Following the Holloway


It is possible that if I had my druthers, this post would be five hundred words long about sore tits.  Apologies for the language, but that’s what they are, a pair of croquet balls that wouldn’t flinch if we took a mallet to them.  I might, but these stones would be entirely unbothered.  Ah, yes, I won’t inflict that upon you.  Clue has it as just about the right time for this sort of expected suffering, even if for whatever reason, this suffering feels excessive this time around.

No, I won’t run on and on about that.  Though I could.

Instead, I might just mention that I read today about Steinbeck and his journals written alongside The Grapes of Wrath and how even he, that most highly-regarded of American authors struggled to bring himself to the mat of creative endeavor.  To be good enough to harness his intent and bring it forth in literary form.  To know what might be and what could be and to fight against all of that self-doubt to generate the pages necessary to discover the proof.

So, I do find myself going back and forth as to the necessity of this blog.  I want to use this time, this project and blog, in some way that benefits me tangibly and maybe that’s asking far too much.  It’s just this undressed meat on the slab.  It’s just days upon days upon days of talk, so much to be sluiced out for what might be gold – fool’s or not.

I have all of this material, I have all these stories in various stages of completion, I have all of this intention and goodwill that’s been frittered away.  And I have this question.  What do you want to do with your life?

I want to write.  But there is a map between here and there that is something other than just putting words down.  I am putting words down.  I need to finish. I need nothing more than to finish.

As for other news, well, I feel as though the RP situation remains befuddling…in a good way, in a fine enough way, in a way that I do not need much more control over than that which I currently have.  If it isn’t tonight, maybe it will be tomorrow, if it’s not tomorrow, then maybe a few months from now, I have so many other things to worry about.

Other things such as the job where I floated the idea to my mentor of quitting the non-profit and just job searching while I took a few extra hours at the shop.  It’s not, I guess, the best idea.  It’s a dangerous one, especially when can’t know for sure that the new job will come.  If it was going to be easy, it would have already been resolved.  She is fine with me choosing whatever I choose, so is non-profit boss, but everything has its consequences.

I am trying to have some conversations that convince me to get off of dead-center. I’m trying to corral some hope.



Airport Dreams

Oh, I should give it another go and start flailing and rushing about and get everything together for  tomorrow, but I’ve come to realize that I could actually come home from work and make sense of what I’m putting into my luggage as opposed to just running down my list and making sure I have at least touched some pajamas, touched a shirt, some shoes and hoping I haven’t forgotten something critical.   That, and then I wouldn’t have to haul all my computers and this box I’m taking tomorrow and I could also, maybe, get this place in a bit of an order before I go to spend the night at my parents so my father can drive me to the park-n-ride for the shuttle (which reminds me that I do need to snag some cash for tipping and buying my excellent shuttle pass which also reminds me that I need to get my travel playlist together, oh dear oh dear how can all of this fit into one person’s head!)

Apologies for recent followers who must find this kind of perfunctory post quite galling.  But this is typically how it goes around these parts. One nice-ish post followed by a hundred posts of me talking about my  packing situations.   You are, of course, in this as in most of adult life, free to answer questions and I am free to decide if I care to answer (though I think my delight over being asked anything at all would override nearly any disturbance with regards to the content of the question itself).

I’m excited about my trip, obviously, but at the moment I’m most excited about skulking about the airport at six in the morning. Inasmuch as one can skulk with the TSA and being herded about like cattle. The sunlight does magical things under the tent of the terminal as it rises. The sleepy workers set out their prepackaged danishes and every now and then, there’s a noise and a gust and hundreds of people shoot into the sky. It’s amazing.

I get the best rushes of creativity sitting there when there is no where to go and nothing to do but wait for the time when we all get to blast off together, this collection of strangers.  So seemingly random, so seemingly disparate and disconnected, but each having this magical thought of spending the necessary time in the heavens to arrive somewhere else on earth and have what they hope will be the best experience of their lives thus far.  Or, perhaps, at the very least memorable.  It always surprises me how far our little caveman heads have thought ourselves.  Up into the firmament.   So that we can be oceans apart but we can suffer a bit of discomfort and disorientation and find ourselves together again.   And then, despite our great affection, we’ll suffer that same discomfort to escape one another again.   Life is essentially absurd.  Camus was right in that regard, at least.

One more day.  I will be pinned to the wall and snakes and flames will find my feet, but day after tomorrow, I have a date with a plane.