writing versus paycheck 8-4-12

Where to begin. I think I’ve let some things slip over the last two weeks, and am now faced with scrambling uphill to catch up. Scrambling uphill has been a large part of my life. Where is my writing? Where the hell did I leave it? I was working on my story Teachers Lounge, then became swamped again with work and life. When will I see that writing is the work of my life? I thought I understood that, and yet here I am floundering once again, trying to pick up the pieces of a some shred of lost storyline. Phhh. I’m a piece of work.

Had an interesting dream last night. Dreamed that Carmie and I had moved to San Francisco to find work. Why there, God knows. Anyway, we moved into an apartment and I met a guy somewhere who invited Carmie and I to his house. I recall being  a little hesitant, but Carmie thought it as a good idea, so we went. It was a big place, a lot of rooms, and we stayed in a room that was larger than our apartment. I remember listening to OPB on the radio and wondering about catching the Bay Area public radio stations. The guy, who’s demeanor vaguely resembled my bike repair buddy, Robby’s, showed me the stations on the dial. I told him I was a teacher and that I needed the radio for my work. My work.

Waking from this dream I wondered what the hell I’m doing. I know that I need to pull another story out, that if I don’t I will be chastising myself, as I am I now, for the duration. My story “Sanctum” was a good beginning, and I believe I can produce more in the same vein. And yet so much I feel is “in the way” of my writing sapping me and pulling me away from the practice I struggle to maintain. If these distractions were only house projects, the physical drain of [omitted] which is manageable, I would still be able to find the time to write. 

Having taught at [omitted] now for more than 12 years, I have constantly worked toward quality, authentic expression in my students, a nobel pursuit to be sure. Most of my time, however, goes into grammar, mechanics, and spelling, with very little having to do with actual creative or productive thought. I desperately want to be back in the composition classroom again, working with native speakers to help them has out more specifically what it is they want to say, with more frequent and focused control over their language. I’ve served my time in the alphabet soup of language development; I want to deal in the world of ideas. 

So how is it that I find myself in this predicament, these cement boots that keep me from what I should be doing with myself? First, it is the economic reality that what I do matters enough that I continue to be respected and paid for it. Second, because of my present status at work, I am compelled to maintain my teaching load there in order to achieve the fullest pay that I can. Perhaps when Carmie lands her full-time teaching work, I will be able to pursue teaching at [omitted] more rigorously, with understanding that I would be writing alongside those jobs.

There is the other idea that we eventually sell out of our house and downsize into something more economical. This could be a smaller house, a condo, or even a boat, though  living on a boat would likely be the least attractive option. There is a certain level of patience we have to employ before embarking on a new lifestyle. Making sure the kids are both on track with college will be the primary goal to achieve. That is about four years down the line for Gavin, seven for Rachel. In those four to seven years, Carmie and I need to be working on achieving some goals. I think our first goal might be to become closer. I need to find ways to support Carmie more and let her know that I respect her own growth toward becoming fully human. We need to be working more closely as a team toward that aim for each of the members our family. Secondly, I need to be focusing on my writing, yes, that again. I’m afraid I’ve let the old voices creep into a position of dominance again, the ones that tell me I’m no writer, that I should just be focusing on being a good husband and dad, that my writing is of no consequence. And yet, time and again, it is in writing that I redeem myself; I give myself the latitude for change; I see that the possibilities for my ideas extend far beyond the horizon--”bigger than the planet” as I like to tell my students.

Carmie just relayed to me from something she just read (How We Decide) that motion sickness results from a disparity between what dopamine levels the body expects under predictable conditions (walking down a side walk) and those under unpredictable conditions (experiencing air turbulence). Is it possible for this explanation to extend to the larger idea that when we change we become unsettled, displaced from what we have gown comfortable with. Perhaps by the very nature of our physiology, we resist these changes in lifestyle. Perhaps Paul Selig and those he channels are correct: we are on the cusp of huge changes personal, social and cosmic.

In another dream of a couple nights ago, I was photographing fire, tentacles of flame reaching across the landscape. I was getting in close with my lens, hoping to peer directly into the cosmic origin of this energy reaching so deftly to convert even the last pine needle of the land into pure carbon. Am I that lens?