The Track, The Rut, The Path


Things we do tonight:

Pack the bag for tomorrow – this will mean that there probably won’t be a post tomorrow now that I think of it.  I do want to get up early enough to hit the library to print my resume, just in case.

None of that is of particular importance to me right now.

I am looking back at tweets and posts and thoughts from two years ago, digging into the massive digital archive I have of my emotional wellbeing or lack thereof, and realizing that it was precisely two years ago that I gave my notice.  That it was precisely three years ago I started the writers group (which, despite my hiatus, is carrying on in my absence, which I love because that means I can bring a fabulous draft back to them when I am ready and present and attentive).  That it was about this time four years ago when the driving panic really set in.

There’s a moving forward and a pulling back and I don’t know what it all means, but I know, know, know, know that I need stability so that I can work on myself and never be consumed by my job again.  So that if there’s a Mumford show, it can’t sneak up on me and I have thoughts about whether or not I’m capable of enjoying it.  Whether or not I’m capable of experiencing it with anything other than this hairshirt distracting me from the joy that is my reality.

I am wildly frustrated at my boss.  She’s so wigged out about everything that she’s at the fully checked out stage.  Nothing is working so there’s just goofy ideas about cat cafes and…Nothing and I  find myself unable to carry the spear that will pop her and bring her down to earth.   There’s just constant bad news, we have to move from the massive, free-rent office space we have, and the few co-workers that remain are exhausted by this drama and being let down day after day.  It’s just not acceptable.  It’s daily regression.  It’s not fair after everything I’ve given up to see it work.

Here’s the trajectory I want.  New job, potentially at the place I am visiting tomorrow, though, it’s just talk.  The thing about whatever new job is that it will be steady, regular work for regular pay. This means I get my weekends back.  Evening and weekends, that’s time for writing.  Getting your hair cut on a regular basis, starting this whole exercise routine that improve my disposition.   Put this story to bed, start writing articles, doing little things that build my capacity to write fiction on a daily basis.  Really dig into my projects and eventually, eventually, write full-time at home.  Do that whilst being in mad love with someone.

That’s the glory I want, I am gunning for, I deserve without changing a hair on my stressed-out head.

And now, Sleepytime tea, no computer glare to wake me up, a good try at catching Queen Mab as she sails.