(no subject)
Good night, Hillary
When starting fresh, it is often wise to look back to earlier times in your life, before things went astray, to simpler, more peaceful moments.
Now, fresh as fresh can get, with little more than a backpack and a few small boxes accompanying me, I find myself doing just that. Returning to my childhood. So far, it’s been an awfully strange trip.
Most of formative years were spent rooming with my brother. Our beds, bunk-style that they were, meant that we were, quite literally, sleeping atop one another. This made for less than satisfactory living conditions, especially as Steve was prone to waking me up with savage kicks to the bottom of my box spring.
The walls of the lower bunk - which belonged to S - were adorned with pictures of Farrah Faucet, Cheryl Tiegs and Daisy Duke from the Dukes of Hazard. They suited his young adolescent tastes much better than my pre-teen ones.
Me? I preferred Chewbacca. My sole decorations were a sticker of the wookie and a poster of his “bucket of rust” spaceship, the Millennium Falcon.
Oftentimes, I was forced to sleep in the lower bunk. Sometimes it was a matter of mood - S’s, not mine. Other times it was a matter of health. When struggling with stomach flu, proximity to the bucket becomes paramount.
During these periods of whim and misery, I would often lay awake and stare at the only objects visible by the streetlight glow - Farrah’s hair, Daisy’s shorts - and wonder what I would be like when I was old enough to enjoy Charlie’s Angels for more than the chase scenes and gun battles. Often, I would imagine that I was a writer, and would write myself a fictional future in my insomniac state. Often I would fall asleep to the romantic notion of making it rich from the images of my imagination.
Now that I’m old enough to appreciate the natural beauty of women - now that I’m an adult starting anew - I find myself in a state of startling similarity to that of my childhood. At the age of thirty-something, I am once again rooming with my brother. And while some of the circumstances have changed - it is a condo, and I have my own room - others are disturbingly the same.
Particularly when I try to sleep. The insomnia that started sometime in childhood still clings to me, and I still finally fall to sleep with the dreams of making it in the world by means of my written word alone.
Eerily, I once again find myself in a bunk bed. S’s kids, you see, visit frequently. And Uncle Wandrlost is poaching their space. For now. For a few weeks. The top bunk, slept in by young X, is decorated with posters from last year’s hit, “The Incredibles.” Good head on that young Ian. Were I his age, the age I was when the Falcon flew across my wall, I’d have probably helped pitched the Pixar animated pic too. For the few days that I’ve been here, I’ve parked myself in the lower bunk. While health is an issue - a nasty head cold has me running for kleenex constantly - it is mostly due to the notion of having to navigate a ladder in the middle of the night. It’s not nearly as fun as in childhood.
Once again there is a female Hollywood star keeping silent vigil over my insomniac nights. Once again, she is of little interest to me. Young Y, now a tween with idols of her own, has two larger than life Hillary Duff posters bunk-side. Now, I don’t really know how old Ms. Duff may be, but I know that she is young enough for it to be improper for me to stare. Pity, for she’s a shapely young thing.
Now I lay awake wondering what it would be like to be young enough to appreciate today’s choice of pre-teen idol. Now I lay awake wondering about some of the choices I have made along the way to becoming the near-writer, the one a few steps away from the dream I had as a youth.
Now, however, I find the thoughts of writing more concrete. Outlines of columns busy my brain, concern over contracts take concentration and push sleep that much further. In trying to actualize my dreams, I’ve pushed the notion of sleep that much further
If there is a main difference between the occupant of the bunk past and the one of the bunk present, it is one of maturity. Or at least I hope it is maturity. Heading out on the road, with little to my name, I leave behind a job that I loved, a woman I loved even more, and what seems like a lifetime of being part of a close community. I held on to each for far too long. Like a child, I was soothed by the familiar.
In the end, the familiar finally wore out. As it always does. Like your favourite blankie, it unravels at the edges, slowly wears away.
The woman? Well, she tired of the writer and the writer’s temperament - among a number of other things that I’m probably too proud to share. She sent me packing, and I don’t blame her. The job, as good as it was to me, for me, no longer offered me enough. Not financially, not in terms of career, not in self-satisfaction. The community? Well, Peterborough will always be in my heart - and for years to come will me the home of my debt. A university education, and the price you pay, both last a lifetime. But I’ve outgrown it’s small market for writing and have to move on.
I no longer merely dream of writing. Instead, I now have to chase the writing full-time and have it help me pay the bills. It’s new for me, and I am as excited as hell.
My starting fresh, my back to the bunk movement, might seem like childhood foolishness to some. What kind of adult, after all, quits his job for the fickleness of the writing market?. I’m sure a number of people are shaking their heads as I write this.
For me?
I’m not sure. What I believe is that it is the most mature thing I’ve done in awhile. Feels good to grow up. You know?
Good night Hillary. Good night moon. Good night dreams, I’ll be writing you soon.
