I wonder if any roaches crawled on me as I slept. There's a good chance that happened, it appears to be their most social season of the year down here; it's absolutely disgusting to watch. I wonder if Josh woke up and wondered where I was -- I get sad when I am as absent, distant, from our life as I have been lately, and I'm sure he gets just as sad, if not sadder.
Last night, I felt very compelled to go sit inside of the Buddhist temple off Florida, which I've never been inside of. It's been a very, very long time since I've felt so pulled to a holy place, so I should have taken the urge seriously. I didn't.
I went to City Park and sat on an empty sidewalk instead; pulled out a notepad, and loaded a picture of Mark Twain on my phone. There, I tried to draw his likeness. Not too long ago, I would take to drawing ink portraits of famous people when I felt like this -- lost, restless, hopelessly behind on all matters. I'm not an artist, but it was my soul's antidote somehow. Everything would feel better after spending two hours scribbling out a picture in the zone; my shoulders would melt, my compass would stop spinning, and I'd suddenly remember where I was, who I was, and what I was supposed to be doing next. I have no idea how or why it works for me, but it always has.
It didn't work out last night, though -- my Mark Twain was nothing more than a dark blob staring at me cockeyed from an unpleasantly-yellow legal pad. His nose looked badly broken, like someone had taken a heavy fist to his septum, and it appears that afterwards, the surly bastard didn't care enough about his nostril capacity to let a doctor check it out. From the drawing, I can tell that his face melted at some point after the blow, for reasons that remain unclear. I took a half-hearted stab at his shrubby eyebrows, promptly failed, then put the pen away.
I began to regret not busting in on the Buddhist temple. It was late by that point, and I imagine the Buddhists hit the hay pretty early, so I went to this crappy coffee place on Jefferson, deep in the city's Bourgeois Enclave. I only go there when I don't want to run into people I know -- usually after I miss a deadline -- but I had intentionally left all my work back home. I sat at a table outside, next to an unfortunately large Bible study group, taking the lone chair they hadn't needed. I had no idea what I wanted, what I was looking for, or what piece of me had gone missing earlier that afternoon. With no work to toil over, I forced myself to sip my iced herbal tea into purposelessness, staring at the blurred headlights as they zoomed down Jefferson, taking all their purpose with them. Purpose -- I didn't want any of it.
I'm not sure how long I sat there, but at some point, I became aware that I've been acting like a robot for God knows how long. Weeks? Months? Please don't let it be years. When did my switch flip to autopilot? When did I stop feeling the zeal that used to ride shotgun to my life like clockwork -- the overexcited, almost embarrassing joy of being alive? All the hope that once carried me feels like a quarter of what it was, and I have no idea where it's going or why it's evaporating.
I have no reason to be unhappy, or even the least bit unsatisfied -- from all angles, my life looks like it's in order. Everything is in its place... but it's not; it's off somehow. I am married to a man the universe seems to have created for me; I'm actively writing my first book; I'm a borderline professional wedding photographer; I have everything going for me that can possibly go. In a month, I'm moving to a place I've always wanted to live, with the person who first took me there. I'm spending more time with my family and friends than I have in a very long time. What is this dark cloud hanging over me; what is it made of; where did it come from? Where has my compass gone -- did I break it? Did I lose it? Did I accidentally sell it with the box of wedding decorations at the garage sale? Did I at least break even?
I think I'm gonna go visit the Buddhists today, like I should have done yesterday. Maybe that's where it all went wrong. They don't have any answers for me, I'm sure, but they might have silence, and I think I could use some of that.
Last night, I felt very compelled to go sit inside of the Buddhist temple off Florida, which I've never been inside of. It's been a very, very long time since I've felt so pulled to a holy place, so I should have taken the urge seriously. I didn't.
I went to City Park and sat on an empty sidewalk instead; pulled out a notepad, and loaded a picture of Mark Twain on my phone. There, I tried to draw his likeness. Not too long ago, I would take to drawing ink portraits of famous people when I felt like this -- lost, restless, hopelessly behind on all matters. I'm not an artist, but it was my soul's antidote somehow. Everything would feel better after spending two hours scribbling out a picture in the zone; my shoulders would melt, my compass would stop spinning, and I'd suddenly remember where I was, who I was, and what I was supposed to be doing next. I have no idea how or why it works for me, but it always has.
It didn't work out last night, though -- my Mark Twain was nothing more than a dark blob staring at me cockeyed from an unpleasantly-yellow legal pad. His nose looked badly broken, like someone had taken a heavy fist to his septum, and it appears that afterwards, the surly bastard didn't care enough about his nostril capacity to let a doctor check it out. From the drawing, I can tell that his face melted at some point after the blow, for reasons that remain unclear. I took a half-hearted stab at his shrubby eyebrows, promptly failed, then put the pen away.
I began to regret not busting in on the Buddhist temple. It was late by that point, and I imagine the Buddhists hit the hay pretty early, so I went to this crappy coffee place on Jefferson, deep in the city's Bourgeois Enclave. I only go there when I don't want to run into people I know -- usually after I miss a deadline -- but I had intentionally left all my work back home. I sat at a table outside, next to an unfortunately large Bible study group, taking the lone chair they hadn't needed. I had no idea what I wanted, what I was looking for, or what piece of me had gone missing earlier that afternoon. With no work to toil over, I forced myself to sip my iced herbal tea into purposelessness, staring at the blurred headlights as they zoomed down Jefferson, taking all their purpose with them. Purpose -- I didn't want any of it.
I'm not sure how long I sat there, but at some point, I became aware that I've been acting like a robot for God knows how long. Weeks? Months? Please don't let it be years. When did my switch flip to autopilot? When did I stop feeling the zeal that used to ride shotgun to my life like clockwork -- the overexcited, almost embarrassing joy of being alive? All the hope that once carried me feels like a quarter of what it was, and I have no idea where it's going or why it's evaporating.
I have no reason to be unhappy, or even the least bit unsatisfied -- from all angles, my life looks like it's in order. Everything is in its place... but it's not; it's off somehow. I am married to a man the universe seems to have created for me; I'm actively writing my first book; I'm a borderline professional wedding photographer; I have everything going for me that can possibly go. In a month, I'm moving to a place I've always wanted to live, with the person who first took me there. I'm spending more time with my family and friends than I have in a very long time. What is this dark cloud hanging over me; what is it made of; where did it come from? Where has my compass gone -- did I break it? Did I lose it? Did I accidentally sell it with the box of wedding decorations at the garage sale? Did I at least break even?
I think I'm gonna go visit the Buddhists today, like I should have done yesterday. Maybe that's where it all went wrong. They don't have any answers for me, I'm sure, but they might have silence, and I think I could use some of that.
