Writing is so solitary. And I worked from home. I needed to get out. Without those Starbucks mornings I sometimes wouldn’t see another soul all day.
(Don’t flame me for being a corporate whore. It was Vancouver. Starbucks is just what’s available.)
I like being alone, listening to my music, reading my books, living my quiet me life, but it’s not good to entrench yourself too deeply into that sort of thing. Consider the rhesus monkey experiments. I know Harlow is about maternal deprivation, but so what? The point is the contact and the comfort. Poor little rhesus monkeys. I hate to think of them. And the Romanian orphans. All that stuff. People need people. Most of us are asshats, but that’s just the way it is. I’ve given in.
I got a job. Believe it. I start tomorrow. It’s hard to know what to expect. On some level, I feel I’m taking a risk. I’m also taking a fairly significant pay cut. But apparently a couple hundred people applied, and it’s nice to be picked out a crowd like that. (Showed YOU, naysayers!) I never wanted to be a journalist anyway, right? It just sort of happened. It came easily. But it’s better to get on a new path. The only thing I’m a wee bit bummed about is that I know my lifestyle is going to change. I know what I’m like when I’m working. Focused. I tend toward workaholism. I can’t help it.
So no more sleeping in. No more wandering aimlessly through the days in my pyjamas, reading poetry and philosophy, and sad novels. Back to regiment. I’m looking forward to it, actually. But this lazy year in academia has been good too. Restful. I needed that (more than that) after the way big media broke me down.
Speaking of things breaking, I’ve been very clumsy these past few days. I tripped and jammed my knee into the door frame, bruising it. I tore one of my favourite shirts. I broke a plate, a glass, AND the porcelain rise-cup in my bathroom. I cut my hand on the shards. This is the kind of destruction that makes me philosophic. Makes me think about how quickly things get ruined. Isn’t it maddening? You get something new, something that you really like, and it’s perfect and beautiful and exactly what you need, but it doesn’t stay that way. One wash and it doesn’t fit right anymore. One stumble and it’s cracked. Often, when I get something new, I look at it and think about how long I’ll have with it. How long it’ll be before it’s ruined. I’m generally careful with things, but I can be careless too. I wreck stuff.
I make stuff, but I wreck stuff too. That’s me.
With the new job starting Monday, I’ve been tying up loose ends all weekend. Working on AGENCY. Sigh. I’ve also been doing a lot of cleaning. My family laughs about my tidy tendencies. I apparently live the legacy of my fastidious grandfather. What’s funny is that I used to be terribly untidy. Still am, sometimes. I like to make a mess, maybe in part because I like even better the idea of cleaning it up. Cleaning is so calming. So many things yield invisible results, but cleaning is tangible. I find it soothing to wash a huge pile of dishes, for example, to see the dirt swirl away and everything made right again. I find it peaceful. And clean sheets, I love those. Often, if I’m bummed about something, I change my sheets. That’s the sort of thing that shouldn’t be underestimated.
I know I promised I’d write more coherent, topic-based posts, but this isn’t one. I’m sorry. Stick with me. I’m near through.
I finished watching Firefly, finally. I can’t believe how late I came to the table on this. I should have watched it years ago. I tend to shy from Sci-Fi, but the show charmed me. I rented Serenity last night too, but haven’t gotten around to watching it yet. Kaye and I went to the Jays game today. Despite her threat to heckle belligerently, she behaved relatively well. And we sang the official Ladies’ All American League song, and people turned to listen, and it was pretty. In other words, there were lovely moments. Unfortunately, we were so far up in the bleeds, I was pretty much terrified of falling the entire time. And it was a crap game. Boring as anything. Sigh. It was still good, though. Good distraction.
Let’s wrap this up, shall we? (You know me. I love to end a blah-og post on a deliberately emotional and baffling note, so here goes.)
Yesterday Craig said something funny to me. He said, “Fuck. I hate caring.” I couldn’t help it, I laughed. That sums up a lot, doesn’t it? I hate caring too. But we’ve already discussed this. The alternative is worse. Still, I sometimes wish I could stop. I’d like to rock shut as a seashell. If only. But I’m going to try, I think. My instincts, alas, don’t drive me that way. What I naturally want to do is to open, to DO something. To fix. But I’m not going to. I can’t be the fixer fighter all the time. People have been telling me that for years, and this time, darnit, I mean to listen. I mean to learn. Shut, I say. I shall rock shut.
The true truth is, there’s only one thing I’m heart heavy about at the moment. One thing. And when you think about the world, the terrible world, that’s nothing. One little thing? I can carry that. I can put it in my pocket. I’ll walk along and it’ll weigh me down for a bit, but it’ll get lighter. Eventually, it’ll get so light it’ll disappear entirely. That’s what happens.
Another storm’s coming. I missed this truth about Ontario, but I didn’t realize how much. I missed the violence of it, the sudden blackening skies, the streaming, steaming streets. Last week, on my way home late at night, I got caught in a sudden rain and I was soaked through. Unbelievably. Water literally filled my shoes, my bag, everything. I couldn’t see. I could barely hear above the pouring.
Think how clean you might get, caught in a storm like that.