A Few Thoughts on a Recent Bout of Loneliness

My dog laid on my couch as he watched me pack my things. He had his legs tucked underneath him and, with his fur spread out to his sides, he looked like he sank into the couch cushions. He knew the score, I was leaving again. I guess, in contrast to his usual, hyper-active jumps and trots, he opted for this motionless stance, his attentive eyes betraying an otherwise still body. 

Leaving my parents house after a visit is something that I really dislike. I never liked how sad my dog seems, even though I only live in the next county and I am able to see him often. But that is also something that happens all the time, and none of those times have left me sad for long. At least until now.

Maybe it's the fact that today is Christmas, but as I pulled away from my parents house and drove onto the freeway, I was faced with the strong sense of loneliness. I didn't have anything to help me deal with it: no dog, no television, and no radio (my car radio having been dead for a few years now). I didn't even have my phone near me so I could play music off of it. I had no distractions; just the steady, stinging sensation of loneliness.

It's an awesome feeling to be sure. That stinging sensation lived in my core, but the energy from that moved throughout until it seemed to hover around my body. It was an aura so thick that my mind couldn't stop obsessing over it. I knew that it was a need easily fixed by being near another person, but nothing like that was available to me and could not be found at this moment. Mulling over that thought just made the emotion more present. It's a feeling so awesome that it hurt.

My reactions to this were complex and varied in intensity. At the least, I wanted to see my dog, my parents, a friend, or perhaps go to a bar and talk about random crap over a mug of beer. At worse I thought of death, which caused my mind to spiral through memories of depression, which followed with constant reminders of strategies I have used to overcome them. Ultimately, I quickly reminded myself that death would kind of mess up the act of living, which is the reason why I am able to think about all of this in the first place.

It still sucks, though, and there's really nothing I can do or say to change that at this moment (somehow, the mechanical keyboard I'm typing with isn't exactly hug-able). I'll be able to cope later by looking at cats on YouTube or playing a little guitar. Hell, even writing this post has done much to take the edge off. But it's still going to be there for a while and I guess that's okay. Like the old ass cliche of being pinched to see if you're awake, having loneliness crop up is a prickly way of reminding me that I'm alive. It's just another thing that I'll take in as experience. And cherishing experience is something that I am ready to do now.

Cop Out

Just so I can get a post in on a March (kinda late, yeah I know), I'll go ahead and paste my short write up of Writers Week... that happened more than a month ago:

I was really excited to attend my first Writers Week. The thought of having multiple writers stand in front of us to read and talk about their works was something I looked forward to. This feeling was amplified because I had read some of these writers work, thanks to a CRWT 191 course that I had taken under Jo Scott-Coe. I had hoped to rub elbows with the likes of Ed Ochester, Gordon Johnson, and Chris Abani.

The first day, of poets, was met with tragedy, as we learned that Ed Ochester was hospitalized for an aneurism. His replacement was a friend of his from Fresno and he entertained us with his poetry. We all wished Ed Ochester well.

The second day, of memoirists, proved to have no absences. I ran into Gordon Johnson, who showed up early for the event and seemed lost. It was wonderful to chew the fat with that guy. We talked about everything from drinking beer to playing guitar. When he came up to read he treated us not only with some excerpts of his book Fast Cars and Frybread, but he read us some of what he called “memoir poetry.” And after he was done with his section he sat with Susan Straight and became part of the audience, asking the next person questions like the rest of us. It’s a shame that I forgot to get my copies of his book signed.

The third day, of fiction writers, was one I spent the most time in. I brought over books for Alex Espinoza and Chris Abani (Alex’s book, Stillwater Saints, I read on my own time). It was this day that I realized how different writers can be. Alex Espinoza was very inviting, and we got to talk a little about craft while he stood at the podium. Chris Abani, on the other hand, seemed a bit cold to me, though it could be that he can’t tolerate a lowly person such as myself. One person that surprised me was Marisa Silver, who read excerpts from her latest book. What piqued my interest was her talk of her transition from the movie to the literature business. I just wish I knew more about both to ask some decent questions.

I was unable to attend the noir day. However, I did catch the Joyce Carol Oates speech that night. In her speech she said that the most successful writers (of the students that she taught) weren’t necessarily the best writers during their stint at school. Instead, they’re made to recognize their flaws and work toward improving them. This made me realize, again, that writing is a lot of work. It’s only increased my resolve to become a writer.

It's been a while... I want to give this blog thing another go. I guess I'm a sucker for punishment.

I wanted to write a huge blog post announcing my triumphant return to the blogging circuit, but I never got around to it. So here's something that's a little different, an essay:

They Had a Baby Named Idle

I’ve been told that being idle is a process of being reflective, and in many ways that’s true. There have been times when I’ve stopped what I was doing to think things over. I’d step back, for instance when I’m writing essays like this, and say to myself, “Ok, well I’ve probably meandered too much. I wanted to talk about my day at the video store and I ended up talking about my mother’s back problems.” Then, I would fix the situation (erase this, expound on that, steal a joke and paste it there) and be glad for it. Even before I set out to work on something, I make it a point to mull over the subject hours upon hours until a huge light bulb appears over my head, or at least I like to imagine.

However, I’ve begun the habit of thinking things over too much, to the point where the work that I set out to do, like this essay, becomes bogged down by my constant thought of it. I’ll have a great idea for a story, essay, blog post, etc. and work over the details in my head. But the idea snowballs into something so large that I don’t know what to do with it. It’s like a giant ball-and-chain attached to my ankle. Or maybe the better analogy is that these large thoughts can’t fit through the all-important, gold and diamond encrusted Door of Productivity (or the silver-plated Laundry Chute of Industry, for those who don’t believe in doors). I sit there for a long time and do nothing, out of fear that I would do my ideas an injustice by trying to work on them.

I have never had this problem before. I used to be able to put my mind to the task at hand, without worry. I’d go home from school, sit down on my kitchen table, and get the assignment done. I’d look over the work, see that I’ve answered all the questions or otherwise satisfied the requirements, then turn the paper in the following morning. I get my B+ afterward.

Maybe I’ve become too idle when I cared about getting A’s. Or maybe it’s because I started to worry about being perfect. To be fair, I’ve always been a perfectionist. I was really good in the spelling test circuit of elementary school, where I had 100%’s on the majority of my 20-word tests (just ask my mom). Math was an easy thing for me too, before I had to deal with those damn Greek letters in my formulas. For the most part, I was a fairly good student, and a good worker. I would only get lower grades in areas that required more than rote memorization. If there isn’t a clear set of instructions, then I’m usually at a loss. Writing this essay comes to mind. It’s a bit of a drag for me because there are numerous paths to finishing one, and it’s hardly the same when you write another. I buckle under the freedom that it gives me.

I find it ironic that I’ve chosen to pursue writing, where I make slow progress. Why shouldn’t I work toward something that’s easy for me and, perhaps, even more lucrative? You could say that I do it because I see it as a challenge to overcome or that I’m not satisfied with push-button type jobs, and I wouldn’t disagree with you. But as I near the end of this essay, I feel a sense of comfort. The thoughts that had been building up inside of me had passed through that door (or the laundry chute) and I can move on knowing I’ve produced something that means a lot to me. I want to be a writer, and I’ve just written something. So that’s good enough.