Earsdropping: on Earsdropping

Well folks, Earsdropping is one year old today. Every week, Earregardless of holiday or hang-ups, I powered through to present to you something that you didn’t ask for. I drafted essays through my belated honeymoon (it’s convenient to travel with your editor — I love you, Sylvia) on tiny tray tables in trains and planes across France and Spain (like a Fair Lady). I drafted them in a literal dogpile while visiting my parents’ house. I drafted them tree-side during a Canadian white Christmas. I drafted them all up, down, and around my room (eat your heart out, Seuss). I had late Thursday nights to make sure that they would be ready every Friday morning. My voice croaked as I rerecorded the agonizing and arduous alliterations that aggravated me. Who did I do this for? Did my rigid routine rely on honoring the kind patronage of my dedicated readers? (Thank you Mom, Ron, Sylvia, Aaron, Uri, and Jeremy). Or was it mere momentum that kept me producing?

I have a habit of not easily letting go of ritual, whether it is the annual cutting of my hair and beard to mark the end of the academic year or this weekly essay writing. Regardless of how I feel in a moment about preserving a ritual as my dedication to it ebbs and flows, I have felt numerous times this incessant need to keep going. We are told to never give up, no matter what, especially when it comes to hard routines that on the surface appear healthy and self-affirming. That tenacity is rewarded, regardless of whether the practice itself is truly rewarding. Rituals ground us in the present and make us aware enough to reflect and grow. Ritual has guided me through strolls in the park equipped with only a pen, notebook, and open ears and mind. Ritual has invited me to remember stories about music, holidays, and yearning to fit in. Ritual has encouraged me to allow time and distance to process and see connections, to understand a little bit more about who I am and what shapes me. But when ritual starts to feel like an obligation rather than an opportunity — it is no longer mine — it’s a woman on the phone walking her two dogs with burrito in hand.

Our culture condones hustle as it craves constant content. Knowing this, with the right strategies, it is possible to stand out from the cacophonic crowd of voices hoping to be heard. Even with the best efforts, it is equally possible to be buried in the blur of current conversations. When frequency and visibility come first, art starts to feel like tar, an anagram of itself, as it oozes like stinky sludge that quickly covers the creative landscape in an indistinct and opaque mass. It becomes inorganic as it focuses on setting a foundation that can be monetized as artists try to live in a world that has its costs. Creativity becomes an obligated business. I’ve learned this time and time again as an author, that the allotment to the craft of creation is scarce and the lion’s share is on the logistics of illuminating work. When the efforts are done in an equitable environment, giving the needed time to each part of the process, this can be the practicality needed to prop it up. But more often than not, business gets all up in it.

So, can artistic endeavors be successful in a world that is expectant and predictive rather than attuned to the natural rhythms of creative engagement?

I don’t really know. It doesn’t feel sustainable.

Art is a feeling, an experience, and an act of sharing. When it’s no longer in service of you, no longer for me, but just because, it’s time to say goodbye. I say this as a tired writer who has put in more than a college-try during this year of essays. I’ll keep my ears open but I’m dropping the rest.

Yours in deep relief,

Bryan