Imagine
The idea of summer made me want to teach.
Stop me if you’ve heard this one before.
I had runaway fantasies of a poet’s life, including the long leisure of creative sabbaticals. If I imagined life of a teacher modelled after Mr. Keating in Dead Poets Society, I imagined my summers as a teacher modelled after Hemingway’s excursions in the Gulf of Mexico. They would allow me to live big and write big.
The summer I am in, at present, doesn’t fit the fantasy too closely. The reality of my summer is not a haven of creativity. It is not imbued by exotic adventure. It resembles more of an ever-expanding negotiating table, where we barter and negotiate and debate. It is an influx of activity that never seems to leave the doorstep except to bring a child to soccer camp or rhythmic gymnastics or karate training.
I’m more tired at the end of the day than I am on a typical work day, actually.
While I’m living the life I set out to live, it does not resemble the life I imagined.
Take a number. Right?
It’s a little cliché of me be approaching middle age with that sentiment. And for a man who blogs about the miracle of the mundane, I must be missing something. I haven’t spent much time searching for that magic this summer. I’ve been too busy searching for my keys or my mask or the remote control to put on Bubble Guppies to distract my youngest.
No. Thirteen years into my life as a writer, a sober writer, and I am not on a book tour. And while it’s not for lack of effort, it has become increasingly difficult to sustain the sort of effort that goes unrecognized.
This probably explains why my wife caught me sitting at my desk the other night watching a documentary on Emily Dickinson.
“I can explain.”
There was a point, I have to admit, that I thought blogging was below me. Take that with a grain of salt as I am also someone who was committed for experiencing wild delusions of grandeur. What is funny is that, now, blogging is my sole creative output. It weren’t for this blog, I would not be forced to sit and reflect on my life in the sort of way that translates to words that form ideas which draw conclusions.
I still am filling the void, sort of.
Rather than signing autographs in my book as I jet set around the globe, I am managing my city’s newspaper, unearthing the print-worthy stories in my own backyard.
It has been incredibly rewarding in the sense that I am responsible for words that get printed and read each month. There is that ying-yangy balance to the reality that I have written so many words that have gone, thus far, unpublished.
I’ve also developed the theory of how similar all writing is — be it, in a base sense, nonfiction or fiction. I encourage our staff writers to avoid forcing things. The story is out there, no matter what you think about it. If you don’t approach each story as an entity with expansive potential, you will miss it entirely.
Much like life, no story goes the way you think it should. If stories did, they would lose their purpose. We would have nothing to learn by reading them.
But there is a big difference between going out to unearth the next big story and going in to discover your own. I’ve always preferred the latter. The world, and what makes news, has always seemed so begrudgingly predictable. The same toxic mix of bad characters making good money using the good people working for less. There’s a few pretty simple theories to history and human behavior, I’ve found, that can predict all the news that is fit to print.
But to discover a world within yourself?
I doubt many moments in my life will rival my writing the last chapter of this novel that no one wants to publish. It was then that the vastness of that creative big bang – the blank page – achieved self-propulsion. Excuse the blasphemy, for I am, indeed, a God-fearing man, but there is a moment in creative efforts when, like God, a person can look at the world he created and see that it is good.
But that stuff was all in my head.
The more enduring climactic moments of my life – my marriage, the birth of my children, my career as a teacher, my work as a newspaper editor, my work with sober alcoholics – involve other people, and their stories. And as I focus more on more on the stories of others, my life is trending toward happiness and satisfaction.
So why do I still itch?
I doubt that I will ever lose the need to self-explore or forget the deeper inclination that the profound is already with us, most profoundly.
After perusing a book store three weeks ago I landed on Norman Rush’s Mating. I had heard of the writer, but couldn’t tell you anything about him or his work. What I liked about the novel’s premise is how different my life is from the protagnosit’s. I’m also, naturally, profoundly interested in sex.
Books do that for me. I can ying out of the yang of the world as I know it. It feels better knowing the world as I knew it yesterday was all wrong. I can read about experiences that are so exactly different from my own in order to realize that what we call the world is, itself, only an idea – and a fragile one at that.
I haven’t finished the book. In fact, I’m just half way done. I can’t seem to get a moment’s peace in order to pick it up. This blog post, moreover, is the only creative writing I’ve done all summer. This life resembles little of the life I imagined.
