Sitting at home on a Monday in late March, watching garbage television and drinking garbage beer, just because I can. My left fingertips are tender from playing a lot of guitar for the first time in years. A reality show is on where all they do is have sex and drink and party in Mexico. They are all rich and good looking. I wonder if there are rich, fat people in these reality TV families who are forced to stay at home and do normal work, or perhaps pursue careers in business, law and medicine. A woman who has slept with three of the men on the show is being oddly modest while she talks to one of her former lovers, covering her breasts with her arms.
My dog is on the floor, quite near me. She has been trying to get closer to me than usual these past few weeks. I wonder if her time is near. She seems pretty healthy, but is unusually needy of me. I have had my moments of growing close and apart from this creature who has sustained my wife and child making her the lesser priority in my life.
We are flying to NYC on Wednesday, in our small effort to live like rich people who get to do these kinds of things every weekend.
The rich people on the show get upset when they get cheated on, and get drunk. They all seem to favor acting as if old-fashion rules of modesty and decorum still apply, but I suppose this is all for the sake of drama.
My old life is finally starting to slip off into vague memories. I have stopped clinging to things that I think drive these dreams of moving and having to get rid of so much stuff or pack it away before I can move. I don’t get all bent out of shape about something someone said to me ten years ago like I used to. I am not trying to re-create elements of the past that can’t be recreated. Yes, I bought a house a few blocks from where I started out in Austin. Yes, I am going back to work for/with people I worked for/with some eight years ago (and yes, I was in NYC traveling, the last time I went to NYC, when I accepted the offer the last time I worked with them.) But, what is gone is a lot of worry about the soul, that nebulous thing I have little control over. I am not concerned with becoming famous or not. I would rather sit and play the same few blues chords and licks on my guitar and be happy and content than become some kind of mid-life late-blooming minor musical sensation.
Now, I am watching a more established rich and ridiculous family who is famous for being famous. They are trying to feed giraffes corn by holding the corn cobs in their mouths. Clearly, these are the kinds of things people like me don’t get to do at the zoo if we go to pay the $5 to feed the giraffes.
There is a great hope and desire starting to germinate in me for the day when I step into the rest of my life and it is clearly the rest of my life. There is no more excessive drinking, loss of temper or mb. I am focused on reading my way through books, writing simple, basic thoughts down, and plunking out my soul on my guitar.
There is no more fantasy of becoming anything great, but then, there is also no more sloth and decadance. To be more precise, I am weary of accruing new “things,” be they physical or mental. I am tired of taking on new mental baggage or carrying around the old stuff. The concerns, the worries, the obsessions, the preoccupations. I want to keep these to a minimum: make money, put money away, raise child, send child to a decent school, see child get a decent job, die.