When starting fresh, it is often wise to look back to earlier times in your life, before things went astray, to simpler, more peaceful moments.
Now, fresh as fresh can get, with little more than a backpack and a few small boxes accompanying me, I find myself doing just that. Returning to my childhood. So far, it’s been an awfully strange trip.
Most of formative years were spent rooming with my brother. Our beds, bunk-style that they were, meant that we were, quite literally, sleeping atop one another. This made for less than satisfactory living conditions, especially as Steve was prone to waking me up with savage kicks to the bottom of my box spring.
The walls of the lower bunk - which belonged to S - were adorned with pictures of Farrah Faucet, Cheryl Tiegs and Daisy Duke from the Dukes of Hazard. They suited his young adolescent tastes much better than my pre-teen ones.
Me? I preferred Chewbacca. My sole decorations were a sticker of the wookie and a poster of his “bucket of rust” spaceship, the Millennium Falcon.
Oftentimes, I was forced to sleep in the lower bunk. Sometimes it was a matter of mood - S’s, not mine. Other times it was a matter of health. When struggling with stomach flu, proximity to the bucket becomes paramount.
During these periods of whim and misery, I would often lay awake and stare at the only objects visible by the streetlight glow - Farrah’s hair, Daisy’s shorts - and wonder what I would be like when I was old enough to enjoy Charlie’s Angels for more than the chase scenes and gun battles. Often, I would imagine that I was a writer, and would write myself a fictional future in my insomniac state. Often I would fall asleep to the romantic notion of making it rich from the images of my imagination.
Now that I’m old enough to appreciate the natural beauty of women - now that I’m an adult starting anew - I find myself in a state of startling similarity to that of my childhood. At the age of thirty-something, I am once again rooming with my brother. And while some of the circumstances have changed - it is a condo, and I have my own room - others are disturbingly the same.
Particularly when I try to sleep. The insomnia that started sometime in childhood still clings to me, and I still finally fall to sleep with the dreams of making it in the world by means of my written word alone.
Eerily, I once again find myself in a bunk bed. S’s kids, you see, visit frequently. And Uncle Wandrlost is poaching their space. For now. For a few weeks. The top bunk, slept in by young X, is decorated with posters from last year’s hit, “The Incredibles.” Good head on that young Ian. Were I his age, the age I was when the Falcon flew across my wall, I’d have probably helped pitched the Pixar animated pic too. For the few days that I’ve been here, I’ve parked myself in the lower bunk. While health is an issue - a nasty head cold has me running for kleenex constantly - it is mostly due to the notion of having to navigate a ladder in the middle of the night. It’s not nearly as fun as in childhood.
Once again there is a female Hollywood star keeping silent vigil over my insomniac nights. Once again, she is of little interest to me. Young Y, now a tween with idols of her own, has two larger than life Hillary Duff posters bunk-side. Now, I don’t really know how old Ms. Duff may be, but I know that she is young enough for it to be improper for me to stare. Pity, for she’s a shapely young thing.
Now I lay awake wondering what it would be like to be young enough to appreciate today’s choice of pre-teen idol. Now I lay awake wondering about some of the choices I have made along the way to becoming the near-writer, the one a few steps away from the dream I had as a youth.
Now, however, I find the thoughts of writing more concrete. Outlines of columns busy my brain, concern over contracts take concentration and push sleep that much further. In trying to actualize my dreams, I’ve pushed the notion of sleep that much further
If there is a main difference between the occupant of the bunk past and the one of the bunk present, it is one of maturity. Or at least I hope it is maturity. Heading out on the road, with little to my name, I leave behind a job that I loved, a woman I loved even more, and what seems like a lifetime of being part of a close community. I held on to each for far too long. Like a child, I was soothed by the familiar.
In the end, the familiar finally wore out. As it always does. Like your favourite blankie, it unravels at the edges, slowly wears away.
The woman? Well, she tired of the writer and the writer’s temperament - among a number of other things that I’m probably too proud to share. She sent me packing, and I don’t blame her. The job, as good as it was to me, for me, no longer offered me enough. Not financially, not in terms of career, not in self-satisfaction. The community? Well, Peterborough will always be in my heart - and for years to come will me the home of my debt. A university education, and the price you pay, both last a lifetime. But I’ve outgrown it’s small market for writing and have to move on.
I no longer merely dream of writing. Instead, I now have to chase the writing full-time and have it help me pay the bills. It’s new for me, and I am as excited as hell.
My starting fresh, my back to the bunk movement, might seem like childhood foolishness to some. What kind of adult, after all, quits his job for the fickleness of the writing market?. I’m sure a number of people are shaking their heads as I write this.
For me?
I’m not sure. What I believe is that it is the most mature thing I’ve done in awhile. Feels good to grow up. You know?
Good night Hillary. Good night moon. Good night dreams, I’ll be writing you soon.