The air is brackish with the tang of salt water, broken down kelp and the acridness of diesel and darlin', it smells grand. The tide is turning and life promises to, once again, begin anew.
My final go round with our old employer went down a couple days ago. I know that it's finally over because my stomach feels better already, although my brain hasn't stilled yet. I woke up at four thirty and stared out the window at the clock tower for awhile, listened to transformers hum and to early morning traffic hiss by, but other than that the house and the streets were still. The cat was out and about on his evening's prowl, and once I thought I heard him spit at the local ferral tom. But that's all. Quietness reigned without but not quite yet within me. Time, baby, time, will take care of that, too.
I came away from that whole experience wondering if I would ever get the chance to say any last words. That morning they didn't ask for any and I didn't tell them a thing. I wrote the other day about the chance coincidence of our meeting, of the mutual party who helped bring us together who would be in that room with me that morning and have to wonder if she would even care to hear about, so I left it alone and kept it to myself. That day blended into another one spent waking up with Mi Novia sleeping in my bed, but before you jump to conclusions know that it was all very benign, all too cozy, kind of like the way you wake up with a ton of sleepover guests on the floor of your bedroom when you're a kid. It was all to the good, as it was a salve, another voice to share my voice with, another soul to share a coffee moment and bit of laughter with.
That morning, bookended with the one we spent together last week, meant the world to me if only it allowed for me go forward into the void with a voice and guide behind me. It's been something else having to bear the uncertainty of the charges, knowing that I am to blame for writing words, but knowing, too, that I don't feel guilty about them or who I willingly shared my heart with, and that's you, Jane, not that other silly woman that they're so all fired worried about. And really, The Estranged One is the only person in the whole, wide world who should really have a beef about you and me and any words I might have written to you.
You would have thought those folks at work, all literary types to a certain degree, would have seen that. You would think that they would have brought me in, showed me the printout and said "hey, mister, what's this all about? I thought we had an agreement". Yeah, I agreed to not pester the help and I did a pretty good job of it, but I had an awful hard time not being smitten with a gal that everyone else was smitten with, too. Ah, yeah, I'm guilty as I did write about her, but I wrote about her in a love letter written to you. Nevermind no names were mentioned. "My Colleague". Sheesh. What a bunch of silly people they are. Probably never had a love letter written to them in their lives.
"So, now what are you going to do?" you might ask. Well, my love, as you know I have the house up for sale so getting it ready for show keeps me busy all the time. I'm looking for work so time spent on the internet searching and filing applications is a daily exercise. I'll hopefully start to collect unemployment next month. I still have a number of projects to do around here so I'll attend to those starting, well, sometime later today. I have a stack of movies that I want to watch, a few bottles of wine left in my cellar to drink with friends. I want to start walking again, so now I have no excuse about that. And maybe I'll get around to selling toy soldiers again. Time is my friend. I suppose I should get my act together about my money, as that will be tight. I need to figure in a car trip or two Boise, and, most certainly I want to put in an afternoon in Portland so I can sit down and watch "the bird show" once more. Mi Novia is game to do that so away we go sometime later this month.
I think of all the things that I now have the freedom to do and know that cashflow will be the stickler, will be the thing that will keep me in place, keep me here around the house looking for creative stuff to do with my time. I think, though, that I should start on that novel I keep talking about. The experiences of being "laid off" are crisp and sharply in focus in my mind, not softened by time, not like ours are. I can already see the beginnings of this work coming together. Proper and place names are really the only thing I have to work out but otherwise I just need to get a voice and get going.
Yeah, time to get going. I think I'll go stand on my porch and watch the tide go out, watch all the flotsom and jetsom of these last few years go out and away with it. I think of that place, the library where we stood across the room from one another, and know that that time and that place are as far away from each other and our lives as they stand right now as two different planets in two completely different solar systems. I think of the little branch, the one I worked so hard to get into just so I could be close to you and know that to finally leave that ghost filled place is the best thing that has ever happened to me. Now all I have of the place is the memory of you peeking over the partition at me. I can close my eyes and watch you look up at me, and then, when I open my eyes I find that I am home once more.