That life, the one I imagined, only existed in my head.
The life I am living now is so much bigger.
It is filled with service and a love of others.
Could I be happier than when that Bubble Guppies theme music comes on and my wife and I dance stupidly on the living room carpet in order to detach our toddler from her neediness?
Perhaps.
But it’s hard to imagine.
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Just. Daggone. Great. Thanks Mark ❤️💙❤️
Hi Mark. Thanks for the good read. Eh..as usual I have hijacked your thread with my dribble..
In the 1973ish movie Magnum Force, Clint Eastwood says “A mans got to know his limitations”. Great line and great actor sure but the words aren’t his no, they originated with the two writers. One writer still lives while the other’s time has run out. I can’t seem to retain and repeat their names. Clint is who I see, hear, and can’t forget.
Cleaning out the white puzzle pieces of my year. In between the cushions of the couch, recliner, bed . Therapy and more therapy.. Finally dressing myself, washing/drying myself, wiping myself… This time last summer I was broken, crippled with constant pain. No more healing for me on my own! By Christmas I had a total shoulder replacement then come May I had the other side completely replaced. Sitting around doing nothing became the pathetic norm twice. Once as a righty and once as a lefty. Sometimes neither..
A victim of the usual “my shoulder hurts too” drive by. I felt compelled to whip out my big 10 inch scars to maybe validate myself but it never works. People need to be heard..
Waiting to die of Covid for the last seven months I could write inspiring affirmations that would surely heal the world of any and all moral issues or at least stitch up some frayed fabric. Other times the self-pity seemed to extend out to the far reaches of the galaxy leaving me alone and hopeless waiting to come back someday soon. At least to declare this too shall pass. Either way these fragmented emotions left me hanging on the age old and well, generally avoided answer to the big question… Why am I here? Am I here to clean the pool again? Get groceries again? Mow the lawn again? Take the dog out and pick up poop again? Shower, shave, laundry, vacuum, again! The surgery’s. I’m getting fileted up like a stripped bass, is this the way it’s going to be now? More titanium and plastic? A Cyborg?
I’m no kid. The blood pumps through my veins because it has to, not because it wants to. It’s a job my body has continued to take on as if doing me a favor by working after retirement age or 50’s anyway? Money equals purpose? Geeze…
Keeping that “some day” attitude fresh. Yep.. The Florida burn awaits. White sand, white sidewalks, white Lincoln, white rest home linen for about 6k a month till the money’s gone. Then it’s the shared room ( a quad) staring at the ceiling after my second stroke reviewing my regret, many divorces and blameless children, no visitors.. Just wishing I never said that or even that. What was I thinking, what was the matter with my head? Same horror shows over and over without any resolve.. Hell, I’m going to hell. The deaf ( hearing impaired) guy with the TV blaring THE NEW PRICE IS RIGHT with odd people jumping around hoping for A NEW CAR they can’t afford the taxes on.
Speaking of using my time wisely while refusing to respect myself? Everybody’s dying. Went looking for a guy from my past I owed an amends to. Dead. Another old friend Jim I neglected who was a good friend to me? I owed an amend and a 71 Monte Carlo windshield? Dead. Guy clean for years supposed to be painting my house last month. Stopped showing up? Not answering his phone? Dead, OD .He owed me big money. Can’t mention that though, too heartless. Best friend George brain cancer, Dead. Great friend Warren heart attack, Dead. Old friend bone cancer last week, Dead. Again I wonder, why am I here? What happened to my purpose? My Spiritual understanding? I’m just surviving here and not doing very well at that really. As if I’m just waiting to die too. I may look serene but I’m really depressed.
Even my cat is ignoring me. Could I be a bit self centered? I kind of felt we had some decent banter for the past 20 odd years. I thought I spoke fluent cat actually, could sling the lingo.. Now? He only responds to the opening of a can. Unless from a sound sleep he can smell the delicious cowboy cookout from 3 rooms away? Maybe that’s it. I feel I’m a stranger in my own house. Like it’s my fault he has no thumbs and can’t open doors. I’m here to cater to his every whim. And I do because, well because he’s my cat and I love him..
