Bruce’sOnline Journal |
| “I write because I don’t know what I think, until I read what I say.” — Flannery O'Connor |
Week of March 19, 2001
March 22
Earlier this week we had three (count ‘em!) days in a row of sunshine. Two relatively warm days followed. Today it’s snowing. Well, it’s not so much snow as it is airborne slush. Several inches accumulated overnight making this morning a real mess. It snowing heavily (slushing heavily?) when I walked to the bus stop. When the bus came, I carefully kicked the snow off my boots when boarding. And an avalanche of snow fell from my back and backpack into my seat. I discovered this only after sitting in it.
Although the bus was on time, it had a failure in the most important part of the machinery. The fare box. When they switched to the computerized satellite-linked fare boxes last November, I expected trouble, but I’ve not experienced any. Maybe they had to get a few miles on them.
So I rode downtown for free since the computer couldn’t scan my pass. I’d already put the 15¢ in for a transfer and the driver gave me an emergency transfer. Nearing downtown as the bus turns on to Main Street, the driver pulled to the side and we waited for a replacement bus. By the time it arrived, we moved from one bus to the other and we made it downtown, I’d missed the transfer to the Park-Ridge bus.
There was nothing to do but turn around and come home. Yeah, I suppose I could have waited out in the cold, soaking wet, for the next bus 45 minutes later. But they don’t let you in to group when you’re late. You have to sit in the lobby. I just didn’t feel like it, and particularly not in light of my wet ass. So in the spirit of carpe diem, I crossed Main Street and came home.
And since I had an emergency transfer, the ride home was free.
And the fare box on the bus home was broken too. Somehow, I don’t think city buses and high-tech satellite-networked computerized fare boxes were really meant to go together. Diesel and silicon don’t mix.
Arriving home, I called in and offered to drop by later today to pee in a cup. I doubt the counselor will take me up on it, but if he does, I’ll have a ride right past the place.
My parents are picking me up for dinner. It’s my oldest niece’s birthday today so I’ll be spending the evening with family, such as it is. Last night on the phone with my mother, she asked, “Are you going over there for dinner?”
“Uh, I dunno. [My brother] told me 6:30.”
Pause. “Oh, then you’re not invited to dinner.”
I figured as much anyway. It just confirms for me that all they’re really interested in is the cash inside the card. But then the shocker came. Mom asked, “Well do you want to come to dinner here?”
I can’t believe that my parents weren’t invited for dinner at my brother’s. Having them back out of that to have me over to dinner is so out of character my mind is still reeling. I can’t imagine what the phone call between my mother and my sister-in-law would be like. They’re two peas in a pod.
It promises to be an interesting evening. And I wonder how things will transpire at my other brother’s next week for his daughter’s birthday.
I’m material!
One of my classmates in the Creative Nonfiction course that ended last week is an online journaler. She has gone to tremendous lengths preserve her anonymity so I’m respecting that by withholding her name and URL. We’re kicking around the idea of forming a writers group with a couple of the other class members so you may hear more about her.
After we “came out” as online journalers, we e-mailed a couple of times, always complaining about our classmates. Back on the 7th, she wrote about it. She told how almost everyone in the class seemed more interested in the issues they wrote about than they were with the writing itself. I’ve voiced similar feelings here. She went through the list of laments that took over the class discussions, ending with, “I’m in rehab.”
When I first saw that I thought, How could she? Half a second later I thought, Cool! I’m material!
It’s really different to have the shoe on the other foot. Yeah, I’ve quoted and linked to other journalers, and they’ve quoted and linked to me. This is a much different feeling. True, it’s only three words and it’s the only mention. No one else on the planet would suspect it’s me.
I think my AA friend actually tries to feed me material. He’s almost giddy when I write about a book he’s lent me, or when we go places and do things. Mark just takes things in stride, we hardly ever talk about anything I write. You Know Who took issue with it. That I wrote about him anyway was one of the points of contention between us.
Anyway, it’s something I’ve been meaning to share for a few weeks now. I wasn’t really putting it off, I just never got around to it.
One thing I haven’t addressed here lately is tone. I’ve spent three years whining and feeling sorry for myself here. I suppose that, given tone doesn’t come across in writing too well, at least not in my writing anyway, that it’s not unreasonable to assume that I’m the same old sad sack I always was.
Nothing could be further from the truth. For the first time in my life I feel happy by default. It’s not my nature to be chirpy and effervescent. And I have no intentions of changing my name to Bambi just so I can dot the “i” with a little heart or smiley. I’m not THAT happy. But as a general rule I run around smiling. Both inwardly and outwardly. I experience most of the spectrum of emotions daily, which is good. Variety is the spice and all that.
It’s come to my attention due to some of the comments made to me about the “Shitty First Drafts” entry last week. On re-reading it myself, I see where it could be read with all sorts of different emotions behind it. Sadness, anger, sarcasm, come to mind first. I didn’t make it clear in the piece exactly where I was coming from.
Got back and read it with a tone of relief and happiness. That’s the way I felt when I wrote it, and I still feel the same way.
