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XTimes 1.01-ScaringMyself

I’m scared out of my wits most of the time. What emotion besides fear could so reliably shove me into that space beyond wits’ end? Wits sanitize and stabilize, but this crazy, changing world requires neither much sanity nor stability.

The energy that appears when moving through my terror seems the best suited for manifesting. Cowering energy never results in much, and though I generate plenty of cowering energy, even the occasional moving through energy seems to counterbalance. Neither can be stored and must be expended in the moment, in trembles or transformation; small beer or fine wine.

I’m not so afraid of being afraid as I used to be in my youth, back when I had something to lose. Aging brings a steady reduction of the stakes, reducing the risks that might encourage being afraid of being afraid. Now, afraid feels more like sadness or even joy; a definite feeling. I classify feelings as good, definitely better than numbness. Good thing I’m scared out of my wits most of the time.

Poised yet again on that now-familiar precipice of greatness, I feel the fear flush through me. I have choices to make, alternatives to consider, a story to finish or begin, a proposal to ponder, a challenge to answer, a frog to swallow. At least I am awake, not dozing through this experience. Should I be wounded deeply now, I’m sure to be feeling that deeply, too.

ExtraordinaryTimes insist upon certain excesses. The familiar need not apply. Certainty should not even pretend to be the reason, comfort far from my mind. Outrageous, anything-but-that responses seem to help manifest. They turn that fear over on itself to produce something memorable.

What am I afraid of now, besides the ever-present boogieman? I am afraid of myself; afraid of myself because I’ve seen what I’m capable of creating and what I’m capable of deflecting. I know now that my creativity never was dependent upon some magic patronage, just the permission only I can bestow. I know too well that I’ve never known how and I know now that I never will. Filled with fear, I might talk myself out of myself, cowering in my own shadow. Filled with fear, I might leap off that precipice, only then discovering (again and again and over again) that I really can fly, though it never will become a sure thing.

The blank page terrifies me. The dangling participle spooks me plenty. Until I start writing, I have no idea what’s on my mind. Until I write, nobody knows nuthing about anything I know, not even me. My job security lies in the insecurity of my work, scaring myself.

©2013 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

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