I don't know whether I've hit a wall or if I've become the wall.
I haven't written for almost three weeks now; there's an unfinished draft that should have been out ages ago but lo and behold, time's marched on and I've basically missed the window. Maybe it's what I've needed though, this little mini-breakette from writing the same thing over and over, which must really be as boring to read as it is to think that it's what I've actually been doing. I suppose it was a necessary evil though, allowing me to process that I didn't want things to change but am completely powerless in the face of it. The word "devastated" got thrown around a lot because I couldn't think of anything more exciting or more accurate to describe how I felt: I am wasted and brought low; desolate and void. And really, because I think I am I know I am I'm sure I am, I'm not exactly sure what's going to have to happen to sort this out. I don't need to worry about the hows and whys of it being the summer vac and people leaving, more the... What?
I spend my days working, actually, sat at the front desk of the Cathedral Office, answering the phones and opening the doors and passing on messages for 7 hours a day, 5 days a week. It's steady but ultimately boring work, and recently I've also been preparing a database of local businesses which is every bit as soul destroying as it sounds. Things are pretty alright though! I'm working so money will be coming in, and I'm still going, still got my health, still got all my hair and teeth, but I'm still just... I dunno, unsatisfied? I often wonder what sort of great disservice I do to myself but then I've written more than my fair share of witless navel gazing already for one lifetime.
I've been thinking, as dangerous as it sounds. Thinking that maybe I have just been trying too hard to be a "well-rounded human being", spending too long trying to be an all-rounder and feeling failures too keenly because of that. I've been thinking that life isn't solely about mastering one's ability to process the world around us, but being able and willing to communicate to those who make up our world, as two parts together. I can sit and pontificate on my own as much I like or want to, but without an outlet, without dialogue, without a sounding board of some sort I am alone and then it doesn't matter how much I 'process' because there isn't really much point. This is why living where I do, and whom I live with is so important. This last year has been nothing short of a Godsend, like some sort of old-fashioned miracle living with the man I refer to as "Master" - referencing not only his position as Master of the House but also his former profession as English teacher - full of good humour and a genuine interest what I do, how and why I do it, and what I have to say about it as well; in short, an extremely communicative household. I like to "check-in" of a morning to get myself back in touch with a reality that doesn't really have anything to do with what goes off inside my head. For saying how terrible my social skills can be still, I have a remarkable need to be around people.
This isn't to say that I am completely alone otherwise; weekly film nights or crawling through town for dinner mean I still get out and about. I know I bang on about how much I miss the now departed throng of Scholars but so much time was spent knocking about with all of them that I really am at a loss. Even going down to The 'Front in Fal is decidedly less amusing without at least one aider and abetter (how many?). I'm in danger of starting to write the same thing over and over again though, so let's turn away from this. At least if I get it out on here it won't be stuck in my head. Let's talk about going to the cinema.
The best thing about having a week night where tickets are only a fiver is that a trip for a film no longer has to be the main expense or event, as the last two weeks have proved. Last week we managed to get a JD Wetherspoons sharing platter and a pint in before Guardians of the Galaxy (which was excellent), before tapas dinner and even more pints after, and the week previous, when we decided to hit Dawn of the Planet of the Apes, we... We, er, drank. I've never been to the cinema under the influence of alcohol before, because I live such a well-behaved life, and I just hope we didn't disturb the other patrons too much. It was fine really though, and if anything made sure I didn't take a film that was mostly composed of motion-captured actors transformed into Apes on screen talking in sign language overly seriously. Guardians, on the other hand, was hilarious. For saying how unfamiliar the world, and by extension my mates, might have been with the team, there was a screening full of raucous laughter and a general enjoyment had by the audience. I may not be too up on the whole Thanos stuff or just who Ronan has been Accusing, but knowing the recent run of Guardians from TPBs and lovingly remembering the Rocket Raccoon comic in the back of Marvel's Transformers run in the UK in the 80s, I'm probably in a better position to enjoy the in jokes more than most other film goers.
There are plenty of articles on Marvel Studios and universe building and how even they aren't too big to fail, and this blog isn't going to become one of them, but I will say that I'm looking forward to if and how this all fits in to Avengers: Age of Ultron, with Spaderman as the titular baddie. That and the constant muttering of "why isn't there a Black Panther film" and "When will Black Widow get a solo movie" means that whatever does happen, there'll always be people that they can't, and basically won't please.
I'm well aware that I'm a little out of practice again, so I'm going to try to get back into the saddle and write more often again. I still keep the little black Moleskine with me, so I don't forget absolutely everything, but there isn't much for publication in there these days. All the good stuff already got used. I am, however, going to write and publish once a day when we get to September, in a move I like to call #BEDDIS: Blog Every Damn Day In September. As of the 7th we'll be back to Choir, and if I get stuck, well, I've got a copy of the San Francisco Writers Grotto's 642 Things to Write About to work through yet, so I'm sure there'll be something. I might have established that I have a problem writing at the moment, but it's not like I've built myself up again before, is it?
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