Tell me about a time you remember rain

Life, Writing

Fogg Dam Conservation Reserve which is one of ...

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Today is the last day of November, and, thus, the last day of Nanoblomo 2010! Will I ever post on my blog again? that remains to be seen. I’m kind of glad the pressure’s off though (not that there was much pressure to begin with…)

For my last post I’m going to share a writing exercise from the book, “An Old Friend From Far Away” by Natalie Goldberg. I’ve been thinking about this event a lot lately. I have no idea why. It seems so  insignificant. And yet, there it is, on my mind.

Tell me about a time you remember rain.

I miss the winters of Santa Cruz. In December we would get torrential downpours with high winds that would tear down anything in it’s path. I remember one night on a December evening after work I went out to the laundry room to switch out my laundry. It was a typical epic winter storm. Wind and rain.  It was raining so hard that I was soaked in the short 100 yard walk to the laundry room. It was noisy, too. All I could hear was the rain hitting the pavement.

As I walked to the laundry room I saw this gigantic dog standing on the sidewalk a few feet from me. It was a white  dog and it had short hair. It had to be half as tall as me. It was just standing there in the rain, letting it fall down on him. It didn’t run away when I approached. I didn’t actually walk up to it but I had to walk by it as I walked to the laundry room. As I moved my clothes from the washer to the dryer I was a little worried about walking back to my apartment. This dog was big and I didn’t quite trust it. It was really weird, the way it was just sitting there in the rain.

When I walked out of the laundry room it was gone. Sometimes I wonder if it was some kind of hallucination. It was really strange the way it was just standing there in this storm. But I know I have an over-active imagination. I’m sure it just left to go find it’s home.

On being a cog in the machine

Life
Tina Weymouth playing bass guitar with Talking...

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Did I mention that I really like Natalie Goldberg? I do. Today I read about how she has dozens of notebooks filled with crap from when she lived in Taos and felt like she had nothing to write about but she wrote anyway because somewhere under that surface ennui there is something that needs to come out. That is exactly how I feel at the moment. I feel like I am supposed to write. I’m a frustrated writer working as a librarian. I am not doing the job I feel I was put on this earth to do. But I am so out of practice that I don’t know even where to begin. So I am going to just write crap until it becomes natural. Until good stuff comes out.

So lets talk about that ennui. I feel numb on the surface. I feel like I’m just drifting through life like a ghost. I am a cog in the machine. And I don’t like it at all. I want to be doing something. Anything. Traveling. Inventing. Coming up with brilliant things to say. But I’m not doing that. I’m just a cog. I’m a nobody. Just a worker bee. A rat in a cage.

What the hell happened with my life? “how did I get here,” to quote Talking Heads. How? When I was in my early twenties I had big dreams. I had things to say. I had something inside of me that wanted to come out. I felt creative. Somewhere along the way that feeling was deadened inside of me. I’m 40 now and I have become like everyone else. A working stiff. A zombie. How does this happen? How dare society take those dreams away from me! I am bitter about this.

Why have I let societal pressure decide my fate? It’s like the whole buying a house thing. I thought, for years, that I had to buy a house. My dream was to buy a house. I wasn’t a human being until I bought a house. So I bought a house. I moved away from my favorite fucking place in the whole world, moved back to a place that I loathe, so that I could buy a fucking house. And what did I learn? That a house is not the be all and end all. A house is not, by any stretch of the imagination, going to make me happy at all. And it doesn’t. In fact, it kind of causes me more pain than pleasure. It feels like a ball and chain. I don’t care about the security. I would rather not have to deal with all of the responsibility of owning a house. Now I’m stuck in Spokane because I bought my fucking house. BFD. So, yeah, that so-called “American dream” is a piece of shit. I was totally duped into that. that’s for sure.

Note from the future (9.9.2011): post goes on, venting and blathering. We’ll just delete and end it here. There. All better.