Maria Bamford has a mantra of sorts, and here it is: Do the work.
Three words, three syllables. An easy, orderly thing. She tells it to
herself when she wakes up in the morning, whether it’s at her bungalow
in a middle-class neighborhood on the outskirts of Los Angeles or at a
Holiday Inn in Boston or a Marriott in Bloomington, or any of the other
highway-side hotels she hits for one night before moving on. Do the work.
It’s a stay against paralysis, against the descent of dread. It’s less
dramatic than “seize the day!” more affirming than “stop overthinking
everything!” It is functional, and that’s what she’s trying to be. Do the work.
She repeats it on airplanes, in taxis, on the long walks she takes to
calm her nerves before a show. Sometimes she amends it to: Just do the work, the “just” a reminder that she’s not, after all, performing surgery on babies. There’s another, more refined version, too. Do your bits, she’ll tell herself, resigned to the idea that this may always be a struggle. Just do your bits.
- via (h/t aerialiste)
descensus Averno facilis est