Along with his question and comments, (which I hope I’ve clarified) fellow journaler Iain asked the question, “What do you want your journal to be?”
I don’t really know. I’m considering that question as part of a larger one, What do I want my writing to be?
In all honesty, yes, I entertain fantasies of being published. But they’re along the same lines as “wouldn’t it be cool if I could go to the moon?” I’m a long way away from either one. I don’t hang my identity on it, but it’s fun to think about.
The question still needs answering though because I’m running out of things I want to write about. I’m about rehabbed to death, and there isn’t much else in my life right now. As SecraTerri wrote in her piece, “Clean Living Makes Lousy Copy” there’s no drama, no conflict, no bad stuff happening to me now. I’m not complaining, mind you. I’ve never had such an extended period of tranquility in my life, and I think I deserve it. But it doesn't leave much to write about.
I have made a decision of sorts with regard to career direction. I’m having a blast doing the web site redesign for that non-profit I’m afraid I can’t mention. I’m stretching my technical skills, learning new ones, there’s a certain amount of creative expression and it let’s my imagination and problem solving skills run rampant together.
More importantly, the folks at the non-profit are way beyond impressed. The word “ecstatic” has frequently been bandied about. I gave a dog and pony show at a committee meeting Monday night. Despite there being a wide range of technical knowledge and comfort, (and the video projector making some funky choices about my colors) to a person the group was wowed. And the more technically savvy they were, the more impressed they were. I got the green light for everything.
While I broke quite a sweat as I was giving the presentation, I experienced a complete absence of anticipation anxiety. I had no anxiety, jitters or butterflies right up to the point when I started, “My name is Bruce” and I remembered to NOT say, “and I’m an alcoholic and drug addict.” Afterward, I felt so exuberant that I couldn’t get to sleep for hours after I got home.
And I’m on the docket to present the dog and pony show to the full session, over 200 people in May. Not bad for someone diagnosed with Social Phobia, don’t cha think?
When I’m done with the redesign, the site will have grown from around 20 pages to just over 100. Which means, at the going rate of $100 per page, they’ll have gotten over $10,000 of web design work in two months. They’re getting a real steal, and I’m getting so much out of it, it almost feels like I’m taking advantage of them. It’s a win-win situation.
In any event, that’s the general direction I’m going to express when I have the intake meeting at the state-run voc-ed agency a week from today. I’ve reached the limits of what I can learn on my own. To get a job in web development, I have to add all sorts of acronyms to my resume. And I think I’ll do just that.
And I have a lot of pages to produce by my self-imposed deadline of Monday April 2nd. It can slip to Friday if need be, but I’d rather it didn’t. So I’m off to web land.
March 23
The morning slush yesterday turned into rain in the afternoon. The rain combined with the melting slush to make a huge wet mess. It was the kind of mess I dreaded as a homeowner. It always meant a pond in the basement. I often wondered if I could get away with ignoring it if I just told people it was a cistern, not a basement. Thank heavens the basement here is dry.
The skies cleared about a half-hour before sunset. The high humidity and the remaining clouds gave us a wonderfully fiery orange sunset. I couldn’t decide if I felt treated to the display or cheated that the skies hadn’t cleared earlier.
The sky is clear as the proverbial bell this morning. The forecast calls for this error to be corrected by this afternoon or evening. None of the little forecast icons have sun for the next five days. Some of the cloud icons are leaking and some have snowflakes. Monday has both.
As for the birthday party last night, I have to make a retraction. It seems I was the only one considered for an invitation to dinner. My brother and sister-in-law decided at some point to forget about it so they’d have more time for preparations.
I gave up trying to count the number of people at the party. Chaos and confusion were everywhere. Between the younger kids and the half-deaf oldsters, the noise was deafening. It was more than I could really handle all at once.
An hour and a half into it, I found myself in the kitchen refilling my coffee cup and wondering if I should “flavor” it with a bit of Jim Beam, the bottle of which was sitting next to the coffeemaker. Sobriety prevailed, although the thought primarily responsible was the memory of hangovers. Still, I wished I could click my heels and incant, “there’s no place like home.”
I’m really beginning to wonder about my father. Before the party when my parents were telling me about their trip to Florida, my father had nothing nice to say at all about the trip. He hated Florida in general, Key West, the Everglades and West Palm Beach in particular. When you consider those are the only places they spent any time, well, you get the picture.
He hated the drive and all the waypoints too. He hated I-95, he hated the alternates, Skyline Drive in Virginia and the Florida Turnpike. He hated Columbia South Carolina and he hated Charlotte North Carolina. He hated the Blue Ridge Mountains and the entire state of West Virginia.
I’m not sure how Pennsylvania and the rest of New York State got off the hook, but Georgia did only by virtue of the fuel prices. At the party he told of how he hated New Orleans and the five-day riverboat cruise from last year’s late winter trip. Kentucky got off the hook last year because of the Corvette plant in Bowling Green.
I’m wondering why he ever leaves his living room recliner.
And it became clear where my old negative attitude came from.
March 25
I’m becoming concerned.
Several things have been going on lately that individually are cause for concern, and if they go together, which they may not, collectively are frightening.
