Dull Drums

Self-doubt is a weird thing.  It doesn't take into account, for example, the years one plies one's craft.  It doesn't care about a personal sense of accomplishment, or the kind words of people - sometimes strangers - about what one does, what one creates.  It simply does not give a fuck.

It's a long drive between Fort Worth, where I live, & Dallas, where I do a radio show.  I like to listen to music while I drive but it's funny, the silences that happen between songs, the silences even within songs, the distractions - oh the distractions by the shitty drivers in this metromegaplex - such small spaces of time are the perfect nesting places for self-doubt.

& you know self-doubt festers.  Holy crap, it needs so very little nutrients to grow & thrive.  What does it need?  Perhaps some smidgen of a lifetime of disappointment.  What about some random feelings of neglect?  Oh I'm sure there's space for pettiness & jealousy.  When I close my eyes right now I see a section of the highway which is always clogged because it's a short path between two major highways, & I see myself sighing, trying to pay attention, as people who could not give less of a shit about anyone else jockey to be first to an exit, & that's one of the moments where one is too vulnerable, where one is too tired, where one is too distracted to not notice self-doubt barge in like the hero at the end of the movie.

Long drives, the sun beating down - summers in this part of the world are a challenge.  I have a friend who spends summers at pools, lakes, beaches if he can get to them.  I have spent the past couple of summers remembering that season in places that have other seasons.  Texas has summer & not-summer.  That's not right.  & you know what?  That's not right is also where self-doubt lives.

It's a wonder anyone gets anything done around here.  Ah, but I forget: the same environments also foster self-delusion.