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Last updated: 2/8/2002 |
Posted: 3/3/00 Writing is primarily a solitary activity. -shift- In the dream, I wake up - and I am old. Sitting up in my narrow bed, under sky-blue blankets, I take a leaden breath. I am so tired. Looking around a small room: cheap furniture, darkened office fluorescents. My hands... they are old, with knots and wrinkles; yellowed calluses and think palms. The hands of a grave digger - or my grandfather. I am missing a fingertip, like him, and am holding a silver dollar; a charm. I am old and nearly dead. Regret is a heavy pressure in my heart and sinuses. What have I done? What have I not done? Regret, sadness, and a life too short. I will die without ever having figured out what I needed to do. Regret... regrets... what should I have done? I lay back down and squeeze my dollar; rest my head on a flat pillow and cry thin old man tears that smell like blood. I give in to fatigue... ...and wake up for real. I am not old. Sitting up under warm ecru comforter, I mimic the movements of old me. My hands are young, and the fingers are all there. They are soft - used to a keyboard. I'm still here. I still have a chance. In the bathroom mirror, I am straight and thin; with unwrinkled skin, but three days of beard. So, I shave and make a note to cut my hair - very short. Over breakfast, I taste the joy of a second chance in my coffee and toast - and I see my life stretch before me (hopefully) only a third over. But, then I remember the regret; and can't help but feel I'm scripting my own prophesy. -shift- I don't believe in dreams, but I believe in their interpretations. That is, they have no intrinsic meaning. Only when we think about them, piecing together the surreal imagery in the context of our life, can we decide what they have to say. I think about my dreams, and decide what to make of them. Obviously, I'm uncomfortable with growing old - and death. I believe when I am gone - it is over. No afterlife, no spirit, just dirt in the ground. For me, the world will end. The certainty of this alternately horrifies and motivates me. Sometimes, I am so enthusiastic that others seem phlegmatic and sad. I want to verbally take them by the shoulders and shake them: "Don't you realize this is our only chance!? We'll never be at this moment again! Let's not waste it!" Then, I can't decide what to do. So, we usually just go for a beer... or coffee. I'm aware that this gets obnoxious. I do not want to imply I am driven to live by a fear of death. I love my life. I'm just sort of afraid of death. It's pretty creepy, after all. But, what really scares me is regret. -shift- I just finished close to a solid month of 60-70 hour weeks. I know this is par for some people, year-round - but I am not one of them. It was stressful, but incredibly rewarding. That said, I am glad to have a little time off. I love work. I found I was not frustrated with the job, it was not doing anything else that began to wear. I need that variety. Too much of the same thing makes me neurotic. -shift- Recent books: 40 Stories, Anton Chekhov; Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone, J.K. Rowling. Chekhov is moody and satisfying. Here is the end of the story Gusev, after the main character has died and is drifting to the bottom of the sea.
Meanwhile in the heavens, clouds came and massed themselves against the sunset, and one cloud resembled a triumphal arch, another a lion, a third a pair of scissors.... There came a great beam of light transpiercing the clouds and stretching to the center of the sky, and a little while later a violet beam lay beside it, and then there was a golden beam, and then a rose-colored beam. The heavens turned lilac, very soft. Gazing up at the enchanted heavens, magnificent in their splendor, the sea fumed darkly at first, but soon assumed the sweet joyous, passionate colors for which there are scarcely any names in the tongue of man. Current Music (a lot, lately - for some reason): The Slumber Party rough cut; The Magnetic Fields, 69 Love Songs; Moby, Play; John Spencer Blues Explosion, Orange and some dance re-mixes; Matt Turner, The Mouse That Roared; Modest Mouse, The Lonesome Crowded West; Tom Waits, Swordfish Trombones, Radio Birdman, Living Eyes, Guided by Voices Bee Thousand (how often I come back to it). Some recent films: Hands on a Hard Body (*** 1/2), Pitch-Black (*** 1/2), Wallace and Grommet - the First Three Adventures (**** 1/2), Night of the Hunter (****), Ayn Rand: A Sense of Life (****), Hillary and Jackie (** 1/2). |