And the 8 month old 100lb German Shepherd. I didn’t see that one coming even though people said the cute fluffy 6 wk old puff ball European worker Shepherd? Well they’re a different animal especially with his meg parents. Dad is over 150 lbs.. A pure bred war criminal for sure. Bred for guarding the Czechoslovakian border where anybody anytime is a threat or used to be anyway. He’s got his own room that looks like someone got drunk and painted the trim and doors with a chainsaw.. Breakfast is a whole hen or a dozen chicken wings, some turkey dogs and a marrow bone. He pulls like a big block Chevy. So far in extensive private training he’s learned everything except how to listen. Some say he’s just like me. Actually? He’s a gooboy and well so is my pre- kittydementia cat. They’re my family and they get my best everyday. Most I meet never know that..
Oh…Whoops! Then there’s Dana. How in the world a licensed mental health and addiction therapist could stay with me for 20 years is just an amazing testament to her courage and strength as a sober Big Book 12 Step woman. The kind of person who actually puts the effort daily into her Steps 10 11 and 12. The sober woman who has experience serving the others who suffer. She’s the real deal, like it or not. I look up to her in the way she lives her life. 12 Steps first and foremost but openminded to many other recovery methods and supportive paths. How she doesn’t mix client’s work with her personal life.
Ok, I’m back. Tuesday night (tomorrow) I’ll make 80 sandwiches and donate to this local meeting where lots of new people are struggling and many are hungry for some free food. There should be plenty for some to bring home. Last week 80 was a good amount. I sneak them in before the meeting so it’s pretty much as anonymous as it can be. I need to pick up on this more as the face to face meetings are opening up. I’ll make this happen atleast one more time this week for now. This is great! I love donating food.
My two full time sponsee’s are coming into their own after a year or so each daily so time for some new blood. Other guys hang at the mile marker or in life itself and check in for 10th Step stuff occasionally. They’re doing fine. I’ve seen a guy around who’s really in the shite. May try to approach him this week and see if he’s ready for some real change. This guy is whacked out man, gotta love him. Broke, divorced, restraining order, living in a sober house, can’t see his kids.. The alcohol and drug abuse symptoms hit him hard. I’d like to catch him before he falls through the 12 Step cracks and gets caught up in the homeless system. I’ll make some calls tonight, maybe I can track him, maybe someone has seen him. At least find out what sober house he’s living at.
Sorry I went long. The post got me thinking about all the things that go on behind the scenes that make me who I am on the front line. The honest look at my own character. From the friends who’ve died that I bring with me still in my decision making. How I’m grateful to give without expectation. My home life, the food donations. Just my willingness to continue to learn to give freely of myself that another may benefit.
This is my purpose, I could say it’s my gift from those who came before me. The only condition seemed to be that I give what I find away freely. I can do this. To watch a new man recover from a seemingly hopeless state of mind and body. See him solve the drink problem? Witness the psychic change sufficient to overcome his Alcoholism in the 12 Steps? The Spiritual path suggested?. I myself don’t want to miss it. It gives me hope, a willingness to carry on sober.
Sherp. My father in law, who passed last February gave me the box set of dirty hairy movies. Great flicks.
Maybe it’s my appreciation for stream of conscious writers like Kerouac but this isn’t dribble. I appreciate the spew. It helps to re-set. I wish I was doing more writing. “Purposeless” writing. The rejection of my purposeful writing has been roundly rejected (latest rejection just landed, actually). And I used to claim that this all was for me, most essentially. Rilke, the German poet, was my guide in this selfish artist outlook. But clearly it’s not sustainable. Or maybe it would be if I locked the doors and pulled the shades and didn’t worry about life’s responsibilities. Dog poop included. For some reason I feel overextended but life’s responsibilities until I receive the spiritual electro-shock therapy, the jolt of “this is good and fine and all you need from life” comes over me. But what about my craft? And making the world see in me what I see in myself?
I noticed a shift in your comment. It came at the 80 sandwiches mark. Crazy! I’m both glad and dishesrtened to know how many people need and are seeking that help. But the entire tone of what you wrote changes when start the service discussion. I find it’s the case with me as well. I get all in my head thinking that what concerns me is what matters. And that can build to be a pretty big bubble (of apocalyptic proportions in fact) and then POP — I’m driven out of my head by the need to be of service and the world becomes extraordinary again. I just wish sometimes I could learn the lesson and not wrestle with the doubt as much.