it's a great life, if you don't weaken (matociquala) wrote,
it's a great life, if you don't weaken

  • Mood:
  • Music:

so you place your final burden on your half-dressed next-of-kin

I only got 500 words on Sunday, because of climbing at Ragged Mountain and personal obligations. Still, it's 500 words I didn't have before.

The climbing didn't go so well. We were having an extraordinarily bad rigging day, and only managed to get one route set up properly over the course of pretty much the whole afternoon. (Don't ask. *g*) Anyway, I did about thirty feet of it (a 5.8) before I hit a patch I couldn't get over. Or, I might have been able to get over it if I were stronger and less terrified. Which is the same as saying I couldn't get over it.

It shames me to admit it, but I am discovering that, so far (and unlike everybody else I know, real and fictional) I don't really like climbing outdoors. This may change as I get more confidence, but I currently find it entirely too scary to be fun. It's physically much easier than climbing indoors, but the adrenal response kicks my ass, and I find it very, very frustrating. (I'm not big on adrenaline, honestly: a little bit is okay, but large quantities make me feel like crap for days afterwards.) And then afterwards I'm very ashamed of being so scared of the whole production. Also, I'm a bug magnet, which I don't mind so much while hiking, but there's a lot of sitting around in this endeavor.

So today I'm tired and don't want to work and I didn't even accomplish much of anything yesterday.

Also, because the Yellow Face Burns Us, I picked up a sunburn, and today I have a sun headache. Because we were hiking up and down the damned rocks to try to rig and re-rig the ropes, though, I did get about 3.5 miles closer to Lothlorien.

If the weather isn't completely terrible, I'm going to try some indoor climbing tonight. Which means I should dose up on naproxen now, and hopefully the headache and neckache will go away and leave me be. And I'll keep plugging away at the outdoor thing, though it's mostly a time-eating pain in the ass right now. And you know, a thoroughly humbling experience, but pretty much everything in my life (guitar, work, relationships, the self-education of the writer) is that.


Man. Is there anything in the world, this side of raising children, that's a more humbling experience than making your living as an artist? It's so amazing to watch people respond so very differently to the exact same piece of work. One will call it cold and distant, another emotionally manipulative, a third sentimental, and the fourth will write to tell you that you have captured their experience exactly, and rain blessings upon your head for putting that in words upon the page.

It's enough to make you shrug your shoulders and write to please yourself, I tell ya. And yet, when I think about it, I have a pretty nice life. I get to spend my workdays in front of a picture window and eat garlic for lunch without my cubemate complaining. (She complains about everything else, but not my garlic breath.) And it's a nice job, making things. It feels like contributing, a little.

And now, I have to make bread and cook this pork roast before it goes bad, and also go write some pages.
Tags: falling off perfectly good rocks

  • Post a new comment


    Anonymous comments are disabled in this journal

    default userpic

    Your reply will be screened

    Your IP address will be recorded