For two hours a subtle thought played repetitiously in my head, distracting me from the road. It began as a sensation, remained as something like that, a proto-thought, the sense of something more that one has trouble describing to others but knows, in a self-contained, meaningless way, to be truly important.
I’d given the thought a form, came up with something clever as I drove the car in, around, and through an abnormally thick set of traffic along Rt 15, but the pithy thing fell away and I cannot recall it.
The sense has remained.
A strange sort of killer calm persists, has persisted through the day, back through the sunlight before it fled, through the meeting with my employer, over the hundred miles between here and D.C., back to last night, back before my departure, a night before my return, to some point between Wick’s start and the ‘monitor ready’ image displayed in white across the theater’s then empty screen.
I have no greater point as I have no explanation. Life doesn’t work that way. There’s rarely a narrative arc.
Twelve years ago I was certain I’d never go to college. Instead I became a metal smith. Five years ago I was so focused on jealousy and feelings of inadequacy at the contrast between me and friends my age that I could think only of finishing my undergrad somehow. It nearly didn’t matter where. Two years ago I was graduated and certain of going to grad school, again, somewhere, somehow, and becoming a novelist, a short story writer. In between then and now I’ve vacillated on what I’d study, on how I’d manage it with four cats, a girlfriend already in school, and a family house to mind.
Now I’ve the satisfaction of an unlikely job with which to contend, and my plans seem like they’ll change again.
Maybe that calm is some new tact, a new tract of my mind’s trying to deal with big decisions by going to ground, digging trenches across my neocortex, and carving fox holes toward my foramen magnum until all I can see faces inward.
I promise, despite the tone of my prose, I am happy.
In my way.