The Angst Never Ends Pt. I

Time for some introspection…

I become increasing quality obsessed. Quality of food. Quality of music. Quality of film, of literature. Of conversation. Quality of manufacture– the windows, they’re new, but rather low quality… quality of my manufacture. Quality of the things I think and speak and write. Quality of action and intent. Quality of the beer that I drink, of the coffee. Of the weight and heft of the glass I drink from. Is it the appropriate type of glass for that drink? Pilsner for a microbrew. Regret the absence of stemware for the wine– wine of decent quality– as I can afford, of course– not aged 30 years, but at least with full-bodied taste.

And I don’t quite know why. But I crave quality, and I’m upset by my own inability to create quality…

I’ve mentioned this before: my own version of hell. The fact that I was born with the full faculties to identify quality, with a discerning intellect and taste. With the ability to pick out intentionally-crafted from cheap manufacture. And yet, I’m utterly incapable of joining in that process of quality manufacture. Utterly incapable of producing quality of my own. My piano playing (or worse– my guitar) is without rhythm, without inspiration, without style. My writing is without poetry, or insight. Everything I set my hands to is half-assed, left incomplete, short of fulfillment. The glass hangs off my desk by 3/8ths of an inch, because I’m too lazy or incapable of cutting off that extra glass.

I hesitate to begin work on my piano, because I don’t know what I’m doing, and I don’t want to half-ass it. I don’t want to just sand it down and put on a new coat of varnish. I don’t want to replace the missing board with a 2×4 and call it good– to disregard the missing wheels and use a book instead. But I’m afraid that’s what I’ll do. It’ll be functional, but not something I can be proud of. Part of it is that I don’t know what I’m doing. I’ve never done wood-work before, and I don’t have a mentor– someone who has, who knows what to do. Part of it is that I’m just a half-ass-er. I look at my capabilities, most people’s expectations, and the work required to obtain each. Then I take the lesser road. The easier road. The road that just slightly exceeds people’s exceptions, while falling far short of my potential. My potential for greatness. My potential to surround myself with quality, quality of my own crafting, from my own hand.

I do it over and over again. I get A’s and B’s in my classes– because I’m capable of A’s, but my parents are going to be pleased with B’s. So I slightly exceed the bare minimum. And then I’m exceptional. But I’m not.