Courtyard at work, early December
Fog
Limited visibility (vision)
Monochromatic (monotone)
Cold (lack of energy)
Barren (lack of creativity)
Mother nature seems to be taking a cue from my soul, draping the great outdoors in a landscape that strongly resembles my inner-scape.
There is a sort of stark beauty in that picture, which is why, upon seeing it, I walked back to my office to grab my phone and went outside to take the pic. I used some Google photo tools to obscure the ugly "office park" and I-69 in the back ground.
If there's something beautiful in that landscape then maybe there's something beautiful happening inside of me, even if all I can feel is pain or emptiness. That's doubtful. At any rate I haven't put my feelings down in a long while because the truth is I just haven't had many feelings, except a jagged-edge, low-grade dull pain, that sometimes turns into a crushing weight. But I'm keeping it together, keeping up the four pillars:
1. Be present and cheerful with Larry
2. Don't fuck up at work
3. Don't live in a pig sty
4. Exercise daily, no matter how half-assedly.
I have recently added a fifth pillar: Make plans with close friends. Once a week I try to meet with a close a friend for one-on-one face time in a quiet setting.
I know that one of the reasons I felt so happy in Cape San Blas was because I was usually outside. Even when I was inside, telecommuting in the early morning hours for work, I had the windows open and could hear the birds, and could see the color of the room go from grey to pink as the sun started to rise. At that moment, I would hop on my bike and ride the length of the Cape. After lunch, it was straight to the beach, just a few feet out the back door, through the sea oats, and over the dune. In between was hiking and kayaking and more biking.
I realized that being in nature is key to my well being.
Since Primo died, and since we've been back, I rarely go outside. Other than the short walk from my car to the office, I'm just not out there, and again I ask, who wouldn't feel this way?
This climate sucks. Why do we live in such a stupid climate, which gets colder and rainier every year, and where we can spend maybe 1/3 of the year outdoors comfortably?
I know where all of this is coming from.
Primo has been gone two months now, but I can still "see" him around the house--in his favorite corner when I'm reading on the couch, in the doorway to the kitchen when I'm cooking, watching for me to drop something. I can see him pacing as the night wares on, wanting his nightly constitutional. He was worth the cold and damp and snow. I remember braving near freezing temperatures and feeling invigorated. Those are such happy memories: Primo and I walking on snowy evenings, him on alert for any movement, walking tall, ears erect, his senses seemingly heightened in the darkness. And me, gazing thoughtfully at winter star constellations, the contour of snow blankets on tall pines, the absolute stillness except the crunching of icy snow beneath our feet.
I'm making an effort at appearances and have attempted to meet up one-on-one with close friends on a weeknight for a nice dinner out. The other night I was out with friends, and while I enjoyed the company and the mere act of being out again, I noticed that not only did I have very little to offer the conversation, but that being put on the spot to offer my opinion made me feel uncomfortable and daft. The topic wasn't necessarily intellectual--it was movies and plays, subjects on which I remain woefully reprobate, and which I never feel the need to rectify. When the conversation turned to a movie that ignited the passion of both of my friends, I watched as if I were an ethnographer: here are humans getting excited and spirited about something that seems very far removed from them...and yet it's not...must further research into this uniquely human enigma.
But from a personal standpoint, I did enjoy their passion, and realized I couldn't remember the last time I felt the stirring of passion. I couldn't remember the last time I did something with gusto and didn't enjoy it merely on a superficial level.
Did I turn off my receptors or are my passions just exceedingly difficult to engage...or ...do they just have more esoteric permutations that have proved to be a mystery even to me? (On a side note, I have to keep asking myself how is it that I am in the avocation of creating and participating in theater and seem to have no appetite for theater? Could I care less about things happening in our theater community? I don't think so.)
The only things that seem to stir me are experiencing nature and some really good books.
To my credit, I have been spending a lot more time reading lately. Lately, I literally closeg the back cover one book and open the cover of the next. Have you ever seen a chain smoker, crushing a butt into an ashtray with one hand and reaching for the pack with the other? I seem to be doing that, taking barely a moment to reflect on what I just read. I decided I'm going to give myself this one. I think about the words I'm reading whenever I put the book down to go to work or go to bed or do the dishes. I'm trying hard to fill a void, and it might as well be books.
But I want my passions to stir again. Right now, being out in nature just isn't that enticing. Have you seen central Indiana in that season between fall and winter? I guess I could dream and scheme about the coming seasons. I sure don't love ice storms, but a snowy winter hike in a canyon is a beautiful thing, and yet I hate to wish for snow. I could at least look at the wonderful photographs of places I've been (Joshua Tree, Smokey Mountains, Alaska) and dream of the places we'll someday see: Acadia, Porcupine Mountains, Grand Canyon.
I think I need to get walking again. I used to walk 3-6 miles per day with Primo. I need to myself do it again. I'm exercising in my home gym and that 's good, but I need some fresh air.
