Listen to ESC_KEY Notes Discussion: Silence, Cunning, and Exile
“Silence, Cunning, and Exile” – Steven Deadalus
– Portrait of the Artist – James Joyce
The quarry has been flushed from the bushes. Our little brush-up a few days ago, where I snapped at my son for mubbling and asking questions or trying to carry on conversations from other rooms of the house.
“What the fuck are you talking about? I don’t want your bed desk, thanks. You’ve got to quit asking questions and trying to talk to me from down the hall.”
“Sorry.”
He retreated to his room.
Five minutes later, I knocked on his locked door.
“I am sorry I blew up.”
“Yeah, seemed out of proportion.”
“You mumble. I can’t tell if you’re talking to yourself most of the time or trying to carry on a conversation with me. I can’t take it. If you want to talk to me, at least come to the same room.”
“Yeah, okay.”
“Again, I’m sorry. I apologize for yelling.”
“I’ll be okay.”
“I’m leaving for work in 25 minutes.”
And that evening he packed his car for an hour and left. I texted him two days ago. “Where are you sleeping?”
He’s gone back to “the apartment.” He and his ex-girlfriend have a few more days before extradition. “I’m going to stay here until MVP on the 16th.” MVP, being a minimum viable product. He’s working on the snack influencer application.
“If you need a monkey testing QA helper, I’m open. Good luck.”
Yesterday we exchanged a few texts about cars and music. I’m releasing him back into his own bullshit. Taking the wait-and-see approach. No need to escalate. His mom’s husband did not call me back. As normal, I’m on my own. I guess he is on his own as well. I’m pulling back my loving arms. He is 25 and needs the struggle. So, he’s creating chaos for himself. I’m not going to the bonfire. Well, 25 in five days. His healthcare from his mom’s policy will come to an end. He’s not aware of the hardships he is causing.
I’m going to choose silence for my part. I’ve done enough. Maybe too much. I’m going to keep my focus on the only part of the relationship I can manage. I am remaining in my swim lane. Not pushing my agenda. Not even giving too much attention to his crisis of work, love, and shelter. But my intentions are more subtle. Like me, he needs something to push against. I’m going to let it be himself and not me.
I’m guessing he’s wandering around mumbling in the apartment. He complains about his ex-girlfriend and says he’s sleeping on the couch. I offered him my entire office. Also, offering to leave him alone. So he stays up all night and nods off during the day. I can no longer be his nag. I withdraw my energy and return my attention to myself. I have struggles.
In a few days I’m interviewing with the Texas Medical Association for a marketing job. Three days in the office. The irony is almost too much. My grandfather, T. J. McElhenney, and my father T. R. McElhenney, were both members. I think we sold my father’s building, the place where he shared a pediatric practice with his dad, to the TMA. I will keep my focus on the task at hand, leave the historical hysterics to myself.
He is creating his own experience of exile. No home. No safe place. No rest.
We all create our own drama and chaos. Most of us do exactly what we want to do. The world often curbs our enthusiasm and drive. Some of us get stronger and more determined. Many more simply give up their dreams. I have aspirations as a musician, singer, lover, dad, bread breadwinner. I am letting go of my expectations and entitlement. I am putting in the hard work. Learning to be quiet more often. Less talk gives me energy for more writing. I want to express myself. I’m channeling that drive into writing. You can read all about it.
I am in a self-imposed exile of sorts, as well. My time outside of my 40-hour-a-week standing job is sacred. I am not giving an audience to unidentified callers. Girls. Drama. Unhealthy behaviors. I’ve worked out a rhythm. I wake up early. Tap into any morning page momentum generated overnight. I mumble in my own head with a chapter title or phrase. Spinning it around in my mind until something finds purchase. A glimmer.
Then, I follow that energy.
My current life revolves around my creative process and my job. In between, I have sleep, exercise, food, pleasure. I have my own company and my own faults to bear. I can separate from my son, give him the slack he seems to require. I am not willing to be trampled by his deadlines and breakups. The cliff approaches swiftly. He causes drama by not doing the things he needs to do. While he was here at my house, saying he needed to work on his project, he went out at 2 am and wasn’t sleeping at all. I can hear him all hours of the night, fiddling in his room, smoking cigarettes on the screen porch, and driving the cats nuts.
A new furry animal to calculate and measure. They were roused by the sound of doors opening or closing. “It’s their house.” I did not say that to my son. He tolerated Sid nesting in his room when he left the door open. Now, I have the quiet of the morning for writing, the calm of the night for sleep, and a choice to stay above the fray.
It’s not easy being a young man in this moment. Was it easy when I was his age? No. This precipice, college graduation to full-time work for “the man,” is terrifying. I understand that. I had the same rebellion. Tried the same dumb tricks. Attempted to reach escape velocity with a number of creative business ventures. It is hard to be young and at sea.
I am responsible for my actions and words. I can focus on my own work or obsess over the safety and well-being of my kids. I have work, low-wage for now, and I have my creative work. My laser focus is on the creative production and publishing the first novel. Yesterday, before a noon to eight-thirty shift, I sent out three publishing packages to literary agents. It is a similar energy to sending out job applications in this time of hardship for the country. Mostly, I’m going to get no response. Occasionally, a blip. And on Thursday, an opportunity to pitch myself for the job. I want to pitch myself as a writer, too, but that time is on the horizon.
I’m eliminating my own distractions from the plan. Music projects need to remain paused. Woman hunting, partner hunting, is no longer part of the immediate mission. Work provides the parade of lovelies. Fat chance a cashier is going to be attractive to the pilates-at-noon crowd. It is this focus, stripping away of distractions, that is propelling me onward. Even getting out the publishing packages was a lift. Like putting in job applications for roles that look interesting. I have a little pressure, but more of the turbulence is self-inflicted. I can pull up on the controls and redouble my focus.
It’s a matter of peeling away from the things I cannot change. Things, people, projects that are not in alignment with my immediate goal can be scrapped for now.
Even that simplicity feels good. Write, sleep, work, repeat.
