With the direction I had, it’s a wonder I’m still marching with the band.
Don’t shoot too high, don’t look higher than your station. Don’t follow your heart, don’t trust your dreams, be safe, do the right thing, whatever that was — what it was not was any creative vocation. It was as if the artists, dancers, writers, sculptors, and musicians were all on one side, and we were on the other. Their side was doomed, of course: the poor souls died young from evil habits, were sexually perverse, and usually ended up penniless, godless, and alone. Everyone knew that.
One way or the other, I took it all in, despite my raging heart of a boy. I had to, because I didn’t get the love and felt it was my fault. The “right thing” offered a clue to some kind of redemption, but the problem was the raging heart. That this sets up an ancient crazy-making tension should be obvious, manifested in my own case by a series of creative incarnations, one mini-career after the other, each fading after half a start. And always the quest to find — oh no, the “right” one! Etc., etc.
Lately, besides comprehending how I got here, I’ve been dealing with the consequences. There’s a reason I’m sitting here, of a certain age, vulnerable as hell with little that passes for security. There’s a reason I don’t know my nephews’ and nieces’ birthdays. There’s a reason my wife has her family mementos in plastic bins in a dusty storage unit instead of in a home of her own. All of them are me, of course, and what is happening now is that I feel it, all of it, finally and with a crashing THUD. It’s enough to give a man unholy thoughts, it is, and I have had a few. The astounding thing about what could well be regarded as an epic debacle, however, is that it’s also a flaming triumph: I did it, all right, and that is what I did! I was me. I was PERFECT!
And now is the virtual emergency, things that must be tended to: if your guts are in a meat grinder, at least that wakes you up and focuses your attention.
In response to something stridently sensible my wife brought up this evening, I didn’t take offense. I didn’t squirm with guilt. I didn’t try to out-maneuver her. Instead — and I have no idea how this happened — I looked her in the eye, experienced a sudden, almost alien sense of ease, the the words “Well, I’ll just have to do much better!” came out of my mouth. Marvelling, she paused a moment, beamed, and said:
“You just did SPLENDIDLY!”
My God, I love this woman. I am so damned lucky. And now she can tell me the truth without having to duck. How does this happen, this release, and where does this stuff come from?
I don’t know, but no one here is stuck.
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{ 2 comments… read them below or add one }
YEP! You ARE leaping!
Thanks!