Ren & Stimpy mug. A bottle of Catalina dressing. Salt and pepper packets everywhere. So much of my life is lived at my desk that it naturally becomes an extension of my home. Not that I'm rocking the plastic at the Casa de Chingón; it's Ikea, baby.
But I haven't had a chance to use the new flatware. It still sits in the drawer. Eras come and go, but my time of solitude persists; asking for a table for one is no longer uncomfortable. I can smile at good-natured gibes about the world not lining up outside my bedroom door because it's true. Tales of my luck with ladies are part of my past now, and I do not mind. Zazen.
I write these things because what I wrote last June still applies: part of the reason for this blog is to chronicle life as I know it in this not-so-brave new world. This is who I am now. Whether I like it is irrelevant. It is part of my change of heart.
Some things remain constant. I still stay up late on Friday nights — no longer watching movies, but I continue to walk into the fog. The muse still occupies my mind and heart. I am still clean. These things I expect to keep with me until I die, and given my intention to stick around, I have settled in for the long haul. Again, zazen.
Why does it have to be this way? I do not know, any more than I know why a handshake changed my destiny. Sometimes things happen that rattle the cage of life, and the only thing to do is get used to the noise, even when it deafens. Especially when it deafens.
Coming up to a year now since I first wrote about the odd years. I had no idea this one would be so odd. And so grueling. Sweet dreams.