Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres:
Studies for "The Martyrdom of Saint Symphorien"
(Saint, Mother, and Proconsul) (1833)

"I fancy that I finish better whatever's left on my plate …"

I should probably be most grateful for all my many unanswered prayers, for as I have continued aging,  I have become an absolute idea generator. More bright ideas spring out of my imagination than any dozen Davids could ever follow up on, so I have, by necessity, become perhaps most skilled at TalkingMyselfOutOf. Out of doing. Out of completing. Out of starting in the first place. Most of my great ideas drift to the bottom of the very well they seem to spring from to compost or perhaps regenerate, likely for me to reject or deny them again. I suffer from idea indigestion. I rarely swallow.

I often wonder what my life would have become had I had to struggle for every alluring notion I needed to sustain myself. That sort of poverty seems far worse than the merely monetary, for I can almost always produce another flight of fantasy to liberate me, even though I know beforehand that I'll most likely end up TalkingMyselfOutOf ever riding it to fruition. It does seem like a harvest since much of what I produce seems to go to waste as excess, more than I can process before spoilage. My eyes were always far bigger than my stomach. My needs seem far, far less than my appetites.

I've seen little about any presence known as Denying Angels, though I suspect that legions of them exist with charters every ounce as benevolent as even the most bestowing ones. These angels become skilled at denying requests, often with cruel-seeming indifference, though they, like all angels, only ever act with extreme kindness; they can only bless us. They might be incapable of anything less. They intervene when excess threatens, when a desired change might undermine or damage. They exhibit wisdom far beyond anything even the most proficient bestowing angel ever manages, for their labor requires prescience and patience, and could never succeed based upon whims or notions. Only a deep, unsuspected knowing ever achieves when denying, which seems an extreme form of rejection. Denying can break hearts.

I suspect that I mainly act as my own Denying Angel. That often almost still and nearly silent internal voice starts raising a ruckus. It suspects something might be just too good to be true and knows precisely what to do. It starts concocting a story that might enable me to start backing out before my commitment's too settled. I circle while explaining to myself. Some of my finest stories come to justify not doing something. These seem far beyond any routine acquiescence. I do not usually surrender or feel like I just gave up. I work hard at these efforts, for they are how I keep myself safe. Invitation received, I respond with my regrets, though I sprinkle the note with crocodile tears. I rarely feel any remorse, even when The Muse returns to find me idling instead of readying myself to depart. "I've decided to stay in," I explain, hoping she won't call me out to justify. I can never explain to anyone else's satisfaction.

I am the man I am today due to all I didn't do, thanks to my many negative accomplishments. I do not always view my many absences as responsible for my successes, but who's to say they weren't the critical elements? Those incapable of winnowing their inevitable over-commitments seem eminently worse off for their diligence. I know it's become popular to perceive over-booking as equivalent to productive use, but I suspect it might be the reverse. I suffocate whenever I see only full dance cards splayed out before me. I need wide-open empty spaces to make proper use of my commitments. Whenever I say "No!" to something, I'm saying a much more emphatic "Yes!" to something else. I fancy that I finish better whatever's left on my plate after I finish TalkingMyselfOutOf something else.

©2024 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

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