I remember reading about Poe. One author talked about how Poe just "couldn't cope with reality" and that was a primary reason he sank so low, guttered, and could not remain sober for any length of time.
Who can't relate?
Often, I think of myself as special for the trouble dealing with every day. Stepping back, I see it in so many faces. The "Man of the Crowd" haunted me because he was enigmatic, empty and captivating and everyone. Life feels that way, sometimes -- empty, enigmatic, connected, and captivating. When dark places get to laughing. When the anxious day fades away and the magic of the mottled sky holds me. I can taste so much in those moments. I can feel so much in those minutes. And I know you can too.
So, what then? Does life go on in this lumpy circle? Joy, despair, overwhelm. Joy, despair, overwhelm?
I try to think of myself as Vonnegut's "upright mud" but I am ungrateful. I want to be more than mud. I want to wrest from the summit some piece of smooth writing, I want the angels to whisper in riddles and beautiful hymns. I want the heart of my darkness to have skylights so that some of this pain might be illuminating. Do you?
I want, and I've been told that's sin.
I want the world and its best and its worst and I want to have my sons and my wife and my home and a life. When and what will finally give? Reality or me?
I keep myself in check for the sobriety of a happy home and hearth. I keep myself on a line of dishes and dry-cleaning and mops and brooms and homework and kisses and trappings of seasonal changes. How would I better serve anyone in an alley with this keyboard and a bottle? The realist in me knows I'll do no better. The realist in me knows the only chance I have is to keep this routine and make myself an instrument of this art.
And yet, I yearn. For more.
By 10:00am the demons are back, whispering secrets and lies. Time to find an author to save today.
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