#82 | Push push (and push)
"Writing is bosh. There is only one way to make money at writing, and that is to marry a publisher's daughter" –– Boris, from Down and Out in Paris and London.
"I think perfectionism is based on the obsessive belief that if you run carefully enough, hitting each stepping-stone just right, you won't have to die. The truth is that you will die anyway and that a lot of people who aren't even looking at their feet are going to do a whole lot better than you, and have a lot more fun while they're doing it.” –– Anne Lamott
I was introduced to Jacko through Jackie, and Jackie and I met in a Japanese restaurant just south of Lavington, in the west of Nairobi. As it turned out, Jackie holds an Olympic gold for judo, from either Beijing or London (I can't remember which). You'd think that an Olympian would be not far off six feet, with hands like heavy steaks, but, sitting out under the trunks of forty-foot trees, she was the opposite; perhaps 4'5" and dainty. When I told her I wanted to get ripped, she laughed and told me I needed to speak to Jacko.
A couple of days later, I met with Jacko in Valley Arcade, a third-rate shopping mall not far from the Japanese restaurant. Jacko also holds sporting accolades, being titled Mr Kenya in a bodybuilding competition. He's an ox. Alongside competing internationally, Jacko has trained me and a few others since then. And although, in the fourteen months since I've been rolling up to Raw Gym at 6 am half-asleep, I've not gained in aggregate the muscle mass that Jacko has in his left tricep, his whispers of "push" when I'm damn well pushing, or "54" when I ask how many reps to do (fifty-four!), have left me with a lesson: to turn up.
I dream of, perhaps in my late forties, becoming a writer. I count a writer as someone who does it five days a week, every week, and loves their work. But a professional does not need to be successful. No one may read their work. No one may review it, or if it is reviewed, the sole reviewers may be the unfortunate few who get Christmas presents, suffer the further misfortune of opening the book and feel compelled to leave a one-star review as a warning to others to read something else.
I'm sitting in an incomparably dark one bedroom flat on the second floor of a coral-built terrace in Shela, on the coast. It's early evening but already dark, and I flick between Orwell's Down and Out in Paris and London, and this sheet of paper. I write to the page as if it's patiently awaiting the following sentence. I write in the first person because it's a stream of consciousness pouring onto the page like thick red wine. The words, just like wine, stain the page. I'm interested to find out where the wiggling line goes. Does it end up with a crude insight into the meaningless of life, or does it flame out limply, begging for a new paragraph and direction?
A reader and a writer have a deeply personal relationship, even if they don't get on so well. Even if they disagree and never meet, the reader is hearing the writer's thoughts ported through time, sometimes (in the case of Orwell, nearly a century). When I read Orwell, I hear that very thought he had and decided to capture. This is the same for every art form, whether it's poetry, painting, or music. Each line, beat, and stanza is intentional, and as the 'consumer', it's easy to forget entirely how planned each full stop (or hi-hat) is and what it's meant to mean.
So art is an expression, and feedback is welcomed, but it does not need to impede the work of the art. It shouldn't. Negative feedback too often means one ends up presenting the ideas as they 'should' be, rather than how the poet or the musician wants it to sound; it becomes a betrayal of the art. After all, neither encouragement nor a critical review should influence the miraculous process of an artist presenting their art. A critical review, tragically, can halt the art altogether.
We each have a candle of creativity that, if extinguished, takes work to reignite. Some candles become a bonfire of invention, but for many of us, it's flickering meekly and might, in strong wind,… just… puff! Suppose we are lucky enough to realise what flickers (is it music?). In that case, finding a way of pouring petrol onto that flame (as Mont and I used to do when we were eight, making fireworks in the yard and nearly blowing ourselves up) is one of the most meaningful things we can do in life. So, I'll be back at Raw Gym at dawn on Tuesday morning. Jacko will be whispering that I "push push", and I'll be suffering but not quitting because by turning up when we can, the candle continues to burn even when it's hard, regardless of the unequivocal absence of results.
My week in music
Kilifornia by Wandering Lex and Jiggy. It's an excellent new album, per the presser: "This EP expresses the rawness of being human, regardless of where you're from, who you are, or your stage of life. The EP aims to progress the healing needed between two cultures with an unpardonable history." If you have time for only one song, listen to Focus on Love.
My week in books
The Obstacle is the Way by Ryan Holiday. There are times in life when Stoicism is like a buoyancy aid. This is such a time for me, and this book (recommended by the excellent HH) was a skinny-dip into some Stoic philosophy. A quote quoted by Holiday: "What is defeat? Nothing but education; nothing but the first steps to something better." — Wendell Phillips
Down and Out in Paris and London by George Orwell. When people ask me what my favourite book is, I always say Down and Out, but it's been well over a decade since I last picked it up. This week I devoured it. It was better than I remembered and still stands head-and-shoulders above anything I've ever read. Orwell's clarity is dazzling, and he is hilarious. I'm very thankful to be able to meet him, if only through his work.
Live well,
Hector