I wish I loved anything as much as my husband loves basketball. Or maybe it’s that I want to remember how much I love the things I love. Justin would never forget the current that surges through his limbs or his windpipe’s ejaculatory exclamations when Rudy Gobert denies access to the paint. He loves the Utah Jazz so much that he’ll wake up at four a.m. to watch an NBA game before work. He loves playing so much that he’ll spend his only day off wrecking his body at the Y. I’ll never recreate the look of innocent wonder drawn by his first glimpse of swishing uniforms. His wardrobe is so full of purple and green he’s starting to look like a certain purple dinosaur’s unexceptional brother.
Some [lucky] people get the most returns from a consumable passion, like fandom or exercise. Others get there by torturing themselves with unapproachable yet self-inflating practices like writing and making art. It’s always been the case for me that anything that seemed worth doing also seemed impossible. The word “art” itself feels inherently pompous. Enter: asshole thought diffuser: “Who would ever read this crap?” “There’s certainly a dead white guy who has said this better,” and “raccoon bat?!?” (It’s a call-back, don’t worry about it).
What most people forget is that every brilliant mind cranked out a blooper reel of brain farts before stumbling across something worth sharing. That’s why artists have sketchbooks, keyboards have backspacers and improv comedy is mostly bad.
The proliferation of social media has made it easier than ever to share content with a wide audience. Most of that content may consist of selfies and food porn, but hey, people like what they like and it’s been established that we like pets that act like humans and humans that fall down. So be it. For a long time I was the luddite barking about the inane dopamine loop of mittened-kittens and babies eating lemons, but now I realize that there’s so much noise, I LITERALLY CANNOT EMBARRASS MYSELF. If I can sit with a thought long enough to write about it, then maybe there’s an audience for it. And if there isn’t, it will just get lost in the sea of Kardashians, iphone upgrades, and the never ending bigot parade that is the leader of the free [for the top 1%] world.
Maybe I do love creating as much as Justin loves basketball. There’s something about turning nothing into something that really lights me up, when I do it. So here I am, doing it, and not taking myself too seriously while I’m at it. If you want a glimpse at what other brain farts I’m manifesting into objects these days, follow me @harrietgracekey on Instagram.
You can enjoy your passions, too. Maybe your prophylactic charm bracelet isn’t your best idea, but think about how stupid the first pitch for Twitter must have sounded: “Imagine if you could text, like, half a thought…but…to everyone.” So, I say run with it.
If you’re feeling inspired, share this baby and tell us what you love that you could use more of!