Time Marches
I didn't sleep at all last night. No I'm not quoting that old Rock'n'Roll song. Now, I can barely stay awake. But I'm compelled to keep my eyes open. I have a duty to perform and perform it I shall today. At least that's the general idea. Otherwise, I'm on mental health leave this weekend. Yeah, I know that's a joke. All joking aside, there's a lot of stuff I'm needing to process and staying constantly busy doing a variety of things without getting a chance to breathe won't allow me to do that. Most usually when I say "I love my job... I love it I love it," I mean it. Right now, there's not a thing in this world I can honestly say I love.
I am in a dark place and I'm trying to salvage what I can by withdrawing. I tend to self-destruct when in this frame of mind. I burn bridges. I burn everything. Later, sometimes, I regret my actions. I know enough about myself to know when it's wise to lay low before I just raze everything to the ground.
I remember once, when I was a kid living in the A-frame chalet in Black Mountain, I felt the Bleakness on my soul and I decided to cheer myself up by throwing my balsa wood airplane from the second floor loft and watching it circle slowly to the floor below. I saw where I was doing no wrong; however, Granny expressed displeasure at this activity. Instead of just stopping, I went to the most remote are of the chalet and proceeded to transform my airplane into toothpicks. I couldn't go outside and fly it because the neighbourhood was not the best in the world. I couldn't fly it indoors. What was the point in having it. And, even as it broke my heart to watch my plane reduced to tiny pile of shredded wood, I could not stop myself from destroying it. Why keep it? It was of no use to me and I obviously could not let it be what it needed to be: an airplane. The only logical course of action was to get rid of it.
Throughout my life, I've transformed various figurative balsa wood airplanes into smouldering piles of toothpicks. I've almost always regretted it later, but it never stops me from going there when I become of a mind. What usually triggers it is the feeling of uselessness or hopelessness. If the plane can't fly, just ground it....permanently. Right now, that airplane is me. I don't see where I serve any viable purpose anywhere. I'm frustrated on the publishing front and wonder why I even bother to continue seeking out an agent. One of my literary heroes, Russell Hoban, whose heavenly written voice is sadly barely known in his country of origin, had to leave the US and move to England in order to ever have a hope of a writing career. I have no such option.
The more I observe the ebb and flow of current events, the more it seems obvious to me that I'll always be here in South Carolina, surrounded by people who view me as an aberration, a freak of nature. And, what's so desperately depressing about this is, I know there are people out there of like mind, people who share with me an uncanny world view, and I will never have the opportunity to enjoy any level of friendship with these people. I seem destined to live out my days alone and misunderstood in one of the worst possible places on the planet for someone like myself.
What I have to do is come to grips with this fact of life without destroying the few balsa wood airplanes I've been lucky enough to borrow. There's nothing that I own but a handful of characters no one cares to read. And everything else is so unimportant as to go completely unnoticed at worst, or held in vague disregard at best. I'm weary of the same story playing itself out in my life as time marches on. I'm beginning to wonder if there's a lesson to be learnt from the repetition at all or if it's just some cosmic joke whose punchline is utterly lost on me.
And people wonder why it is I get excited about 12/21/2012.
I am in a dark place and I'm trying to salvage what I can by withdrawing. I tend to self-destruct when in this frame of mind. I burn bridges. I burn everything. Later, sometimes, I regret my actions. I know enough about myself to know when it's wise to lay low before I just raze everything to the ground.
I remember once, when I was a kid living in the A-frame chalet in Black Mountain, I felt the Bleakness on my soul and I decided to cheer myself up by throwing my balsa wood airplane from the second floor loft and watching it circle slowly to the floor below. I saw where I was doing no wrong; however, Granny expressed displeasure at this activity. Instead of just stopping, I went to the most remote are of the chalet and proceeded to transform my airplane into toothpicks. I couldn't go outside and fly it because the neighbourhood was not the best in the world. I couldn't fly it indoors. What was the point in having it. And, even as it broke my heart to watch my plane reduced to tiny pile of shredded wood, I could not stop myself from destroying it. Why keep it? It was of no use to me and I obviously could not let it be what it needed to be: an airplane. The only logical course of action was to get rid of it.
Throughout my life, I've transformed various figurative balsa wood airplanes into smouldering piles of toothpicks. I've almost always regretted it later, but it never stops me from going there when I become of a mind. What usually triggers it is the feeling of uselessness or hopelessness. If the plane can't fly, just ground it....permanently. Right now, that airplane is me. I don't see where I serve any viable purpose anywhere. I'm frustrated on the publishing front and wonder why I even bother to continue seeking out an agent. One of my literary heroes, Russell Hoban, whose heavenly written voice is sadly barely known in his country of origin, had to leave the US and move to England in order to ever have a hope of a writing career. I have no such option.
The more I observe the ebb and flow of current events, the more it seems obvious to me that I'll always be here in South Carolina, surrounded by people who view me as an aberration, a freak of nature. And, what's so desperately depressing about this is, I know there are people out there of like mind, people who share with me an uncanny world view, and I will never have the opportunity to enjoy any level of friendship with these people. I seem destined to live out my days alone and misunderstood in one of the worst possible places on the planet for someone like myself.
What I have to do is come to grips with this fact of life without destroying the few balsa wood airplanes I've been lucky enough to borrow. There's nothing that I own but a handful of characters no one cares to read. And everything else is so unimportant as to go completely unnoticed at worst, or held in vague disregard at best. I'm weary of the same story playing itself out in my life as time marches on. I'm beginning to wonder if there's a lesson to be learnt from the repetition at all or if it's just some cosmic joke whose punchline is utterly lost on me.
And people wonder why it is I get excited about 12/21/2012.