Seriously...it's the kind of evening where at my last job I would have taken a mental health day.
Only this time I can't.
A) Because I really do like my job and feel that I'm making a difference there.
B) Because I need to be there tomorrow to cover another team member who has the day off.
And that's really one of the things that has me swimming. My team is short staffed. I'm not going to air any dirty laundry about work here, but it's weighing on my mind with this job more than any other for the simple reason that I care about this job more. This company really takes care of its people. I know that may be somewhat naive. And that eventually decisions come down to dollars, but for now, it still feels like they care--so I'm rolling with that.
So..yeah...funny thing is, I haven't really called in sick as a mental health day with this job. I've told my boss that I need to take a day or two off to decompress. I've always made sure there was coverage and that I wasn't leaving anyone in a lurch.
Big difference when there's something you care about, huh? Easier to put the time and effort in to making it work.
In another lifetime, I would have left a card on the kitchen table...maybe a gift bag on the pillow today. It's funny. I think last year I texted her for her birthday. I guess part of me felt like I still needed to talk to her until the divorce was final.
That life seems foreign to me now. And these days I rarely if ever think of her. It's like a death in the family I supposed. Only...I don't really mourn her, if that makes any sense. More like the part of me that died when that relationship did.
Told you I was all over the place today.
I blame the Dr. Pepper and the Fireball. Although that's not really it. It's just convenient to have a liquid scapegoat.
I was working on some tune-age for Futon Ninjas tonight at the picnic table. I took a pic, but it's instant. So I'll have to show you when we hang out. It was going well until the mosquitoes decided to join in. I didn't quite play until my fingers bled, but it sure felt that way. Oh, don't worry. It's a natural process. It's the only way to build the callouses up. It's all good.
A couple of the neighbors came out when I was playing and it was cool. I think we have a cool crew. Fairly subdued, it seems. I'm waiting for shit to cut loose this summer (as I know it will). It's gonna be a good time.
I took a couple of cloud pictures on the instant using my sunglasses over the lens. It was actually pretty crazy. I got this weird contrast with some intense sunbeams (but not so intense that they blew out the negative). I'm gonna have fun experimenting this summer with that bad boy. I think right now the plan is to get some film for it with every paycheck. Just budget that in like groceries or a bill.
And why not? It makes me ridiculously happy.
And at 42, I fucking deserve some happiness.
Heh. No...I don't.
No one deserves happiness. Because happiness is not a thing. You can't buy or sell or give or receive happiness.
Happiness is a being.
You must be happy.
It's a choice. A choice to lead with love. A choice to see love and beauty and the light in all things. Even the darkness. In the darkness there may not be light for you to see. But there is hope. You must hold on to the hope. And in many cases, that hope will be brighter in that darkness than a thousand suns.
We are luminous beings of light.
And I'm about to go all Carlos Castaneda on you. For that I do blame the alcohol. It has lowered inhibitions. Generally when that happens, I will tell you exactly what I think.
Much to the consternation of those around me.
I just noticed that either Firefox or my MacBook spell-checked Castaneda. My guess is Firefox since I just switched to that browser. Presumably it's one of the only ones without some kind of 'gather all of your online footprint in to a neat little file somewhere' agenda.
And I'm good with that.
I need a trip down to The Farm.
The Farm is my center.
My Papaw's farm was always my safe place.
And my dad's papaw's farm was his safe place. But it not there anymore. I can't tell you how sad that makes me. And it's not just the loss of land that has been in my family for nearly 200 years. It's the loss of my dad's safe place. It breaks my heart every time we go down there. Because I know it breaks his heart (one of the joys of being empathic, I suppose).
I made a movie about it back in 2009.
Here it is, if you want to see it.
I think it's somewhere along the order of 25 minutes or so. It's basically a goodbye letter from me and my Dad to the farm.
It chokes me up every time I watch it. Not sure it has the same effect on others.
Alright. I need to go in to work early tomorrow. So...that means I need to wrap this isht up and get my melancholy arse to bed.
Oh...don't worry about me. I'm a writer...a poet...a storyteller. I tend to feel things deeper than most.
I have to.
Otherwise, how could I possibly hope to have someone else feel that emotion in a story I write?
At least that's the story I'm going with for now.
Have a wonderful evening my friends (or, for those of you that are viewing this blog sometime from now--here's hoping your day is an awesomesauce one).
It's funny...speaking of oddly-times segues....My 'readership' if you will, has gone down when I stopped tooling around on Facebook. And yet, I feel like the people who stuck around are actually the ones who 'get' me. Ya know?
And it will be interesting how these posts will flood with comments when I become a NY Times BestSelling author and someone stumbles upon these early posts and discovers that 'hey--he's not a rock star. He's just a dude'...don't be just a dude, Lloyd Dobbler.
She gave me a pen.