Feeling no burning, or even lukewarm, enthusiasm for the topic in mind for today’s post, I left it to WP to “inspire me,” hit said link and got:
Write about your strongest memory of heart-pounding belly-twisting nervousness: what caused the adrenaline? Was it justified? How did you respond?
WTF?! Even worse than the topic I’d had in mind! I’m here to write posts, not books! Never mind that the odds of (blog) publishing such personal material are nil or very nearly.
So the subject of work it will be!
And by work, I mean looking for. God, am I really here again? Rooting like a starved pig for that rare mushroom on the forest floor? Am I really here AGAIN, pleading for a crumb from the universe, from an employer with a job that I don’t want to do and have no business doing. Enough of my life has been spent in waste and depletion. Years in all shades of gray from unhappiness to abject misery.
And here we are ahgain … ah, never mind. I’m tired living the story and exhausted telling it.
I want, I truly want, a life of authenticity and abundance. What’s wrong with that? Everything, according to my experiences and beliefs in childhood (big thank you to the parents).
But this chapter is NOT supposed to be about that. It’s NOT supposed to be about continuing the poverty and unhappiness. I know that sure as I know that ocean tides ebb and flow. I’ve been in ebb. Big time all pervasive and prevailing ebb. The forces of nature and power of the tides are working in my behalf (finally). I had no say or control over that any more than I did the darkness and misery that engulfed me/my life not long ago.
It’s that … false starts. The brass ring ’til I fucking dropped it in Prescott (a story not to be told). A bad attitude … bad in the sense of “here were are again, back in this old dark place” — a place I suspect/feel/intuit is NOT where I’m supposed to be.
I don’t quite know how to scale this molehill that I’m making into a mountain.
And then there’s the first year anniversary of my father’s passing looming. Oh so close. Grief wracks the guts and mind covertly and furtively. Like the loner guest living tucked away in the back of the house. You never see him. He comes out only for his meals that he takes back to his room. In the back of the house. No one there. Not a plant. Not a pet. Not even an artificial plastic fern to mimic greenery.
It’s those characters who never speak, who keep to themselves, who on the surface seem fine to go about their lives, such as they are or are not, as they are. It’s the figures who DON’T talk that can be the most frightening of all.
Perhaps I should make his acquaintance. He’s in my house, after all. He’s an uncommunicative oddball, an eccentric with no place to go (but his room) and no one to talk to but himself and how healthy is that, really?
Meandering thoughts from a blog post whose topic was to be the search for a job.
Old crap topic. Loner uncommunicative man in the back room of the house. Need to make his acquaintance, if he’ll let me.
Cliches and history tell us that it’s “always the quiet ones,” “the neighbor who never bothered anyone and just hung out in his garage” that are concerns. Dunno that I’d go THAT far with my loner uncommunicative man in my house.
But something … something is not right … and I need to find out what is troubling him. If I can.