And in the absence of having any profound or poetic passions, I think I am going to write here more, even if it's just a diary of what I did, read, or watched on Netflix.
I have to start stirring again.
There is a sort of stark beauty in that picture, which is why, upon seeing it, I walked back to my office to grab my phone and went outside to take the pic. I used some Google photo tools to obscure the ugly "office park" and I-69 in the back ground.
If there's something beautiful in that landscape then maybe there's something beautiful happening inside of me, even if all I can feel is pain or emptiness. That's doubtful. At any rate I haven't put my feelings down in a long while because the truth is I just haven't had many feelings, except a jagged-edge, low-grade dull pain, that sometimes turns into a crushing weight. But I'm keeping it together, keeping up the four pillars:
1. Be present and cheerful with Larry
2. Don't fuck up at work
3. Don't live in a pig sty
4. Exercise daily, no matter how half-assedly.
I have recently added a fifth pillar: Make plans with close friends. Once a week I try to meet with a close a friend for one-on-one face time in a quiet setting.
I know that one of the reasons I felt so happy in Cape San Blas was because I was usually outside. Even when I was inside, telecommuting in the early morning hours for work, I had the windows open and could hear the birds, and could see the color of the room go from grey to pink as the sun started to rise. At that moment, I would hop on my bike and ride the length of the Cape. After lunch, it was straight to the beach, just a few feet out the back door, through the sea oats, and over the dune. In between was hiking and kayaking and more biking.
I realized that being in nature is key to my well being.
Since Primo died, and since we've been back, I rarely go outside. Other than the short walk from my car to the office, I'm just not out there, and again I ask, who wouldn't feel this way?
This climate sucks. Why do we live in such a stupid climate, which gets colder and rainier every year, and where we can spend maybe 1/3 of the year outdoors comfortably?
I know where all of this is coming from.
Primo has been gone two months now, but I can still "see" him around the house--in his favorite corner when I'm reading on the couch, in the doorway to the kitchen when I'm cooking, watching for me to drop something. I can see him pacing as the night wares on, wanting his nightly constitutional. He was worth the cold and damp and snow. I remember braving near freezing temperatures and feeling invigorated. Those are such happy memories: Primo and I walking on snowy evenings, him on alert for any movement, walking tall, ears erect, his senses seemingly heightened in the darkness. And me, gazing thoughtfully at winter star constellations, the contour of snow blankets on tall pines, the absolute stillness except the crunching of icy snow beneath our feet.
I'm making an effort at appearances and have attempted to meet up one-on-one with close friends on a weeknight for a nice dinner out. The other night I was out with friends, and while I enjoyed the company and the mere act of being out again, I noticed that not only did I have very little to offer the conversation, but that being put on the spot to offer my opinion made me feel uncomfortable and daft. The topic wasn't necessarily intellectual--it was movies and plays, subjects on which I remain woefully reprobate, and which I never feel the need to rectify. When the conversation turned to a movie that ignited the passion of both of my friends, I watched as if I were an ethnographer: here are humans getting excited and spirited about something that seems very far removed from them...and yet it's not...must further research into this uniquely human enigma.
But from a personal standpoint, I did enjoy their passion, and realized I couldn't remember the last time I felt the stirring of passion. I couldn't remember the last time I did something with gusto and didn't enjoy it merely on a superficial level.
Did I turn off my receptors or are my passions just exceedingly difficult to engage...or ...do they just have more esoteric permutations that have proved to be a mystery even to me? (On a side note, I have to keep asking myself how is it that I am in the avocation of creating and participating in theater and seem to have no appetite for theater? Could I care less about things happening in our theater community? I don't think so.)
The only things that seem to stir me are experiencing nature and some really good books.
To my credit, I have been spending a lot more time reading lately. Lately, I literally closeg the back cover one book and open the cover of the next. Have you ever seen a chain smoker, crushing a butt into an ashtray with one hand and reaching for the pack with the other? I seem to be doing that, taking barely a moment to reflect on what I just read. I decided I'm going to give myself this one. I think about the words I'm reading whenever I put the book down to go to work or go to bed or do the dishes. I'm trying hard to fill a void, and it might as well be books.
But I want my passions to stir again. Right now, being out in nature just isn't that enticing. Have you seen central Indiana in that season between fall and winter? I guess I could dream and scheme about the coming seasons. I sure don't love ice storms, but a snowy winter hike in a canyon is a beautiful thing, and yet I hate to wish for snow. I could at least look at the wonderful photographs of places I've been (Joshua Tree, Smokey Mountains, Alaska) and dream of the places we'll someday see: Acadia, Porcupine Mountains, Grand Canyon.
I think I need to get walking again. I used to walk 3-6 miles per day with Primo. I need to myself do it again. I'm exercising in my home gym and that 's good, but I need some fresh air.
And in the absence of having any profound or poetic passions, I think I am going to write here more, even if it's just a diary of what I did, read, or watched on Netflix.
I have to start stirring again.
Stir it Up, Bob!
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