It has been almost two years since my last post and almost as long since I have even checked in on this blog. I have been surprised by its analytics that it still has visitors, most of which spend some time here...rummaging amongst the abandoned, it seems. I wonder why.
I initially began this blog to reanimate the corpse of an almost forgotten literary career and attempt to move it forward. It was always the plan to eventually settle in and once again live a life deep in the arts, establishing what I always knew to be my life's work-what I was apparently put here to do-and not die with the words and music still inside, roiling and raging against a life diverted from its truth.
I had the past-the reams of poetry written over a space of years in what seemed to be another life...three finished novels...outlines, notes, pages and pages of beginnings and endings and visits to places all real and imagined...plus new things all tidy and shiny-all the filler I needed to bloat a blog with a sampling of good, bad, genius, and pure shit. If not anything, I figured, it will be entertaining.
And in the midst of it all, life happened.
We sudddenly became parents instead of grandparents and began helping raise two young boys with damaged hearts and heads. Our work increased, our finances dwindled, and I found I once again had no time for the vanity of writing, or a blog, or even dreaming of it. In all honesty, I was unsure of exactly what the hell I was even doing, and if the blog was just an exercise in ego, or even scarier, an exercise in convincing myself I had (or ever had) relevance. I figured the audience of readers would tell me that, but no-I was registering a lot of visits and views, but little feedback-so I quit, vanished, closed it down.
Tonight I logged in with the intention of deleting it all. I noted Blogger had changed and upgraded and wanted to walk me through all the things I had missed over the last two years. I saw my last unfinished post still sitting in drafts. I clicked on recent comments and there were none. I read over some of my posts and cringed a bit, with that old feeling of seeing what appeared to be another life creeping in again. And I got pissed.
So fuck it. The truth is I am not what I wish to be. I am nowhere near the writer I once was. This blog is somewhat of a scrapbooking type of joke. I spent years in a very tightly structured writing schedule that, from the sheer discipline of it, drove me to the outer reaches of my abilities and brain functions. I lived it, I breathed it, and at the end of one day I realized I was living past the line of personal best and into quite another space. I also realized that to continue would involve selfishness to such a degree that I could not live with the outcomes of it. So, I reigned it all in and became responsible, raised a family, started a business, did volunteer work and just showed up-all things I could not do with a young mind in a quest for literary "greatness." The truth is I could not reconcile the dream with the actuality of the dream, so I created success in another venue.
Be careful what you wish for...very careful...there is a price even for successful mediocrity, for giving up one individual truth for a truth that involves others can still bring one full circle back to nothing, or at least the feeling of it, and a loss...the longing for more.
I have reinvented myself several times in my life, but of late, the reinventing is more like a chained dog wrapping himself incessantly around a tree...that full circle back to inertia. I was hit by a drunk driver in May of 2005 and that wreck ass-ended my life. My back was shattered, disks lost, nerves destroyed, everything inoperable, and just like that, I was told by every neurosurgeon on the block I was done...check into wheelchairs, longterm eventual care and pay on the way out. I was legally dropped by my insurance company on technicalities, legally bound by tort reform in the lawsuit, and not on the street, a minority, or an illegal, so no government or Social Security unless I wanted to live below poverty level in a hovel. In a year I lost everything I spent my entire working life building.
But in that year, I committed to physical therapy. I learned to cope, learned to put the anger into useful things and let the rest of it go. I re-learned how to walk, and how to keep re-learning how to keep walking. I developed a high pain tolerance. I became self-sufficient again and began re-building my business. I reinvented myself that year.
In the seven years since, my condition has worsened, but I have forced it to be gradual. After five years of agony, I finally began pain meds in 2010, but only take the lowest dose. I'm a lucky man. I walk, I do and I create and am blessed to have no dysfunctions. But every day I wake up and have to make the choice to get up and do it all over again. Every day is varying levels of pain, sometimes indescribable. I have neurological issues, seizures, whiteout blindness, occular migraines, the list goes on.
But I don't give up. Giving up is not tolerable for me-never has been. Doctors tell me I am a miracle, but it is not so. I'm just not a pussy, and doctors love pussies and write prescriptions to help you to be a better one. So, the truth is I'm not the man I once was...I'm not the writer I once was...but the world and life and all their varying responsibilities are just as they have always been. So, I don't have time for a blog, or writing, or any of it.
So, I log on after two years to wipe it all out, but then I get pissed. Mainly, because I don't quit, but partly because I was put on this earth to do something that I haven't done as yet. Maybe my heart was right all of those years ago and it is indeed writing. I won't know unless I do it. So fuck it.
I don't know what this blog will be. I don't know what I will write-poetry, stories, diary-type monologues, beautiful things, hard things, all the aforementioned-I don't know. I just know it will not be reprints of old me, tales of better days and vanity-driven bullshit with photos of headier times. If so, just tell me to fuck off. I'm going to write what I want to write and when I wish to. I'll tell my own truth and be true to that and if you like it, that's nice and if you don't...well, there are 30,000 other writers that may tell you what you want to hear and more than a few doctors that like pussies.
All I know is that I neeed to write-be it of a thousand lives lived in a deep green tangle of forest or the heart of one touched by the hand of something greater...and maybe it will all go somewhere I've never been.