Your brain is an asshole.

I'm supposed to be slightly vertically inverted right now, sporting blue shades like a three dollar Bono. My mouth pried open, completely numb, with fingers and tools occupying what little space is available because the hinge of the human jaw has its limitations. But I'm off the hook, for now, because I have an active gag reflex that makes such procedures impossible. I was fine all day, but as soon as t-minus one hour, guess whose anxiety started flipping the gag reflex switch. So that's fun. A generous reminder of high school days, when just about everything tripped my anxiety, which turned into violent coughing followed by violent choking and tears streaming down my face.

I called an audible and we're going to reschedule. The dentist remarked that salt usually does the trick but doesn't think that's going to help my condition. To which I replied, "come again?" Turns out that when patients go into reflex, the dentist sprinkles salt on the tongue, which calms it down. Which makes me wonder if tongues and snails share DNA. I suggested that next time I could take a few bong hits in the car before I come in. The remark was met with both laughter and scientific curiosity. "I'm sure that would do it," she replied. I could wear my Pendleton "The Dude" sweater for full effect, but I don't think the cops would give me any brownie points for cosplay.

At some point I'll have to face this old demon again. The doctor thinks more time will help, but I know it's nothing twenty milligrams of Snoop Dogg's Snazzle O's can't fix.

It's weird how often our own brain gets in the way. Irritating, really. This morning I bumped into a different version of the same problem during a session at the School of the Possible. A friend shared they're having difficulty getting past thinking and into making. They're exploring, but after spending too much time, they get dragged down into specifics about the space. The language, conveying her vision, which morphs into imposter syndrome held down by rules and constraints she's lived in up until now. Brains on too much anxiety are the worst assholes.

Anyway, the conversation made me think immediately about Austin Kleon’s new book, Don’t Call It Art: 10 Ways To Create Like A Kid Again. The book is a gift for anyone who wants to explore with permission not to give two fucks about the world’s constaints and drown out your own jerk brain. Like all of Austin’s books, the gold is just a few pages in…

Trying to make art is the easiest way to keep yourself from actually making art. When you’re trying to make art, your head is full of all kinds of instructions about what is and isn’t art and what you should and shouldn’t do. But if you don’t call it art, you take all the pressure off. Now you can just make stuff.

If you’re not worried about making art, then you don’t have to worry about any art critics. Little kids don’t have a critic in their heads until we put one there. Once an inner critic takes up residence, we say all kinds of horrible things to ourselves that we would never say to others. Our inner art critic asks us who we think we are, what we think we’re doing, where we get the nerve, why we even bother, when we are going to get serious and get a real job, how we expect to make a living, when we are going to do something original, and why we expect anyone to ever care about this absolute crap we are producing.

Austin's muse is art, but his perspectives apply to other forms of making. Dennis DeSantis covers similar ground in Making Music: 74 Creative Strategies for Electronic Music Producers, which lays out a step-by-step process for exploration through making — Problems for Beginning, Progressing, and Finishing. All you have to do is translate the music cues into the language of the work that inspires you.

The permission not to give a fuck about what we thought was so important yesterday can be hard to accept. It took me three years of wandering the desert — doors closed, friends unmasked, ghosts busted — to build new criteria of acceptance and embrace it like my life depended on it.

Make like no one cares because you don't care what they think anymore. Do this enough and confidence shows up. So do the opportunities. More importantly, you'll be making instead of secretly worrying. And if you need a worst-case scenario to help you get past your own shit, then consider this: you could always be wearing cheap blue-tinted wraparounds looking like welfare Bono, dry-heaving uncontrollably, upside down under a spotlight.