June 07, 2004
Precipitating Silence
But I'm so tired of singing all
The sad songs in my head
- Matt Nathanson
It always seems to come when I need it. Last November. In March. Now.
Maybe I'm lucky. Maybe I've done something right. Maybe I'm not that bad, after all. Sometimes it's hard to believe those things. Sometimes I get caught up in the static of sensory inputs, unable to make sense of the good things happening to me. Sometimes I just get stuck here, in this place, with the trains passing me by and the fire door still open.
Yesterday, I sat on the floor in front of the sliding glass door, and watched the rain patter down gently, in that Oregon fashion. It's become one of those things, like daffodils and drinks of gin, that comes preprogrammed with emotions and responses.
Solitude. Darkness. Happiness. Uncertainty. Contemplation. Silent tears. Waiting. Hope.
I like it when things come back to hope. That 'definite-having-of-perspective.' I think, more than anything else, it's what reminds me I'm lucky. And have done something right. And am not that bad, after all.
It's on these days-- these days between the good and the bad, these days of hope and uncertainty, these days filled with rain-- that I think I learn the most about myself. Patterns emerge, insights appear, and life becomes more complex.
Complex. Like a Beaux Freres '02 Pinot Noir. But without the dusky spice notes and hints of plum.
And now Jay is home. This is important not so much because his arrival is related, at all, to this entry, but because my newest theory on why I don't write much anymore is that I can't write well when people are around. I like to sit, and think, and listen to music, and sit a while longer; to others, it looks as if I'm free and available for interaction. I suppose this could become problematic in the future, what with me wanting to both write a lot and live with someone.
More complexity, I guess.
Posted by Sean at June 7, 2004 11:19 PM