I'm home and yet I have a million miles to go before I get there. See you on the road of life sometime, my dear.
Your WHMB
My final go round with our old employer went down a couple days ago. I know that it's finally over because my stomach feels better already, although my brain hasn't stilled yet. I woke up at four thirty and stared out the window at the clock tower for awhile, listened to transformers hum and to early morning traffic hiss by, but other than that the house and the streets were still. The cat was out and about on his evening's prowl, and once I thought I heard him spit at the local ferral tom. But that's all. Quietness reigned without but not quite yet within me. Time, baby, time, will take care of that, too.
I came away from that whole experience wondering if I would ever get the chance to say any last words. That morning they didn't ask for any and I didn't tell them a thing. I wrote the other day about the chance coincidence of our meeting, of the mutual party who helped bring us together who would be in that room with me that morning and have to wonder if she would even care to hear about, so I left it alone and kept it to myself. That day blended into another one spent waking up with Mi Novia sleeping in my bed, but before you jump to conclusions know that it was all very benign, all too cozy, kind of like the way you wake up with a ton of sleepover guests on the floor of your bedroom when you're a kid. It was all to the good, as it was a salve, another voice to share my voice with, another soul to share a coffee moment and bit of laughter with.
That morning, bookended with the one we spent together last week, meant the world to me if only it allowed for me go forward into the void with a voice and guide behind me. It's been something else having to bear the uncertainty of the charges, knowing that I am to blame for writing words, but knowing, too, that I don't feel guilty about them or who I willingly shared my heart with, and that's you, Jane, not that other silly woman that they're so all fired worried about. And really, The Estranged One is the only person in the whole, wide world who should really have a beef about you and me and any words I might have written to you.
You would have thought those folks at work, all literary types to a certain degree, would have seen that. You would think that they would have brought me in, showed me the printout and said "hey, mister, what's this all about? I thought we had an agreement". Yeah, I agreed to not pester the help and I did a pretty good job of it, but I had an awful hard time not being smitten with a gal that everyone else was smitten with, too. Ah, yeah, I'm guilty as I did write about her, but I wrote about her in a love letter written to you. Nevermind no names were mentioned. "My Colleague". Sheesh. What a bunch of silly people they are. Probably never had a love letter written to them in their lives.
"So, now what are you going to do?" you might ask. Well, my love, as you know I have the house up for sale so getting it ready for show keeps me busy all the time. I'm looking for work so time spent on the internet searching and filing applications is a daily exercise. I'll hopefully start to collect unemployment next month. I still have a number of projects to do around here so I'll attend to those starting, well, sometime later today. I have a stack of movies that I want to watch, a few bottles of wine left in my cellar to drink with friends. I want to start walking again, so now I have no excuse about that. And maybe I'll get around to selling toy soldiers again. Time is my friend. I suppose I should get my act together about my money, as that will be tight. I need to figure in a car trip or two Boise, and, most certainly I want to put in an afternoon in Portland so I can sit down and watch "the bird show" once more. Mi Novia is game to do that so away we go sometime later this month.
I think of all the things that I now have the freedom to do and know that cashflow will be the stickler, will be the thing that will keep me in place, keep me here around the house looking for creative stuff to do with my time. I think, though, that I should start on that novel I keep talking about. The experiences of being "laid off" are crisp and sharply in focus in my mind, not softened by time, not like ours are. I can already see the beginnings of this work coming together. Proper and place names are really the only thing I have to work out but otherwise I just need to get a voice and get going.
Yeah, time to get going. I think I'll go stand on my porch and watch the tide go out, watch all the flotsom and jetsom of these last few years go out and away with it. I think of that place, the library where we stood across the room from one another, and know that that time and that place are as far away from each other and our lives as they stand right now as two different planets in two completely different solar systems. I think of the little branch, the one I worked so hard to get into just so I could be close to you and know that to finally leave that ghost filled place is the best thing that has ever happened to me. Now all I have of the place is the memory of you peeking over the partition at me. I can close my eyes and watch you look up at me, and then, when I open my eyes I find that I am home once more.
I'm home and yet I have a million miles to go before I get there. See you on the road of life sometime, my dear.
Your WHMB
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