I end up talking to myself.
I watched the premier of Bones last night. Simple fun. An interesting and easy show. And since its season 6, I guess we are fairly invested in the characters and their stories if not the run of the mill forensics of the individual episode. Anyway, it raised the issue of lynchpin personalities, of keystone members of groups, the one that keeps the group together, keeps the dynamic strong.
Everyone, I suppose, would like to imagine themselves as the keystone. I know I do. But I can't say that it is true. Hard thing to figure out, really. Especially since all the groups I have been a part of seemed to fall apart when everyone moved away. Can't really pin that on one person. Which isn't really the point. Burying the lead, I suppose. The point is, I miss my friends.
I miss y'all individually, and I miss having friends around to talk to and hang out with in the general sense as well. Parenthood (especially when the first and only in your peer group) is an extremely isolating activity. Add in moving to the bowels of suburban "paradise" while everyone else stayed in New York or lit out for California and her sunnier brand of faded dreams. I don't really know people here. Not socially. Not intellectually.
It troubles me that the only two things I find myself talking about these days are how things are going with the kid and how things are going at work. Finn's mostly good. Work, not as much. But I remember when I would argue for hours with Todd at Grassroots about minor semantic points. And I miss that. I miss the days when Derrida had relevance to my discourse. At least I still talk about writing with Gina. But I get so little time to work on my writing (and I often procrastinate with what little time I do have "waiting for inspiration") that talking about it is often as far as anything goes. I have notes for a novel. And a steampunk prequel. But I get discouraged thinking about it. Thinking about my lack of progress in general. When the whole of my regular writing process is short shorts and poems tossed off on the iPod during my lunch breaks. It gets hard. It's basically (so far as blame can be assigned) my fault for being lazy. For wanting to sleep. Rowling managed.
(an interlude to talk to Gina, about life et al.)
+ ice. + rum. + lemon juice.
a glass with melted ice, residue.
+ bourbon. the ice melts.
there was beer before. and Chinese.
I don't know. Maybe I'm not putting enough out there, not giving enough of myself. Not investing in the blog, in the emotion of venting to a blank screen (Springsteen in the background), of telling strangers and future generations about the minutia of my life, such as it is.
I'm working on it. Finished up Heart-Shaped Box the other night. A surprisingly good book. Or, perhaps that is the wrong word. I was surprised that I so enjoyed a book marketed as horror. I tend to read horror the way I read techno-thrillers and spy novels. As plot driven escapism. Heart-Shaped Box wasn't that at all. Mostly I found myself thinking what it was like for Stephen King to feel simultaneously proud and jealous.
A question about horror writing: I have never (in my adult life anyway) been given nightmares from a book/movie, etc. Is that odd? Do people actually get nightmares from books they read? Are they kept up? I am willing to accept that the way I process information (rather abstractly) often precludes me from what may be a normal response to horror. I have no idea whether that might actually be the case. I suppose then, what I look for in horror writing (film, et al) is more a sense of the unheimlich. The uncanny nature of the story rather than any implied or expected sense of fear. Or is that meant to cause nightmares, too?
Started reading Oliver Twist. I've never really read much Dickens (a bit of Great Expectations in 9th grade but that's about it). Kind of a pompous buffoon, really. But it's research for the the prequel. Makes me feel productive and learned at the same time. (And the way we feel about our lives is far more important than anything we actually do with them, terrible as that sounds).
I keep picking up the empty glass on my left rather than the full one on my right. Odd. So it goes. Gina, and life, is distracting. I digress. We talk. I wander off. I go into the kitchen to get something, but I didn't want or need anything there. ...
Soon come. Change. Soon come.