The Write Stuff
This has been an interesting year. In some ways, it has been the worst year within memory that did not involve the death of close family members. In others it has been surprisingly positive. But what has really struck me about it is that, for all intents and purposes, I have been voiceless for a full 12-month.
This has been unsettling to me/for me, on a number of levels. First, it’s been puzzling, because for the entirety of my adult working life, I have written, in some form or other, for my daily bread. Sometimes I have written wonderful things and sometimes I have written solid uninspiring text, but I have always written. For the past year I have, indeed, continued to write, but have written “by the book”; nothing but words, marching small and cold upon the page in tidy lines-of thought and expression-that have nothing at all to do with me.
This is bad enough. But worse, still, is that I haven’t really cared, other than in a sort of mildly detached and disinterested way. “Good lord, how dry,” I think to myself. “Hmm, ‘malaise,’ would have been a better word,” I muse… But in terms of feeling compelled, as I always have, to sit and build pages of equal parts brickwork and fancy…I have been unable muster much beyond the realization that something-everything-is missing.
Strangely, and believe me, the irony is not lost on me, during this period, I wrote and had published, a book, which just hit the market on Monday, as a matter of fact. Actually, was on a team of writers; the opportunity presented itself, and I certainly had enough of my lizard brain firing to carpe that diem, but still. I’m not particularly happy about my contributions, in spite of the fact that I have been praised for them. All that means is that, after so many years, I do, in fact, know how to lay bricks. But I know, *I* know, I could have done better. This was an exercise, nothing more. The EH doesn’t understand my lack of enthusiasm for the thing-he is very proud of me, and wants me to be proud, too. In spite of the fact that I have always wanted to have a book to my name, I cannot rouse anything more than the most basic sense of accomplishment: Book = finished, and that is a real shame.
I guess the bottom line is that I have felt hunkered and bunkered for a year-slaving at reduced wages, grinding out product to keep everything in the pipeline so that I can pay the mortgage, pay the gas, feed the cats. I’ve always bandied about the expression “soul crushing,” to describe various things I have done. I believe that, until now, it was simple hyperbole. I do feel as though my soul has been twisted dry, like a dishcloth. It’s not that the work is harder, because it isn’t. It’s not that there is more of it-I have carried similar oversized loads before. I think it’s that I cannot seem to care about it, beyond the most basic of equations: Work = Pay = life with a small “l.” And maybe it’s the small “l” that is the root of the problem. A genuine recession-driven mid-life crisis.
I know I am one of the fortunate ones. I have an income, I am getting by, and with less sacrifice than one might imagine, in spite of the fact that my actual income remains reduced from what it was a year ago. But somehow, I can’t seem to muster any gratitude, which makes me feel guilty. There but for the grace of G*d go I, f*ck you very much.
Last night at the gym, I bashed my left shin doing something incredibly stupid on one of the little steel 4-legged lifting stools. In the way of those sorts of things, it hit precisely the same spot that, decades ago, at the age of 13, I smashed onto a bleacher running steps in junior high school P.E. class. The bone never actually healed, and to this day, I have a soft spot that is tender to the touch. In any case, when the steel stool flipped into my shin, it hurt so much that I thought I was going to throw up; I couldn’t speak for a full two minutes. The EH insisted that we head home immediately and get some ice on it.
As we drove home, I couldn’t help but notice that in the past three months, I have caused more physical harm to my feet and legs, at any other time that I can remember. In April, I backed a home office chair-with me in it-over my right foot, which resulted in a hairline fracture. In June, I went to a dance symposium, injured my knees the first day dancing on what was, unbeknownst to me, concrete, and then danced for four more days until I could hardly crawl. This bit of lunacy resulted in a raging case of bursitis/tendonitis/meniscusitis that, only now, has progressed to the point that I can wear shoes other than trainers. I never EVER wear trainers other than to exercise.
And now my shin.
This has to mean something (other than, or perhaps in addition to, the fact that I need to be more careful): Once is an accident, twice is stupidity and thrice a pattern. And so I mused aloud, as a rubbed my shin in an attempt to mitigate the size/intensity of the bruising.
The EH, who has a knack for dream decoding, channeled his best Joseph Campbell and said: “It seems to me that something is hobbling your attempts to move to wherever you want to be. Maybe it’s you.” And in spite of the fact that I am low on introspection with a high personal suspicion of the “woo-woo,” wherever and however it might manifest, this particular observation had an uncomfortable scent of truth to it.
I thought about it last night, as I watched my shin bloom in a purple-blue as deep as space. I thought about it this morning, as I drank my coffee and even as I washed the dishes. And then, for the first time in more than a year, I sat down and just wrote. Only this entry, it’s true, but still…
And while I still don’t quite feel like me, it seems that there is something of me in here somewhere, dancing on the tip of my brain.
