It’s happening again. I’m supposed to be working but I’m moving impulsively, compulsively about Blogworld. My head is supposed to be in Utah, but it’s been to Texas and South Dakota instead. And why, but for whatever starving good the act of reaching out provides? Mental money, food for the soul. A two-way, sometimes one-way street. Please let’s not talk about the physical realm with its freezing gold impersonality.
But how can we not? Already winter is hinting strongly of its upcoming visit, forecasting our imprisonment in its subzero wind as popsicles forgotten in the freezer from summer. Already the wood stove’s services have been begged and initially refused. Oh, the protestations! The billowing into the room, the coughing, the unwillingness to work through a burp of stagnant air in its pipes. Yet how can I complain when I am the same?
Do what you love, the money will follow. Here, kitty, kitty. Just like a cat. Would that love-money be more like a dog! Like last night’s wine hounding me a bit, biting both pant legs the whole way on my morning run, following me around the house and to Portugal and Illinois. Annoyingly, blessedly loyal. The whole idea of it perched atop my skull, a dull, fuzzy weight, like a yarmulke covering my head in the presence of God.
And is this not a religious ritual, this life, this wisdom-gathering, this humiliation, this coming and going and finally departing? Yes, I believe it is. And I could do with treating life with a little more love, just enough to up the ante on irreverence as required in the name of good writing, in the name of writing from eye level with the asphalt, from the dirt and trash of truth that punches humanity’s gut and rises up like indigestion to the heart of truth.
Certainly, I could do with a little more faith in the turn, turn, turn of things, the seasons and times for things. The play and now the work…
“It was true that I didn’t have much ambition, but there ought to be a place for people without ambition, I mean a better place than the one usually reserved. How in the hell could a man enjoy being awakened at 6:30 a.m. by an alarm clock, leap out of bed, dress, force-feed, shit, piss, brush teeth and hair, and fight traffic to get to a place where essentially you made lots of money for somebody else and were asked to be grateful for the opportunity to do so?”
Charles Bukowski—Factotum, 1975