when your mind is your might so when you go solo, you hold your own hand and remember that depth is the greatest of heights and if you know where you stand, then you know where to land and if you fall it won’t matter, cuz you’ll know you were right”

[1] I miss my copy of “Tidal”. And yes, just this once, I’m writing out the whole damn title.

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This entry was posted on October 19, 2001 by in Life, Music, Theatre, Work.