Nothing comes and I give up, throw the door open to whatever comes from my fingertips in this moment. Was a good weekend, yes, full of friends and things to be done, and the small flatteries that come from a lover at the year’s marking point. Am feeling stronger, healthier, more productive even despite the lack of writing coming from this corner most days. It’s probably the only thing that frustrates me now, having put everything else in place over the past year. Exercise, work, love, home, comfort – breeds poor writing on my part I am afraid. Or perhaps it really is just that I work too much to leave a lot of quiet room for the internal me to process and produce from.
In any case it’s something to just sit down and write whatever comes through – listening to classical renditions of Radiohead on a Monday morning in a cube and posting instead of getting down to the email, the telephone, the co-workers who want to discuss the weekend. This is not exactly the environment for that which is romantic or fanciful, and yet I look at the fish which hang above my monitor – a page of illustration torn from a Victorian-era manual on fish identification and then framed for me a hundred years later – and am glad that at least this corner is mine after all and I can plug my headphones into wherever I need to go on a morning like this.
And why is it I have nothing to say on the current state of whatever environment, politics, current events, whatever? It’s just so much noise right now, three elections that are all screaming stupidity for the most part and if I think about it too much my stomach gets achey and I want nothing more than to move cities, or countries, or continents even though that is obviously not the answer either. So as much as I could rant and compare and tell you all what I think, for the most part it’s best left to the pub after four or more when I can just chalk my angst up to excessive liquor instead of capitalism. It’s easier to quit drinking than to overthrow the system after all.
I have too much fight in me I’m sure. Too much arrogance as well to think that I could ever effect any change. Too much faith in humanity at times to believe there might be a way for us to get it right. Too little faith at other times when I veer towards notions of the benevolent dictator to make sure that no one fucks any of it up. My past itches, insistent to be recognized even as I try to move forward and make a respectable life of apology for my union, for my choices, for my failures as a radical. It’s not as though I ever had an answer, though I long to go back to the times when I thought I did. When having a corner that was mine, and a safe warm bed was not nearly so important to me as it is now. When alone or with comrades was much more important than with lovers and I could sever one part of myself away with the notion of a higher calling. So safely single-minded, the world is a much murkier place to me now.
Sitting with Darren’s lawyer two years ago in his Portland office we discussed this changing view of black/white to grey – and I wonder still if it’s not just the way we sell ourselves back into the system. Capitulate in order to give ourselves an easier emotional time of it when we get to that place of near middle-age and want just for once to not have to fight every single time. Obviously he, being a lawyer, was going to come down squarely on the side of capitulation at some point even if way back in the day he had advocated quasi-radical things. And that’s it really, the system itself won’t allow for success unless we subsume our believes beneath middle-class respectability.
Is any of this news? Not really. But it’s Monday morning and if I let myself write freely, this is what emerges. A lament about work I suppose, the defeat of the start to another week. And it’s funny really that I would go there at all, for I’m feeling quite good today and even fresh from a weekend of good people and good food. Of two minds, as always, I am often afraid to let this quieter me come out on the keyboard and play.