I fancy myself as a writer, and yet I cannot seem to endeavor the small steps in order to facilitate that end; the first of which, in my mind anyway, is to be prolific. I've pounded this blog for two-and-a-half years, for example, but only in fits and starts; no real fluidity. Somehow, as a consequence, I feel I've shortchanged myself in quality and not so much for quantity. I mean, what the hell kind of chickenshit deal is that?
I'm operating under the impression -- which could be an illusion; obviously it remains to be seen how it all plays out -- that I'm now getting my life back in order. As I edit that sentence, it occurs to me I may never have had my life "in order," precluding the semblance of "getting it back," but nevermind that.
I reside (not yet really living) in Western Mass, this after spending three weeks at my mother's in Maine, after a week at my brother's in New Hampshire, after 10 days in the hospital recovering from congestive heart failure and pneumonia. A million years ago I was living in Southie and working in Cambridge, and the calander says the time that passed between then & now was little over a month. Much like life, I would submit: the passing by thereof and oh so quickly.
At the moment, I'm working for a friend, who could just as easily thrive without my meager contributions but is nonethless granting me this boon, because, well, he's my friend! We've known each other for 27 years, dating back to freshman year when Jimmy Carter was still president. All of which, of course, reestablishes life in my checking account; not enough to suit the credit card companies (But who can give a flying fuck about them, eh?), let alone the tax man, who, once again, cometh. Sheesh! (Ok, they can have a flying fuck.)
The heavy snow slows the thought processes, nobody wants to wade in that stuff. Although I did put in the requisite calls today to the local temp agencies & radio stations. And then I watered the houseplants.
I just may've given up on the big city lifestyle -- that's for the top-of-the-pyramid players anyhow. A one-room cell over a bar in Southie had its possibilities for creative writing, except, that is, for the dim decor and the grand mal depression it retrospectively put me through, and which may have facilitated the onset of my pneumonia, which in turn may've facilitated the A-fib. I even considered suicide. Seriously.
But in the last month and a half, my family and friends have shown me my value to them, even as I couldn't see it for myself. To see and hear them, expressions of generosity and concern. I always knew it was there, but never had I felt it so.
Thus I am inspired to try again. Get back up. On my feet.
I feel better than I have in months, maybe years. My blood pressure doesn't whisper to me anymore. But my knees still won't let me play softball again, a sadness that. But i'll be getting back to the gym soon, and it may open my mind to other avenues of wellness. Yoga. Meditation. Ferreal?
Work, play, love, laughter, perspective; a little wine and some beer. A fire in the fireplace, a toke of the herb. Writing some more, walking some more, meditating, giving myself a chance to make something a little bit more of myself.
If this plays a little ego-centric for you, I recommend you turn the page. As for me, this is therapy.
No TV. Reading.
... and writing.