There’s something about spending a day…and now, I suppose, a workweek, looking at numbers that makes you desperate for the malleable power of the English language. Its caress, somehow. There is sanctuary in the imperfection of how we write, in denotation playing against connotation. I hope this continues to be as true as it feels this week.
I am coming to terms, I think, with what the job I took is in actuality versus this magical escape from all my former stress and troubles. That, it is, in fact, double the crucible. The warm and fuzzy characters and clowns that strained my hospitality and nearly my credulity are gone and replaced with professional people. Including my sister. Which is both working out – I think, she can comment if it’s otherwise, I guess – and something of a stressor even when we’re spending the whole day apart. But it puts in profound relief that I really only have one path that is going to turn my lights on rather than just keep the lights on and that’s through my writing. So it is up to me to push it. To drive towards it. To choose it. To change in that direction. And in the meantime, keep my fingernails into learning about amortization and depreciation tables so I don’t fuck up what I’ve got going right now.
Right? Right. That’s the plan I’ve got post-revolution. Survive the aftermath of picking the fire over the frying pan.
Rain skitters over the skylight. It isn’t late, but I’ve been finally starting to crave sleep again as my body seems to realize the voyage it took and the changes that have taken place in my mind and it needs to find a method to find its equilibrium again. Last night I fell asleep in my clothing sitting up in bed. I am starting to think more seriously about food. Starting, of course. Thanksgiving is pretty close. I just feel like if I don’t get to eat what I want, irrationally, I feel like it’ll just me staring at spreadsheets and praying for death. That the embarrassing minor thrill that carries me through the day of Oooh! Breakfast to Oooh! Lunch to Oooh! Chipotle! would be returned to oh, breakfast, oh, let’s force down some vegetables and water and oh, let’s gag down some meat and sweat about the living room.
It’s a story I’ve shared many times before. The worries that are resistance mean nothing once you decide to jump in and do it. Talk is cheap, but cheap thrills, be they in word or in chocolate covered cherry form, or the tech support guy breathing in your ear while he maps your network drives, aren’t so cheap nowadays.
Tomorrow: I go to a funeral in the morning for a man I saw married. He and his wife met and fell in love in their seventies and five years ago, in the church where I was baptized, I saw their wedding. Now, we say goodbye.