Yep, I understand my webby mental soup of language and emotion often finds voice in literature. It was slightly disorienting to be on my first honeymoon (I’ve had just two so far.) and realise I’d made the first major mistake of my adult life. Many of the other tragedies were not of my doing. A sister’s suicide. Father’s protracted alcoholic death and brain cancer. A blood imbalance that gives me higher highs than most and occasionally debilitating lows.
Black. Death. End of line.
I was reading Journey to the End of the Night and finding morbid humor about my miserable cruise through Greece. Of all the times to be reading a nihilist. I chuckled aloud, whistling by the graveyard as it were. I could not see it or taste it yet, but the panic of my bad marrage was already setting off alarm bells. Evasive action, flight, fight, and freeze all in concert with my dark thoughts and Celine’s eloquent “chorus” of misery. We were joined together in this journey, it seemed, into the first disaster of my young life.
Today, I walked my daughter’s dog, Lenny, brought her some soup and ice cream, and admired my current position and angle on the planet. I’m good. I’m pointed at the stars. I’m feeling the pressure and responding with doubling my efforts, AND, just as importantly, learning to chill out. I can’t force my company to move me up to the corporate marketing role. I can’t expect my livelihood to be provided by a job, a lover, or a lottery ticket.
I can continue to happy buddha dance for the time being. Put careful weight to each major creative stroke of genius I’m percolating. I am not paralyzed by opportunity. I’m starved for time and resources.
Today, sleep and health. Go slowly. Don’t try and convince anyone. Just live large and loving you. Live it. Love all around you. And breathe in the gift of this moment.
Nothing is in pain. I am hungry but not starved. I can even satisfy physical cravings. Alone.
Alone is such a stark word. It used to stand for breakups, disaster, depression. I’m reframing the idea of being alone.
There are many things I really can only do alone. Write. Arrange music. Paint. With a partner, the compromises in the past have been compromising not catalyzing. I think the current job/money stress keeps the focus high for me during my off days.
Rest. Repair. Create. Heal. Get ready for the next shift in mind and body.
I am idling a bit. Letting many of the “new Director of Marketing job” announcements. Once more, I’m leaning in to the writing, the creative surge, the consistency of craftwork. The value of my alone time could not be higher. A partner would be like another full-time job. I can’t handle two. And the one isn’t providing enough sustenance. I must move up or continue as an entry-level fish in the ocean of a global organic food retailer.
Is there pain in the exhaustion? Yes, and… I see and experience so many ideas and gestures that would not be possible without my current job. I’d trade it for a better wage and less time shirking for the man. No mistake, I am working for the man. I am a pawn. Expendable. No one is looking out for my best interests.
In fact, I believe that since I was a young boy, I was alone in my struggle against mental explosions and epiphanies. How I could get more excited than any other kid my age about a song, a book I was trying to read, or a new artist my mom was sharing with me. She brought the visionaries to hover around us, together. David Smith, Cy Twombly, even Darby Bannard, all part of our legacy. Rufino Tamayo the most famous of my mom’s successful picks. I’m still living on some of the Tamayo money.
I am gasping for breath. My shifts hurt my body. I can entertain my soul with creative strands of thought. I can also know that this jobby-job is shortening my lifespan.
I am stretched thin. Recovering from a recent illness. Not much tennis in my previous week. A rainy Sunday afternoon. In a short walk with Lenny I sparked up new ambitions, new side projects, and new breakthrough ideas. But here’s the thing.
I have to execute on each idea ONE MOTION AT A TIME. I can’t write, read, and sing all at the same time. I try. I reach to blend some form of jazz with the pacing and cadence of my language. Riff. Roll. Go on even when no one is listening.
“It’s sooooo good!”
I say it to myself these days. I know it’s good. I have a confidence that these words are special. The result of years of training, studying, and expression exercises. I am in the habit of reaching for a word or a sound when dealing with any emotional drama. I write. I play music. Craft lyrics.
I cope with my own creative output. This here. This. Is. Healing.
Celine is funny about his disastrous life. His words, even translated from French to English, maintain a flourish of poet’s prose.
A word as important as the sentence. A word. A feeling. An attempt at orienting and reorienting myself in this difficult period. Am I transformed by my mindfulness practices, or is it merely a temporary coping mechanism? AI asked me that question. I’m going to have to give it more thought. Am I happy? Or am I resigned to this level of happiness?
