The Steps in Between
Between the beginning and the end comes the work.
Between the note and the song comes the throat-bobbing swell. The fizzing, bubbling, gulp that will burst to the surface of a land-locked heart. The between shifts one octave, side-steps a bar, and erases and transposes from one score to the next. Always searching, always between, seeking the oneness of pure, eye-rollback-bliss in the strike of a note. The open ear and string and bow, and between that, the delicious empty beat set on a straight-line highway between brain and devotion. And between that, the work.
There can be no melody without between.
Between the launch and the orbit comes the searing potential of the burn. The shuddering fuselage and eyes on stalks as you rocket to the unknown, your hot shell glowing with wild anticipation. Between gravity’s sweet embrace and its release, the unclipped seatbelt of wonder. What will happen next? Will we flourish and gasp in awe at our own bravery, floating our creations with untethered confidence and wide-eyed joy into the atmosphere? Will we look back toward our private planets and consider ourselves astronauts and pioneers, not faking but flying with the authentic honesty of our pursuits?
Or will we—in between—explode?
Between the yeast and the loaf comes the measuring and the mix. The weighing of choices and flavors—of the month or otherwise—and dietary considerations. In between comes the sift and the butter and the check of expiration dates, the whisk and the fold and the knead. Temperature adjustments and light touches to doughy foreheads allude to our future dreams—of pleasant aromas filling whole rooms and satiating the hunger of all in attendance. The bread may or may not end up in your ledger, but adhering to your own taste is all that matters. In between, in between, in between.
In between is the proof.
Between the scare and the scream comes the inevitable terror. The creeping up the spine of fear, cracking vertebrae as it tingles at the skin of flop. Failure wears a mask and wields a chainsaw and plucks a horrifying glissando on a haunted violin in the darkened cupboard of your childhood dream lair. Between the initial fright and the fearful expression, between the anxious pillow clutch and your face hiding behind your hand, lies the illumination of your darkness.
Courage is found peeking in between fingers.
Between the starter’s pistol and the last hurdle comes the optimal number of steps.1 Repeatable. Knowable. Unshakable. These are steps that must be made to reach the end of your event and well past the final hurdle. Between each leap will be steps. Again. The more hurdles you encounter, the harder it will be to maintain your momentum. You may have to add steps to complete this task. It may slow you down. But there is no escaping it—the steps must be taken for the hurdles to disappear behind you.
You cannot break the tape at the finish without the steps between. There are no shortcuts, and AI has no soul. And if it ever does, it will never be your soul.
Between the first sentence (which this one is not) and the last (also not this one) comes hesitation and procrastination and consulting with temperatures of rooms and current what’s hots and reviews and opinions and second guessings and throwing it all away and starting again. In between is self-doubt and giving up and jealousy and malaise and waning inspiration and demotivation and questioning everything and everyone and every thought and feeling and worth. In between your first sentence and last sentence is life.
There is no world but the one you make for yourself between that first and last. What a glorious idea. What glory is held in the power of that!
Between you and me and me and you is us. You and I and me and you and them and we and all are touching. Behold our Venn diagram of merging thought, of your loves with mine, and habits coloring to darker, stronger shades in this bright and glorious connection. We blend and meld and converge and combine and seep our lives to a sublime goo of simpatico.
We are not made weaker by the between. We are not diluted as we bleed and melt our creative and emotional fidelities together. We are united in the necessary roughness of the in-between work. The work that must be done. The distractions, the inspirations, the disappointments, the distrust in the steps, the process, and the execution. This is what lies between dreams and reality. Between insanity and calm. Between this and the next, you will always find me in between.
But let’s just keep that between ourselves.
This week’s amends…
“It’s incredibly comfortable and nice when you can look at your own work and say to yourself, “I did a good job.” And then you let it go, because anything else is going to make you crazy, and anything else, you’re going to be trying to impress people who don’t even like you. That’s the truth! You have to be very careful of letting people who not only don’t know you, but don’t understand you, don’t like you… you can’t let those people determine who you are.”- Nikki Giovanni
Via this Creative Independent Interview
On Rotation: “ Room” by Fugazi
Cake, eat you will.2
Via Neatorama
“In order to have the flexibility to switch their stride pattern during the race, 400-meter hurdlers train to become ambidextrous with their legs. The process can take years and includes dragging five-pound weights on the non-dominant leg; jumping off that leg onto a box six, 12, 18, or 24 inches off the ground; and bounding 50 meters off the weaker leg and reducing the number of bounds it takes to cover the distance as the leg grows increasingly stronger.” From this article
I actually wouldn’t. It’s just…even with gloves on, there’s too much touching. I would probably eat the cake cake part of it, once you sliced ol’ Grogu.
Another amazing piece. Dang. Need to sit with this one.