WORDS TO LIVE BY

(Original image by Radu Florin)

Fragmented today. Something like stained glass on an overcast day. Nothing substantial to hold on to, no light that shines through. Even the good memories cast a shadow, but sometimes the darkness is what’s needed.

Sipping a glass of port, the best I’ve ever had. It’s like chocolate velvet on my tongue. I still have half a bottle of Barbera, but I wanted to get some words down seeing that my new computer wouldn’t arrive until next Monday at the earliest. Mandi told me it would arrive Wednesday at first, but I guess the vendor had it wrong, and so I have to wait. She was incensed by the mix-up, said Lenovo should have a fucking warehouse on the west coast because they’re a multi-national corporation and all. Poor girl. She really wants me to write. Makes sense. I’ve put her through enough with my rotting teeth and family struggles. Writing has been the only way I’ve stayed sane. That and alcohol and coffee in the morning. Coffee goes up. Wine goes down. Words to live by.

But yeah, when I don’t write, I feel sick, lost, as though I had snuck my way out of the bestial walls and found myself among the living — creatures I could never relate to and visa versa. I made my way by half-assing it. Got a few books under my belt. About a hundred published poems. A half-dozen stories. Not bad. But not good either. If only I had taken my free time seriously before I became a father, but I didn’t. Funny how everyone always mentions sleep. “You’ll wake up all hours of the night for changings, nightmares, early morning feedings, etc. etc. etc.” What they should have said is, “Your time will no longer belong to you.” It’s not the sleepless moments that get you, but the waking moments when your overactive child demands your full attention, and rightfully so.

And whatever job you’re humping, that becomes your career overnight because the little guy has to eat. You have no choice but to earn the money to feed your family. And the bosses know this, so you become a slave. You become trapped in a life you once thought temporary, and here you are.

Look at you. 41 in two months. My god.

I’ve noticed the topic of conversation has changed at the dinner table. It used to be about what I was writing, or where we would steal off to for the weekend. Now, it’s all about work. We talk about work the way our parents talked about work. Our self-worth has been polluted by obligation. We no longer wear the yoke. We are the yoke. At first, the weight feels restrictive, the hours long — I used to count the half-hours on a post-it – but slowly, it becomes manageable, then comfortable. After all, you’re doing it for a good cause, aren’t you?

My cat’s yowling in the hallway. She’s probably going to throw up. My tumbler glass is now completely drained of port. I think I’ll pour a splash more of the Barbera. I don’t want to get too blotto. I have to go into the office the next two days, and I want to be able to smile though I don’t feel like it. Maybe these words will help.