this is going to get done even if I have to force myself to just write for no real reason whatsoever. For the record my life is so boring right now I have nothing of any true relevance to contribute to any sort of ongoing metaphysical quest for meaning (which is what I usually think I’m doing when I write weird shit here), nor do I have time to do anything even slightly creative so it’s not a workblog of my progress through editing my novel or anything like that. No, what we have here is mostly just a failure to communicate, and Paul Newman’s dead, so now what?
I’ll give you all an idea of what a typical day in the life of me is like. I get up at 6:30 am, a time of day I normally have never seen unless I had failed to go to bed the previous night. I shower and get dressed and leave the house when it is still slightly dark and there is frost covering the ground. Okay the frost isn’t there all the time but it adds to the effect, doesn’t it? I drive for about an hour through stop and go rush hour bullshit traffic, a distance of some fifty kilometers. That means i’m not driving very fast and I’m usually irritable by the time I get to work.
I have coffee.
I love coffee. I love that my new job has a coffee maker that costs nothing, no matter how many coffees you have in one day. I love that there are different flavors of coffee. I wish it was Tim Hortons, but whatever.
I make a bunch of phone calls. My job consists of calling people who don’t want to talk to me and convincing them to talk to me, and eventually to buy things from me. This isn’t easy and people don’t always have warm fuzzy feelings when I call them. It’s sort of the weirdest job I’ve ever had. I’m half convinced I could sit there and do nothing and no one would notice a difference. Anyway, I make my calls. Sometimes I eat lunch, sometimes I don’t. After 8 hours of sitting at my desk I get up and drive home, another hour in rush hour bullshit traffic.
Sometimes I have dinner waiting for me, usually I don’t. I make something for the kid and I to eat for dinner and settle down to watch LOST on Space at 7pm. I have been up for over twelve hours so far. Jordan is usually watching tv or doing homework, sometimes both, or having a shower/bath while I watch Lost, otherwise she talks all the way through it.
Just a word to any other writers out there who might stumble on this blog someday. Don’t ever buy a TV if you want to be a serious writer. Don’t get cable, don’t buy a blueray player, forget all that shit. When you get home from your “real” job, write! I get home and my brain is half comafied, so I complete the process by watching a couple hours of TV and losing myself in the mindnumbing awfulness that is American Network Television. I like JJ Abrams though and Smallville, but other than that the rest is all crap. Don’t bother with any of it, just write. I should be writing when I’m watching TV, I feel guilty that I’m not, I’m just so burned out after the day that I can’t think of a single interesting new sentence to bother jotting down. This is what real life is like. It sucks. I need to figure out a better plan, but I digress.
Anyway, put Jordan to bed around Nine, maybe read a story, or listen to her tell me a story, then continue my comafication in front of the idiot box. Sometimes I turn on my computer pretending I’m going to write something interesting, sometimes I don’t bother. At some point Shanna will likely have come home, though her presence has little to no effect on the events of any given evening, except she might put Jordan to bed instead of me. Anyway, somewhere between eleven and twelve I go to bed and read until my eyes get fuzzy and then I fall asleep, only to do it all again the next day.
That is my life. It is ending one second at a time even as I type this, which is a horrible and yet fitting cliche. Lennon said life is what happens while you’re making other plans. I’m not even making other plans anymore, i’m too fucking tired. so what do I have now, really? Am I living my life, hell, a life? Is going through the motions of existence enough to justify the existence itself or is something more required? Have I reverted to the pre-Descartes philosophic outlook that I am therefore I think? Is thinking even necessary, perhaps the fact that I am here is enough by itself. Is anything else required of me? Is there any other way to do this?
Does anyone else think that if only they had the courage to change everything about their world they might be happier, but they would also likely not be themselves anymore? How much of my personal self-image is based on being miserable in the day in day out echoes of my life? If I were to wake up one day and find out that this isn’t all there is to life would that change who I am?
Clearly I’m talking nonsense and you have all stopped paying attention to me. Rightly so, I’m losing my mind.
I’ll write more later, probably.
Up past his bedtime somewhere in Canada.