I work a lot. I'm tempted to say something ridiculous like "All I do is work." Believe it or not, such a statement does not feel even remotely disingenuous, so I'm gonna say it: All I do is work. Well, I get weekends off. I get to go home at night. But during the day, throughout the week, it's just work. It gets busier and busier at my job with each passing year, as if the whole entire goal is to somehow gradually take away every little semblance of joy from me a little at a time. These moments have gone from fleeting to something akin to slowly running down the drain.
Now, here's the part where I should probably say, lest the gods strike me down, that I'm grateful to have a job. Not only that, but I have a job that some people find rather exciting and would probably give their left nipple to have themselves. I'm grateful for my job. The only thing that's worse than having a job is not having a job.
On the weekends, I get to be Dad. Not play Dad, mind you, but BE Dad. That's pretty good. I get to be with the people I love and try to be present. But that doesn't leave much room for art, which, I'm sorry to say, is probably my reason for being on this planet at all. I get a little time to write on Sunday evenings. I'm pretty exhausted by then, but I sit down and meditate for twenty minutes, and some of the dreck that has accumulated in my head all week dissolves. Then, I go to my notebook. I'm trying to write a novel. I write a few more pages every time. It's all disjointed now, and the fragments that come out are often absurd. There's no bright, blazing, holy inner pathway guiding me through the act of narration. I always used to hope I would find something like that when I was younger. When I was half-baked and reading Kerouac's "The Dharma Bums" as a young idiot, the process of writing seemed magical. But as an adult with a job and a life, I'm here to bring that youthful dream of a notion crashing back to reality. You never get lifted up into some kind of ecstasy. There's no roaring pile of euphoria to leap into, no game winning home run high fives from your teammates after finishing a chapter. Nope. You have to just sit down and write; insisting on a reality, again and again.
David Foster Wallace talked a great deal about that. About how art, and life, was about enduring tedium. He's probably right. So I keep chipping away in stolen moments, remembering the beauty in fragments, in syllabic bursts and clean sentences. Who knows if it'll amount to anything. I'll keep insisting, I guess. The alternative, just letting my entire life be work and brief blank periods away from work, makes me want to leap head-first into a wood chipper.
Sometimes, I think I write to remember the days before work took up my entire life; to just sit in that elusive fading joy for a little bit of time. Like pushing back the grey clouds of autumn and getting one more day of childhood blue sky summer, one more day of riding BMX bikes and playing on the ball field until the streetlights came on.
I'm still coming out of the trance of childhood. But when I put pen to paper, though I see those memories in flashes, there are towering ruins almost everywhere. I see the crumbling alleyways of my youth in there, too, but the vision mostly feels like the decaying facade of an ancient, vanished world. I can feel those fleeting childhood images, longing to be the backdrop of the words I'm trying to craft. Begging not to be forgotten. Maybe that's my version of the bright pathway. It's not the mystical Kerouacian guide I anticipated, but it's something, and it certainly beats the wood chipper. So I keep on writing, insisting on a reality, again and again. What else is there to do?
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