Here's what you know of me right now: I'm sitting at the dining room table, putting words to screen. The dining room is big and the table's too small; there's a slight echo as my fingers bang the keys. The dog's outside guarding the perimeter. The fog is doing a tactical retreat - move, pause, cover, suppress, move. My daughter's in the other room watching Sesame Street.
I read a Tweet from a guy who saw a bumper sticker: "Don't believe everything you think." Someone I like and admire once said "I'm not who you think I am. You're not who you think you are either." One morning (a cold January, sea and sky the color of concrete after a rainstorm) while peeling off a sodden, icy wetsuit, I saw a guy wearing a t-shirt that read "I Ain't Your Bro". He saw me and grinned. I grinned back. I feel ya. Bro.
Writers call this stuff "work" because that's what it is: the end product of thoughts going to hands going to screen. It's a process. It's making. It requires that you immerse yourself completely. At the same time, you have to observe from the jetty. Is that you, John Wayne? Is this me? It's Me and it's not. Am I who you think I am? Yes. And no. And maybe. Are you who you think you are? I dunno. You tell me. Or don't - it's none of my business. What I think is that I write some stuff about myself, and in doing so grant you access to some of the rooms in the Complex, and I that also do lots of other things, and those rooms...well, those are reserved for special members and visiting dignitaries.
Perhaps I'm in a good mood. Things are progressing. Goals are being reached. Dreams are slowly but steadily being realized. Perhaps I'm in a black mood. Too many people talking shit, pretending to be experts, assuming their opinions carry some weight. Slings and arrows. Perhaps I'm vacillating between moods. A frustrating mess. Perhaps I'm in no mood at all - could be that the fog, the dog, and Elmo are white noise, muting it all out. Who knows? I do.
