What's bigger: Kong or my guilt?

So:

There’s one night every year that families actually spend together - out of traditional obligation and the perverse joy of snickering with your siblings as Aunty Gail weeps those annual ‘I hate being alone’ crocodile tears in the corner. Chestnuts roasting, eggnog flowing, and the scaly, liver-spotted hands of your great uncle lingering on your thigh for just a little too long …

Ah, the holidays.

Not to be outdone by Chrismukah (or whatever pathetic hybrid those ‘let’s make sure we don’t offend anyone’ assholes are using), I participated in an age-old tradition of my own - one equally as commercial. I went to see an X-mas eve blockbuster: KONG. (Note: Peter Jackson is campaigning to ensure the word itself is furthermore prohibited from being written without caps - true story, my cousin’s best friend’s neighbour totally heard it from this guy at her gym…)

So, there I was, packed in tight with my Jewish, Asian, and Muslim friends (I tallied heads, and we were the demo for the evening - stay tuned for next year’s holiday blockbuster, “Mordechai Chang’s Koraneriffic Peace-Time Jamboree). We laughed, cried, ate overpriced concessions, and left four hours later slightly groggy, with some type of contracted airborne virus all but a given.

Returning home, I immediately set forth to compile evidence for my “the performances were NOT good, no matter how much you think Jack Black showed his ‘range’ ” argument. Three hours and a half-box of chocolate cookies later, an epiphany. Nothing new, just much more pronounced and exaggerated (like when the friend you always knew was gay comes out of the closet and embraces his new lifestyle):

Guilt. I must be producing products, writing writing writing - NOW.

While I acknowledge that segueing from Kong to my own internal conflict is loose and convenient (at best), this is in fact the true chronology of the situation. There's probably a parallel I can make between the big, imposing man-monkey and the inner beast (of the pen) trying to break out from inside me, but I'm not going to stretch just for the sake of clarity.

Why am I guilty? Not really sure, but I think it has something to do with the whole ‘future is completely uncertain and I’m terrified that ten years from now I’ll be bragging about my glory days at the CFC while refilling coffees at a roadside diner in Orillia’. I feel this overwhelming pressure to produce RIGHT NOW. I am tremendously guilty if I don’t spend all of my day writing. Does this make me a real writer? Or is it just my Jewish guilt popping up to say hello over the holidays? Whatever the answer, the fallout from leaving the CFC is awkward and immediate. Suddenly, all this free time. Nowhere to be? No need to set an alarm. Before you know it, it’s just after noon and you awake to Harold Hussein promising ‘winter wonderland’ - code for nasty fucking snowfall - and you determine it’s really just best to stay in bed. Needless to say, it's remarkably pathetic.

So, how do I respond to this guilt, this pressure? With vicious procrastination, of course. The more I feel like I have to do something, the harder I find it is to actually start. Now, I think there’s a valid argument to make regarding the need to recharge after an intense 5 ½ months of (to borrow a retired term) ‘boot camp’. Another argument that I think holds water is the ‘you can’t force words to the page’ angle. Between the two of these, I’ve managed not to hate myself fully for taking a vacation. I’m curious: If anyone reading this (first off, thank you) has come out of the CFC, did you have this ticking clock in your head the minute you walked out that door?


Postscript: I even miss the Klymkiws. Walking south on Bayview and getting sprayed by sludge as someone’s trophy wife drives past in her BMW. Eating full meals from a vending machine - I enjoyed the challenge of satisfying all the major food groups on four loonies and an apple.