Getting ready for Civ 6 in a few hours, well, I suppose if I check the clock I’ll see that there’s less than half an hour between me and an epic time-suck that has proven, time and time again, to be both enjoyable and oddly, inspirational. I get to writing after building culture throughout the world. I get to organization after setting up World Wonders, and generally feel my soul soaring after hearing Christopher Tin’s remarkable soundtrack. All of which, I am given to know, will be back in glorious form in this newest iteration. I am excite.
But we’re not there yet. I am rubbing my hands against the chill in the air, surrounded by a purring kitten and a long suffering cat, both of which are now under my coat. I am thinking about how much I want to write well tonight. To write with intention and focus. To say that I am better today than I was yesterday, but that I do feel, tender, full of trepidation, fragile in some ways. It is possible to feel fragile, I think, even or perhaps especially when you notice yourself being strong.
I have been thinking about what it means to post here and have it tied to my Twitter account and what it means to be open about the problems I have in whatever way I am being open about them. I know that I am, possibly, in the readers’ estimation, continually entirely opaque. That I act as though you should know things that you could not possibly know. It still feels as though, if someone wanted to, they might understand me at an uncomfortable level after reading a fair share of these posts. They’d understand about the driving issue – if not understand, they’d know that it exists. They’d see this rolling wave within me of positive energy followed by acedia and slothfulness that compounds my life. They’d probably see many other aspects of my nature that I am blind to. And given the casual, laissez-faire nature of my online persona in other places such as Twitter, it feels a bit like handing over…if not ammunition to be attacked by, at least, a good hard knock on the idea that I am cool, likeable, at ease, okay.
All these words, that in some small confines of the universe, I play at attaching to myself. I don’t want people to know, but this is the way things are. And the honest self-appraisal is more appealing than the well-dressed lie, that’s a truth that fiction has made clear to me. I just feel a bit vulnerable. That my sad, awkward flailings towards the next minute, hour, or day are real. That I am real and open and available for mockery, for shame, for things that admittedly, unless you share, I can only invent for myself. That sometimes what is here is being told to feel as though I exist and not so that I can be praised for self-improvement.
So when I say that for me, it was something of a big deal that the roads I needed were blocked, but I made adjustments, took new roads, and the detour did not destroy me…I don’t say it so that you think anything about the where I am and who I am and where I should be with regards to driving…I say it so that I remember that, for me, it was something of a big deal and I’m okay.
I’m okay and maybe we can be okay without any attachments or prefaces or post-commentary. Just bloop.