Walkabout – March 27th, 2002
by Bing Futch
“A man’s got to know his limitations”
Clint Eastwood as “Dirty Harry”
If each and every one of us could accomplish what we’d like to, on any given day, how fucking great would that be? I don’t mean just simple little tasks or half-baked dreams; I’m talking about the whole taco. Said taco appears in your mind and then you proceed to make that taco from scratch, set it down upon your table and know that it’s just as you had concieved it originally.
For you, it could be a whole banquet of tacos. Dished up and out in record time. One thousand and forty-seven crispy, meat-filled, lovingly garnished tacos, even. You set the amount, did the work within the time constraints afforded you and now there they sit on platters destined for elsewhere. Success. Tastes even sweeter than those goddamned tacos.
That’s not real life though. I don’t have to tell you that.
Real life is figuring out that where an army of One is concerned, you are only capable of handling so much; so many tacos. The great chefs of the world may come up with the recipes but they still employ a staff that will aid in preparing them on a daily basis. A movie producer may get the idea for a blockbuster film, but there are writers, directors, costume designers, cast and crew to hire before the images hit any silver screen. The art of delegation is an age-old practice and only true symbiosis allows the kings and queens of relative reefs to celebrate the majesty of Life In Motion.
No man is an island. No taco is without its hidden flaws. No plan is perfect. No life is free from setbacks.
My idea was to deliver a column each week of this new year. Life had other, more important ideas. Lessons to be learned, time spent mulling over the fabric of this existence. Like the glorious ringing of a temple bell, my entire purpose was thrown into question when the scales fell from my eyes on a simply unassuming recent night. Browse through any of these archived columns and you might see clearly what I so failed to realize: regardless of any crusade, one must take the time to stop and think. One’s got to know his or her limitations. Radio shows, open mic hosting duties, the promises of aid to hundreds of struggling artists – statistically, the amount of time I’ve spent attempting to be a support to the independent creationists in the state of Florida reflects a nearly impossible schedule. A schedule that involves heavy footwork, person-to-person communication and an inordinate expanse of computer logging that steals time and energy from what used to be a pretty simple life.
I don’t mean to pat myself on the back, but I’ve worked insanely hard, non-stop, since 1997, devoting most of my resources to this very worthy cause and as a result, I have become a being of perpetual motion. Drained of energy. Lacking in the kind of self-fulfillment that cuts close to the bone and truly counts. My friends, my family, my once-fond dreams. I’ve pushed them all into a corner to assist a bunch of people that in most cases, I don’t even know. I’m not even sure how much these efforts are appreciated since I don’t get paid – and despite the fact that money is not the best form of expression, it certainly helps to demonstrate how much worth you have on a planet. A planet where a lack or abundance of moola can make all the difference in….well, the world.
To some, I suppose.
More important to me is the quality of my life. At least right now, I’m not happy with this crusade. I selfishly desire to kick back, read more books, see more movies, spend more time with those that I love and above all – do what I’m here on Earth to do. It was a conscious decision to take up the cross for creative artists across the state. It’s a subconscious urging that begs me to sit back, regroup and listen to the still small voice inside my soul. Though I ducked out of the rat race that so many people are engaged in everyday, I’ve been too involved to notice that there’s been a brutal scrambling in a mad race of my own taking place and it stops here. Finally. It stops here.
It’s vacation-time, friends. Yessiree, I’m a-goin’ on walkabout, as Crocodile Dundee might say. It could be short. It could be long.
I’ve got plenty of ideas, starting with this weekend – where I’ll head to the beach for Easter and do nothing but read a good book and soak up some healing energy from the ocean waves. After that, I’m not sure what will go on – but all scheduled events that are on my calendar until June of 2002 will take place as planned, with a few minor exceptions. This column will continue, but errantly and with no planned subject matter. If there’s one thing in this world that I’ll never discontinue, it’s writing. It’s a peek down a beheaded man’s gullet and into his most private inner workings, more forgiving than being in a band or trying to battle for favor of the entertainment constituents that vote with dollars.
My web-site will soon be pared down to almost nothing, my public appearances restricted to a trickle, my commitments shorn like unruly locks.
New plans will form on the horizon. New dreams will cross the sky.
I’m going to build my tacos one by one, that is, after working long and hard on the recipes that bring them to the table. I suspect that this will be a long, enjoyable and sometimes frustrating process. But the thought of how mind-blowing that taco will be is the reward. I do plan to embrace the art of delegation, for it’s not the ideas that I’m tired of – just the execution. Walt Disney didn’t do it all himself, why should I? The key is in letting go of the reins that I’ve clutched selfishly and passing them onto others that are able to lead the horses towards the same destinations that I’ve envisioned. Inside of my head and heart, I’ve always known that by sitting behind the wheel, I would gain some credit for winning the race. Of course, now it’s obvious to me that there’ll be more to enjoy if I get out of the car and watch a whole team of racers negotiate the course.
Living in Florida has influenced me into using NASCAR analogies. Swell.
(to be continued)