Rebellious Weed Scavenging

From all the things I have to do, this is the last one on my list. It is not even on my list, officially I mean because it is not a thing I HAVE to do. I mean yes, I do, have to do It, because it is creative and time consuming and I will probably fail, and curse at myself for even trying, and I could get the same end product at IKEA for 20 bucks, so of course, I have to do it. If it will get money on my bank account to pay this 115 bucks gas bill due in 3 weeks, heck no. If it will align with my line of work or fit in a niche I could even try to monetize in some ways. Still no.

So why, why is it stuck on my mind like a chewing-gum from a 90’s clip?

This recording I need to work on? I will probably procrastinate until I have no choice but to work 20 hours straight to deliver it on time. This new gig I need to create, to increase traffic and work opportunities now that I bought the extra gears? Yeah, that can wait too. Getting a stable job? Over my dead body.

Because at least, I’ve tried. I know I am not one that can work for a company. I am too passionate for that. I tend to put my soul into everything I do so, working for a brand which would suck the life out of my bones and replace me within 5 minutes if I dropped dead, whether it is serving coffees or sitting at a desk translating endless words into other words into other words is not a thing I can do. Not on a daily, not for weeks, months, years on end.

I guess, it is not something ambitious enough for my proud ass. And yet, I’m too much of a chicky nugget to put my (he)art out there. So, I sit in lukewarm ambition pondering endlessly the pros and cons of doing it because I am not a businesswoman. No matter how much I’d like to believe it. So what’s the point? I should just get a job instead.

The point is that it relaxes me, it allows my soul to speak its truth. Well, it is still a whisper at this point because I do it à contre-courant. I fight against my own will. An endless war of the heart against the mind, the matter and the meaning. The instinct, the logic.

It is just craft for me as the way to pure creation, to the complete self and freedom of speech that is art, is scary and that’s probably why I don’t like abstraction, too much option in the meaning. Too many possibilities in the matter. The same way I have space vertigo and cannot sleep on my back. I’m scared of the unknown and I am scared of empty space. I am scared of looking inside myself, to look at what I could find, or the lack of it. So, I fill it with things that are dimmed useful because I am not yet able to allow my subconscious to speak its truth, just for the sake of it.

Revealing your most profound self, maybe even the darkest part of your being to others, I don’t know about you, but it takes some nerves. And lately my nervous system has shrieked to an always on the verge, too tight and exhausted net of pain. A net that I am trying gently, softly to ease, a whisper at a time, just so I could move again.

And craft allows it to regain a bit of calm, to quiet the storm and relax the strings. It gives my soul some room to breathe. It is the way my heart rebels against my brain. Against society and against toxic expectations, especially mine.

So, this idea I had a few thoughts, days, weeks ago, it is fairly simple. It is to make a basket out of wheat I could collect on the roads out of the Italian village I ran away to a few months ago. Wild golden strands of vegetation, growing freely out of their fields, the same way this idea is growing out of logic in my head. The more I think of it, the more I want to do it.

What if people see me take the wheat, they might think I stole it from the fields. I should go at night. But if I go at night, I will not be able to film it, and if I can’t try to make money out of the process, what is it good for? Also, I’m going to need a lot of it, so I cannot collect it one strand at the time because it will dry and make it harder to work with and could even break, rending my efforts useless. But every time I have the opportunity to take the vital material, I curse myself for not having scissors with me. And I just bought a pair, especially for that. And what if I bring pest into my house. I just had problems with termites, and I can’t stand another invasion. Because I have nothing here, since I came, my belongings have been stuck in England due to Covid/Brexit/Paperwork issues. Four months without a hairbrush or my stuffed animal. I have been wearing the same 3 bras and 2 sweats on rotation and if I didn’t need to walk, I would have probably waited longer to buy new shoes after destroying the only pair I took with me when I left.

And this is proof that I am consumed by this idea. I could have bought a hairbrush for the price of the scissors. But a hairbrush would not allow me to create something, no matter how useful it could be. A brush would only be necessary if I had hair, which I have, don’t get me wrong, but scissors, they are multi-purpose, I could cut pizza, kimchi, cardboard, or even wheat. Or my hair if it gets too damaged by the lack of care.

So, I know I will do it, because I am stubborn and no matter how hard it is to overcome my anxiety, I will do it because I always talk myself out of the bs my brain gives me. Maybe today, maybe tomorrow. I just know that I won’t have too much time to keep fighting my own thoughts because the wheat goldens out quickly, even though it has been raining for the last 4 days.

But you know what, I also think it is a blessing, this time constriction. Because I am a professional procrastinator and I need deadlines to get to work, the same way I need to fight against preconceived ideas. And by allowing myself to craft out of love, I allow my heart to whisper its truth to my brain, and one craft at a time, I establish peace within the void and the empty space doesn’t look so scary anymore, because it is filled with useful happiness.