Pilot Episode.
Unusually quiet day at work; gray and drizzle outside, hardly enough for an umbrella. Nothing like the rain in the Midwest, the hard, thick rain. Lightning and thunder. I do miss some things. Fall, the smell of it. Warm summer nights. Everyone knowing who you are and what you’ve done (relatively speaking).
Where did that come from? Guess I’m feeling a little nostalgic, or maybe the upcoming trip home to Minneapolis has me thinking. But December in MN is not fall, nor will there be thunder and lightning (and when there is, Eddie hiding under the bed or curled tight against you). It’ll be cold, and we can hope for some snow (the first month of snowfall, the actual sight of it falling quietly over the city).
More people drifting into the office now; dogs getting up and moving about, Mia giving her warning bark which by now everyone is sick of. Post-lay-offs and I still have very little work to do, so I’m stealing company time and resources writing and posting this. At least it’s not porn sites. Not that I’m pure. I scanned Craig’s List’s “men for men” postings out of idle curiosity, promptly distracting me from any work to be done.
Louie sighing at my feet. He’s got a little collection of toys and bones under there, every item he’s stolen from the other dogs and hoarded. He’s sweet. On our walk to work he looks up at me, my face framed by the umbrella, and his tail starts wagging, he smiles in the way dogs do. I’m a lucky guy.
Strangely, on the same day I create DogPoet’s Campfire, a friend of mine sends me a link to his journal chronicling his escorting here in SF. My own exploits are admittedly tamer. I just hope to write more. There’s nothing quite as painful as being a writer who doesn’t write.
Christmas in Minneapolis means seeing my mother again, her body and mind further compromised by the ALS and dementia. The latter, if nothing else, may have simplified her struggle enough so that she seems in good spirits about life, while her body weakens and the neurons commanding her muscles wink out like dying stars. Lee, her partner, is dealing with this day by day. I cannot pretend to know what she is experiencing, and the stress has come out twisted up sometimes in visits that my brother and I make home. Though I wish she could treasure us the way she does her own children, I’m making my peace with that. (as I should, as a “grown-up”). You only get one mother, right? Even if you have a lesbian step-mom.
I’ve been scrolling through poetry sites lately, trolling for inspiration perhaps. I’ve let the inner critic and my fear of the Literary Establishment keep my from writing too long. Plus that and a daily crystal/booze habit that I nurtured until just over a year ago. What seems to be the most important thing is to develop the voice without letting those critics get their share of head space. And to read, read, read. I wish I had a couple hundred bucks to drop on a class or two now; Poetry Lit or Writing to start and make up for my poetry/english deficit in college. Maybe over xmas I’ll rake in a little cash.
I’m waiting for my friend’s roommate to burn out on crystal and maybe leave the city or at least move so that I could take over his $500/month room. More space, privacy, view for 300 bucks less. $800 for a room with three roommates, four dogs, and a TV on the other side of my pocket doors is too much. My gratitude for it is running thin, I admit.