On creating instead of consuming

I just wrote my 100th post for The Ethicurean, the other blog I started with friends in May. Many of those have been news round-ups, so it's not quite as industrious as it sounds. But still. That's about 25 posts a month. And I'm tired.

The reason I started this blog, the personal one, in February was because I felt I had become too much of a consumer. And by that I don't mean shopper — I hate to shop, actually, unless it's for food or occasionally gadgets. I felt like I was spending way too much time reading books and magazines and watching TV and surfing the Internet and not nearly enough, if any, energy on creating (novel, art projects, home improvement, even cooking). So I began ranting and ruminating here, and soon enough I got the idea for the blog that I now realize combines two of my favorite subjects: food and politics.

And it's taken over my friggin' life. I feel like all I do is write write write, whether at work or for freelance or for the Ethicurean. I am not actually complaining; I have never been happier that I can remember. And yet I am starting to feel kind of drained and frazzled all the time, and like everything I do must be productive and efficient, which means few activities done for sheer pleasure.

Yesterday, however, I accidentally got my balance back in an unlikely way. I spent four hours doing yardwork. The sun was shining but not too hot, I had a good upbeat playlist on my iPod, and no crazy people bothered me as I picked up litter, weed-whacked, tied up vines, and then pruned back the insanely overgrown rose bushes, well-bloodying myself in the process. Then I made dinner — roasted-chicken salad and a tomato-bean stew — and Hüsbando and I watched "The Hustler," the black-and-white movie starring a young Paul Newman.

That last activity wasn't strictly for fun, as my book club at work has added a movie to the month's reading assignment, but it was very enjoyable. The pacing on old movies is so different than it is now, with lots more getting-to-and-from scenes and yet few drawn-out dialogue scenes. Newman was very compelling as a con man, and Piper Laurie — who I knew I recognized from somewhere but didn't come up with Twin Peaks — was transfixing as the doomed lush who loves him. And George C. Scott, who I've never seen as a young man, was perfect for the role of charming sleazeball. But when you get right down to it, I could watch Paul Newman in a silent 9-hour-long Andy Warhol film and be mesmerized. There's never been an actor as beautiful as him with as much talent, IMHO.

So today, all in all, I feel much less burdened and therefore more prolific. I hope not to let this blog languish like I have, as I like keeping record of my thought processes for inspiration and consolation later on down the line.