5/26/17: The Days Count

With all I have before me as a person and a writer, and as fast as the years go: the days count. Indeed; however, they only count as much as I make them. 

I am very disinterested in the kind of life that feels like Groundhog Day: work, eat, shit, sleep – maybe something, alcohol, some such empty escape to comfort me; that life doesn’t interest me at all. 

What interests me is: t.a., t.o.f., h.h., t.s., b.d., lvls; that’s my future – that’s my life – that’s what’s happening. All else is pretty insignificant. 

I only want to live days that progress me further toward the above. 

Which, of course, is not simple – life takes work – I tried the poor writer thing: Maslow was on to something with that hierarchy of needs, let me tell you. 

I’ve been living in the mountains near a year, supporting myself, Sarah, and our two dogs. Rent here is not far from the city, but you get a lot more. We’ve got a great place on the edge of the forest, and it’s been a transformational time up here for us. 

The amazing thing today, is that I have never known what I’ve wanted more; I’ve never been clearer about who I am and what I want out of life. That’s a pretty significant thing. Some will never quite arrive there. I think for me, for a long time, I was afraid of admitting a lot of things to myself – including what I really wanted from life. 2017 is the year I took the mask off. Wolf Waldo Black. 

But even with all the wonderful things in my life, I can still be melancholy. 

There was a long period of my adult life wherein alcohol was my chief source of satisfaction and excitement. That really sapped the quest of life from me, and the absence of alcohol in my life today has opened up quite a beautiful vacuum in me.

I’m ready for great, wonderful, exciting things – but it is so easy to forget those in the mundane; and so, I come here to write them, to remind myself. 

Because I’m truly ready for life to surpass my wildest imagination, which it has, in many ways, but I’m finally really getting a kick out of being me, and just the fact that I’ve gotten this far, leads me to believe I’ll make it all the way. 
 

To Truth

You can be your looks and believe it,
And the world will too –
Yet, you will still fall apart;

You can be any success,
Until it crumbles;
For, few things hold one fast to the center:

Art. Love. Meaning. Ideas.

These things keep us alive;
We are because we create –

And we’ll never stop.

My Inbox, Mine

Email is an albatross,
A constant weight about the necks of billions,
Bringing heads down dutifully,
To check it, forever –
Without ever a Sabbath, except maybe Christmas –
Email is a part of the daily human condition,
For most everyone now,
And it blows.

But maybe your inbox, like your life, differs from mine;
In my inbox, work communications are constant,
Fix this, and, what is the status of that?
And today, a notice from my web host of costly overages on my server,
And once, from an ex, an email about someone famous who OD’d, saying it reminded them of me – #whattheactualfuck –
But it’s mostly just meaningless interruptions from the meaningless data manipulations my work tasks me with,
And constant deadlines –
As if missing them will be the end of me:
I fucking loathe email. 

But maybe, like Mondays,
My problem with email is really just a reflection of my life –
Emails from Simon and Schuster being, of course, prefferable to emails from my current contacts, whom I work for, hourly,
Always via email –
And if it’s not email, it is Slack or Basecamp, which both ping me via email anyhow,
But I’m tired of being fucking pinged!
I am tired of my inbox being a receptacle for shit!
Things I care nothing for;
For I know damn-well, email could be different than this.

But until then,
Until I give the world better reason to email me than these bills,
I will check it, dutifully, constantly, loathingly –
But not forever. 

Email being, just one more aspect of the human condition my art is to deliver me from,
Email being, after all,
Just another choice:

Our helplessness, learned –
Our anxiety ours,
My inbox, mine.

post script:

And to Tarran:

A reply yet awaits,
Sitting neglected in my drafts for months,
Reminding me, painfully:
My inbox, mine.