When I get up in the morning I don't feel conscious until I fell the caffeine flowing through my blood. Some days mother will bombard me with a million questions, all with good intentions to keep me on track, and I will begin to answer. Somewhere mid sentence I'll stop and scream, "...can't I finish my frickan coffee first before you harass me in the morning?" She has a great capacity to instantly forgive my morning behavior. I am very tough on her.
It's summertime. Shouldn't this mean I'd be spending time with friends? There are a bunch of problems with that idea. The first is transportation. I am happy to say that I have taken the written exam and now hold a driver's permit. Second problem: everyone works, including myself. I work night shifts. I paint on some days. Things can get quite busy.
In all of this stems the question, "where is the beginning to happiness?" How do I find peace when so much of my free time is spent alone? None of this is easy. And I am stuck with the limits I was born into.
Recently a coworker's home was struck by lightning. She and her two teen-aged children were forced to move into a new apartment downtown. Many people from work have been helping her family to settle into their new home. The new apartment needs work. But things are moving along nicely. I helped last week with painting some of the rooms. When everyone was taking a break on the first floor I snapped a few photos of the white walls and wooden floors. That moment all I could think about was how much I desired to have just that: an empty room. I dream of this often. The location gets an excellent breeze. There is a tree shading the entire apartment. The room was quiet. I could just see it all, a place to be. More and more I hate 'things', especially for what they do to people. I just need an empty serenity.
So in this so-called business, I make plans but rarely do I complete them. I spend my days off in front of a computer screen for hours, playing a video game that was created probably more than a decade ago (meaning the graphics are completely outdated). The day becomes wasted as I zone out into a fantasy land of nothingness. I haven't painted much of my own work. I haven't taken many pictures. And I ask myself, "Michael. Where is your mind these days?"
One of the best escapes from reality is a good novel. I have a book, loaned to me by a gentleman years ago that I have not touched since. I picked it up last week and I am almost half-way through. If I am doing nothing it feels good to at least see other people doing "something", even if they're just characters in a book. I desire to write as good as Paul Russell does. His ability to create such authentic characters leads me to believe he listens to people so deeply. The idea that anyone thinks so much about people, in order to create such astounding characters, excites me. Now the challenge for such an author becomes finding an audience. So few people desire to listen to each other nor any story that everyone possesses. Few are willing to share the real details about themselves, the good stuff that goes beyond the current dramas and gossip. It is a gift to say how you feel, and an even greater one to tell us why.
I am floating around on a blank cloud, alone with myself and dreams of painting/writing something magnificent.
