I
feel like such a dolt. I don't seem to be
able to have a job and keep a blog. I am
adjusting to the commute. I like to joke
that the job isn't all fun and games. It
isn't always fun but it is always games.
The work can be quite brain numbing. The
commute can be as well, despite the
fact that I'm reading a book or two a week.
I work mostly with young men and most of
the time I love them. But most of the things
about me that I think are interesting aren't
particularly interesting to them. I come
from it all feeling fairly alienated and
worn.
I'm
not miserable. I have nice days. I love
all the reading. I'm happy to be making
a little (all be it very little) money.
Deb takes me to the grocery store every
Saturday afternoon. I still swim three times
a week. Life has rhythm. It works pretty
well.
And
I still think I could be writing. I have
a bit of time in the morning though I can't
seem to believe that I do. I still leave
too early. I have less time in the evening
but I have enough to write. I sort of collapse
on Saturday and Sunday I do a variety of
chores. And the days go by. And the weeks.
And soon ... the month.
I cannot write I cannot write
when I want to, when I need to.
I mean I cannot write
what must be written
what demands to be written.
Every morning I ask myself : why?
No good, nothing, nothing, nothing.
How long will this go on?
Everyday I wake up and around me
terror earthquake murder fire killing
the newspaper the radio the television
tanks famine death war corruption bombs.
Where am I, me, I mean?
And you? Where are you?
Torn away. Displaced. Angry.
It's not that I cannot write
oh yes I can write
anything I want
but it's this one thing
this one thing I cannot write
this thing that refuses
to let itself be written
to surface out of me.
The horror in the world
the human debacle.
Reading writing speaking
my life has been but that
a life of words
a pell mell babel of words
a life full of stories
but a life anyway.
I awake here in exile
It's because of the world
because of history
because of what goes
on in the world
that concerns us
frightens us
dejects us
saddens us
the moment I jump
out of bed there is
this horror in the world
and I cannot write it...
Yeah.
So
I write the same post again and again. About
the commute and the reading and the not
enoughness. These are desperate posts that
really should just say: Don't forget me.
Keep checking in. I promise I'll write.
I will. Please don't leave me. I need to
push myself. But I push to get to work and
I push through the day and I push to get
home. I don't have much push left.
Today
I feel desperately sad. Mostly because of
some money stuff that feels beyond my ability.
I feel like ... a dolt. And I thought I
wouldn't write because I feared the tone.
Because I haven't been desperately sad all
this time. It's just a thing that's going
on.
There
was chocolate cake in the cafeteria on my
birthday.
Last
week was a week of good news, bad news, no news and
news I'm still not sure how to categorize. It gave me
a wicked case of the spins.
On
Monday I had a post forming in my head all day. When
I got home from work it was all done but the typing
and I was determined to get it down. And then the bad
news came. I could feel a hole open in the back of my
head and the post rushed out blown by the shock wave
of fear, frustration and anger. On Tuesday I tried
to pull it back but all I could get was fragments.
And
so it goes.
This
week I start working overtime three nights a week.