I flew the nest. My house, slowly shedding it’s skin of snot, is also surrendering it’s hold on sanity. That, I suppose, is the one positive about having two sick children, a sick wife and, of course, being sick myself, it’s fairly quiet. At least during the day. At night the hounds of fever and constant coughing are released and they roam the stillness of the dark, adding chills to the air that is, frankly, cold enough.
The family is regaining it’s composure, which is to say, we are losing it. We are stir-crazy, and we are restless. Our nerves are left open and exposed after days of rubbing them red and raw with everything but a kleenex. Towels and dirty socks, these things are not as soft as I once believed, and I now regard them anew, with the same weary respect that I have long assigned toward sandpaper and exfoliating cremes.
Don’t mistake the fact that I am overjoyed to have our health returning to us. It is just that I have things to do, and I need some semblance of quiet in which to do them. If nothing else I need less distraction and more sterile cups of coffee and compilations of jazz. I also need free Wi-Fi.
Which leads me once again to Panera Bread. I bought a coffee, a bagel and a loaf of sourdough. I had them slice it. There haven’t been many things created that have bettered sliced bread, regardless of what you’ve heard.
I am working on my book proposal, something that I’ve successfully managed to avoid for well over a month. It grates at me. I am reminded of the 16 hours that I stood by the side of my wife as she endured the pains and exhaustion of labor. I need to push.
The main difference of course is that I am springing forth life from the hole in my head and not the other end. Plus, in this deal I’m much more likely to get screwed after the fact, and I have doubts that it will be gentle.
Honestly, I don’t really believe that what I am feeling is anything like childbirth, but I will say that my lovely wife had four things available to her which I do not, those being, in no particular order, the NBA Finals on a TV in front of her, the soothing lull of The White Album filling the room, the hilarious and oft-underrated comedic stylings of me, and of course, drugs. I don’t have any of this stuff.
I’m just saying, that’s all.
I do, however, have email access to friends and associates that are in various levels of achieving, or in some cases, excelling, in the area which currently torments me.
I don’t want to use it. It’s not that I am above that, but I’ve bugged them enough, and I’ll most likely need them again later. Too much begging may derail my creative train.
Which leads me here, to the point that I have danced around for this entire post. This blog is something that I abuse daily, but never to the heights of satisfaction that I have known from the abuses that my other personal “attributes” receive. No, this blog abuse, due to half-assed posts and lack of effort, often leaves me insecure and unfulfilled. The latter abuse leaves me tired and laden with guilt. Sometimes it makes me cry. But I digress.
I need an agent. That is where this was headed two cups of coffee ago, but I started typing in time to the Thelonious Monk that is playing in the cafe and wound up somewhere ’round midnight, when I should have just gone straight, no chaser.
I am so fucking clever.
Which is why I need an agent. I am looking to you, the masses, for help in this matter. I know there are readers out there, usually lured here by tricks of Google and misleading links from well-bribed search engines, that have expertise in this field. Use it dear readers. Use it, and you shall be rewarded.
At the very least, perhaps I’ll quit rambling. My wings tire from this ceaseless flapping in the exhaust of my own hot air, and I still have a nest to fly back home to.