The following and all of the other episodes to come are snapshots of what goes on in my head, now and in the past. There are times none of this will make sense. There will be times when I might get lucky and the blog I post will be well constructed and will flow like a mountain stream to an awaiting lake below. Other times it will seem like the ramblings of a madman and you’ll ask yourself, “What the……?”
You should probably get use to the latter.
AMBIENT THOUGHT BLOG SPECIAL EDITION: Where Am I?
The following is an observation on my life at the moment of the writing. Since this has been posted, things may have got better…or worse. You, the reader, may understand or share these thoughts and feelings. If so, join the club. If not, please, no judging. We all have our own battles to fight.
Where am I?
Have you ever asked yourself that question? Maybe you have. Either because you literally didn’t know where you were? (This parking lot is so big. Where am I? I shouldn’t have got off that trail in the woods. Where am I?) Or maybe you have asked yourself that question in the figurative sense. (Where am I in this life?)
That’s the one I’m talking about.
I know where I am physically as I write this. I’m sitting at my computer, having a glass of iced tea, and wishing I wasn’t exactly where I am at this moment. It’s 7:10 AM Central time, Friday, July 7th, 2017. I know where I am in space and in time. Unless this is the matrix. Then, if that’s right, I’m in pod surrounded by some sort of fluid. I hope it’s not sticky.
It’s where I am in life that’s the question.
Where am I?
I’ll tell you where I’m not.
I’m not where I thought I would be. Or hoped that I would be.
When I was a kid, I wanted to be in show business. I wanted to entertain people. I would have settled for anything to do with it. In front or behind the camera. Maybe a stuntman. Or a director. It finally came down to wanting to be a writer. I could write scripts for the movies and maybe win an Academy Award for Best Original Screenplay. I’d settle for Best Adapted. I think making something from scratch is better than making something from a thing that’s already been made.
Then my mind started to change gears. Why just write scripts when I could write books? I could write a best-selling novel that could be turned into a film. And who could write the script? Me, of course. Then, even if it’s an adapted screenplay, it’s still mine anyway.
So, I wrote. I sat down and wrote short stories, novellas, and scripts. There were even some fan fiction thrown in there in hopes I could sell one to a favorite TV show and maybe land a job. (I still have one for the X-Files that I think would be a pretty damn good episode.)
And that was what I did. I would write. I would go to the library (before the internet) and do research on different subjects I wanted to tackle. I bought spiral notebooks by the handful and sat them aside until one was full, then I would grab another and start to fill it.
Then something happened that I didn’t see coming.
Life got in the way.
Other things became priority. Some of those were legitimate, most were not. The muse in my head, the one that gave me inspiration, disappeared somewhere in my mind. I’m not sure where she went but she took all of those desires with her.
Life became…normal. There was work and bills and family life. Don’t get me wrong, family life is wonderful and I always wanted to be part of my own family with a wife and a child, a dog and some cats in the house to make it feel like a home.
But the jobs never turned out to be something that I saw myself doing. And there’s no harm in that. That happens to ninety-nine point nine percent of us. And, if we’re lucky, we find something that gives us some satisfaction, it fulfills us in some way, it makes us feel like we’re making a difference in the world.
But not one job I have ever had made me feel that way. Every one of them has been some sort of ‘dead-end’ job.
Who’s fault is that?
Mostly mine. I didn’t go to college long enough. I didn’t take more chances when I should have. I didn’t try harder. I believed in a dream that I couldn’t accomplish without some sort of higher power getting involved or winning the lottery. That would also include the induction of a higher power.
I also believed the universe was against me. I was doomed to one dead-end job after another. I would go home after each day with no self-worth and not be any closer to something I wanted. I would not be closer to a career.
Life went on and I’d dream of being a writer. I’d imagine what it was like to spend my days writing and beating deadlines. I’d imagine people reading and liking, maybe even loving, what I wrote. I knew there would be hard days and days where I was pulling out my hair due to writers block or something I’m putting down doesn’t work the way I see it. But any of those problems would be problems I would love to have.
Occasionally, that muse in my head would appear out of nowhere and hand me an idea. Just a small voice in my ear. I’d grab a dusty spiral notebook and start. Sometimes she would disappear again before the story was all out and it would die on the paper. But sometimes she would stay and continue to whisper in my ear. I’d finish it and put it away. Then she would be gone again.
Finally, after many years of starting and stopping, and in great bouts of depression from thinking about where my life was going, she came back. The muse entered my mind and set up a permanent spot. It all started with what a friend said I should write a blog about dealing with depression.
And off to the races I went.
She is still whispering to me. Even at this very moment, she has a cupped hand to her mouth putting ideas where I can get to them.
But where does it get me? It feels good to write. I finally believe, in some small way, I’m pretty good at it. I’ve got some positive feedback on what I have written. Are all of my blog posts home-runs?
Hold on a second. I have to laugh at that.
No. Of course not. But it takes writing some of those clunkers to get to some that are pretty good. Maybe even a couple of great ones. So be it. I’ll take it.
But, again, where does that get me? I’m basically writing for myself. I guess that’s fine. But this is what I want to do. This is what I feel I have the best talent for. I have tried other things and some of those haven’t turned out too bad. I might have a talent in one or two other things…but writing…writing is where my heart is.
And right now, it’s not going too far.
Maybe I should be content on that. Maybe I should just keep working my dead-end jobs and not try to make anything more of my life.
I have tried to do that. I have tried to imagine a unfulfilled life and just dealing with it.
And I might have to. I understand that is the most probable outcome. I will keep going to a job that I don’t like and have to live paycheck to paycheck until the day I die.
Sure. There’s some comfort in that. My wife and daughter wouldn’t think any less of me. I love them and they love me. As hard as it is to believe that somebody could love me, I believe they do no matter what, no matter what job I have.
But it’s hard to do something everyday that you don’t love, that you don’t like. It’s a struggle.
The muse is whispering in my ear that I’m suppose to be doing something else. I should be using a talent I have instead of just calling it in day after day.
And I want to be doing something else with my life. I want to doing something creative. I want to be giving a part of myself to the world.
I want to be satisfied.
I want to know that I’m not lost anymore.
I need to be found.
And I need to know somebody is looking.
July 14th 2017
I’ve decided to keep a blog about how I’m dealing with depression. I’m going to consider this a form of therapy. It might not help anybody else but it might help me.