This has been unsettling to me/for me, on a number of levels. First, it’s been puzzling, because for the entirety of my adult working life, I have written, in some form or other, for my daily bread. Sometimes I have written wonderful things and sometimes I have written solid uninspiring text, but I have always written. For the past year I have, indeed, continued to write, but have written “by the book”; nothing but words, marching small and cold upon the page in tidy lines-of thought and expression-that have nothing at all to do with me.
This is bad enough. But worse, still, is that I haven’t really cared, other than in a sort of mildly detached and disinterested way. “Good lord, how dry,” I think to myself. “Hmm, ‘malaise,’ would have been a better word,” I muse… But in terms of feeling compelled, as I always have, to sit and build pages of equal parts brickwork and fancy…I have been unable muster much beyond the realization that something-everything-is missing.
Strangely, and believe me, the irony is not lost on me, during this period, I wrote and had published, a book, which just hit the market on Monday, as a matter of fact. Actually, was on a team of writers; the opportunity presented itself, and I certainly had enough of my lizard brain firing to carpe that diem, but still. I’m not particularly happy about my contributions, in spite of the fact that I have been praised for them. All that means is that, after so many years, I do, in fact, know how to lay bricks. But I know, *I* know, I could have done better. This was an exercise, nothing more. The EH doesn’t understand my lack of enthusiasm for the thing-he is very proud of me, and wants me to be proud, too. In spite of the fact that I have always wanted to have a book to my name, I cannot rouse anything more than the most basic sense of accomplishment: Book = finished, and that is a real shame.
I guess the bottom line is that I have felt hunkered and bunkered for a year-slaving at reduced wages, grinding out product to keep everything in the pipeline so that I can pay the mortgage, pay the gas, feed the cats. I’ve always bandied about the expression “soul crushing,” to describe various things I have done. I believe that, until now, it was simple hyperbole. I do feel as though my soul has been twisted dry, like a dishcloth. It’s not that the work is harder, because it isn’t. It’s not that there is more of it-I have carried similar oversized loads before. I think it’s that I cannot seem to care about it, beyond the most basic of equations: Work = Pay = life with a small “l.” And maybe it’s the small “l” that is the root of the problem. A genuine recession-driven mid-life crisis.
I know I am one of the fortunate ones. I have an income, I am getting by, and with less sacrifice than one might imagine, in spite of the fact that my actual income remains reduced from what it was a year ago. But somehow, I can’t seem to muster any gratitude, which makes me feel guilty. There but for the grace of G*d go I, f*ck you very much.
Last night at the gym, I bashed my left shin doing something incredibly stupid on one of the little steel 4-legged lifting stools. In the way of those sorts of things, it hit precisely the same spot that, decades ago, at the age of 13, I smashed onto a bleacher running steps in junior high school P.E. class. The bone never actually healed, and to this day, I have a soft spot that is tender to the touch. In any case, when the steel stool flipped into my shin, it hurt so much that I thought I was going to throw up; I couldn’t speak for a full two minutes. The EH insisted that we head home immediately and get some ice on it.
As we drove home, I couldn’t help but notice that in the past three months, I have caused more physical harm to my feet and legs, at any other time that I can remember. In April, I backed a home office chair-with me in it-over my right foot, which resulted in a hairline fracture. In June, I went to a dance symposium, injured my knees the first day dancing on what was, unbeknownst to me, concrete, and then danced for four more days until I could hardly crawl. This bit of lunacy resulted in a raging case of bursitis/tendonitis/meniscusitis that, only now, has progressed to the point that I can wear shoes other than trainers. I never EVER wear trainers other than to exercise.
And now my shin.
This has to mean something (other than, or perhaps in addition to, the fact that I need to be more careful): Once is an accident, twice is stupidity and thrice a pattern. And so I mused aloud, as a rubbed my shin in an attempt to mitigate the size/intensity of the bruising.
The EH, who has a knack for dream decoding, channeled his best Joseph Campbell and said: “It seems to me that something is hobbling your attempts to move to wherever you want to be. Maybe it’s you.” And in spite of the fact that I am low on introspection with a high personal suspicion of the “woo-woo,” wherever and however it might manifest, this particular observation had an uncomfortable scent of truth to it.
I thought about it last night, as I watched my shin bloom in a purple-blue as deep as space. I thought about it this morning, as I drank my coffee and even as I washed the dishes. And then, for the first time in more than a year, I sat down and just wrote. Only this entry, it’s true, but still…
And while I still don’t quite feel like me, it seems that there is something of me in here somewhere, dancing on the tip of my brain.