I’ve never been much of a goal-setter. Goals, it seems, are for the gym fanatics and Facebook warriors, the entrepreneurs. Set a goal and reach it. This is our definition of success. Perhaps it’s because the things that interested me—the creative things, that is—always had some kind of vague movable goal post out on the far end-zone of a late autumn’s foggy morning.

One of my music teachers always said she was in pursuit of the “perfect” recital where nary a mistake is made. Not just sans mistakes but where even every chord is voiced equally, the pedaling is precise and everything is just-so. She tells her students she hasn’t experienced it yet—but, it’s a firm goal, a clear direction, nevertheless.

Perfection, though, is never what drew me to creativity, to the piano or the page. I always preferred expressing a thing over perfecting a thing. How can I express what is inside me—what bubbles up in the middle of the night—I try to do it as clearly as I can, but there are times (lots of times) where being unclear or ambiguous is the best clarity for expressing what is unclear or ambiguous.

I’m more interested in what I don’t know.

To use that old dichotomy, over Toscanini’s over-rehearsed mechanisms, I prefer the vague smoke of Furtwängler. His “vagueness” is anything but vague—in fact, it’s very clear what he’s having the orchestra to express. Which makes me think that sometimes—to switch mediums—you just got to fling the paint on the canvas. You just got to put the words on the page or get the sounds in the room, no matter how unsure or imprecise they are. Some days you’ve just got to quit giving a shit and bark a barbaric YAWP in the ears of the critics (especially the one inside).

(A Brief Aside: I’ve always been a better YAWPer  than a whisperer.
Although, I do hope one do to master the subtle whisper.
But that might only happen when my voice finally goes hoarse.
By the way, did you know that whispering is one of
worst things you can do when you lose your voice?
Comprehend that and you’ll understand
everything it means to be human.)

I express. I need to express. I need to do that more than I need to communicate clearly or cajole or awake or destroy or create. It’s shut up in my bones, yada, yada. This is not about you.

(A short list of things about which I am unclear: 1) If we’re all in debt to each other, why does debt exist? 2) Why do I have the “American Dad” theme song stuck in my head? I don’t even like that show. 3) Why is everything about class in our proclaimed classless society? Not to blog like a Marxist, but he had some points. 4) A prison and a fortress are nearly indistinguishable. Blah, blah, blah.)

I write everyday. But I do not share it every day. You are my guest here. This is my table. My words are food. My overused em dash is drink. I’m sorry I haven’t shared much, but there’s not been much to share. I like silence more. The front and back door are unlocked—you’re welcome to come and go as you please. Let me recommend Reddit.

My goal is to have no goals. My aim is to have no aim. I expect nothing. Yes, that means there is no conventional “success”, but it also means there is no “failure”. If you quit grading students, it doesn’t imply that everyone passes anymore than it implies that everyone fails. It just means nobody gets a grade. I don’t give myself grades anymore. If there are no grades, then there are no grads or dropouts. No goals means no goals.

One of the worst things you can do is accomplish a goal. It becomes a narrow prison of self-congratulation. Plus, imagine everything you missed on your way to that jail: the way the full moon scatters disparate shadows over brick walkways, watching a pissed-off bluejay fight a crow twice her size, or the immense pleasure of a boring Saturday on the couch with nothing to read and nothing on Netlfix.

Set a goal, get a goal. Set for nothing and get everything. After all, only Protestants beat themselves over their work ethic. How sad.

Thinking thinks.
Seeing sees.
Hearing hears.
Writing writes.

I believe this is what St. Teresa of Avila was getting at in her Autobiography when she said that she hated editing. She wanted to write. So, she wrote.