I've been toying with blogging about this: that I have everything I want. Or well, I'm on the path to everything I want & if you don't think that's virtually identical to having everything you want, you haven't been organizing this bowl of spaghetti for the past forty-odd years. Well, the spaghetti is organized now. Life is a bowl of very neat spaghetti, and it's just okay. On the one hand, it's great to be living your life. I mean, there's living and then there's your life. Your story, and what it's about. I work, I skate, and I sleep. I once wished I could write so hard that I would forget to water my plants like Annie Dillard, or maybe it was Annie Lamott. To do something singlemindedly to the neglect of everything else. And lo, I have arrived. I don't even have plants, unless you count what's growing on my shower curtain. I wish I was going to say next that I regret the condition of my shower curtain on the other hand, but that's not what it is. I mean, I'll wash it down the next time I'm in there. It's just that on the other hand living your life doesn't feel like enough, and feels a little empty. When your real life exceeds your dreams, you need to come up with more dreams. But what dreams, you can't distract yourself with just anything once you've disciplined yourself against distractions. You feel good about that, but it doesn't solve your problem. It just keeps you from creating worse problems, and your problem isn't that bad. You're content, but being content makes you a little discontented.
Which is how I've been for probably the past several months. Until.
Friday night, I'm checking my home email accounts. I hardly get email on my home accounts anymore, both of them are for people who don't know me as Poppy Spock. I have an email from my sister saying that her cancer is eating away her bone in a few small spots. Her experimental drug has significantly shrunk most of the problem spots she had, but these spots are resistant. So, radiation treatment. Knock knock, good news, bad news, who knows. By which I mean, that is just crap. It's crap for all the serious reasons that living with cancer is crap for the person who is actually living with cancer, who is not me, and it's also crap because I can't be bored with my life without cancer inviting itself in?
I have another email on my second home account, the one that I only get screenwriting spam on. It's from a guy I sent my screenplay to a year ago for feedback. He's going to read my screenplay, send me notes, and talk through them with me on the phone. Which he does the next day, which gets me excited about writing this screenplay again. In what copious free time?
Interesting times, again.
