Buffering

It’s been weeks since I’ve written anything worthwhile, and really, anything at all. I squeezed out a tortured piece just to do something, perpetrated it upon a couple of undeserving-of-such-abuse friends, and then put it aside. Maybe at some point, I thought. Not now.

For the last four, maybe five weeks, I’ve been buffering, unable to work on anything. Unable to do anything, really, but vegetate. It’s a weird, disconcerting feeling. But also, why?

Nearly four years ago everything in my world changed in ways that were unwelcome and uninvited. Major hurt, trauma, loss, and destabilization occurred (passive tense), and it took everything I had to right the ship, with many I loved in danger of sinking with it. I was diagnosed with a life-long disease that means I’m usually OK, provided I have the drugs, but not always, and it always needs to be managed.

I did not lose my son from this earth, which matters the most, though in many ways he’s lost to me right now. That’s painful every day, but every day I feel relief that he’s there to cause the pain. Through him I gained a genuinely wonderful daughter-in-law, so the loving, caring, special him of the past is still present enough earn her. I did lose my career, because once you’ve scaled a mountain, everyone wants to ride downhill on your skis. Besides, I’d had enough of it and of the acid reflux system it’s built on; nobody fights harder than people arguing over crumbs they didn’t bake and don’t want to share. I rescued my father—that’s actually the right word, though it’s awfully dramatic—from the shitty situation he’d gotten himself into when he chose a shitty new family to align with. Got him to a safe place to live, with only a small fortune stolen and most of his mind retrievable when they were happy to let him rot with his demented bad choice. I saved another family member, cleaned out her hoard for the third or fourth time in my life, like wrestling an entitled, mad octopus devoid of self-awareness. Moved her and her child, repaired her domicile, got a loan to move her to another one while that was being sold, fixed the financials that were ruining more than just her. I buried a couple of close friends and a couple more less close. Lost a couple more for reasons I still don’t understand, and maybe never will. I lost my dog, who, it turns out and in spite of all my protests, was the most perfect dog for me.

I renovated from the ground up a dream house in Provincetown, with all the sturm and drang that accompanies small town politics and building. I helped another son and his steadfast, supportive partner buy his dream property in Maine and co-signed the mortgage for the first son and daughter-in-law in a suburb of Boston. Then they were laid off, through absolutely no fault of their own but through the stupid cruelty of a new, loathsome, anti-science Administration. Though we tried to keep it afloat, the mortgage payments were too much, and they had to sell their beloved place. 500+ job applications later, they are still unemployed. So I said they could move into my too-much-house-for-me house in Somerville, the one I’d been planing to sell, and rent rooms in it, as I had done for decades. So I borrowed more money and bought a condo in Cambridge, and moved out of my safe space of thirty-five years. With the new dog, who is lovely, sweet, but not a best friend dog. Not yet, at least. A realtor friend once said to me, “If you don’t mind me saying so, you don’t seem like the HOA type,” and he was right, but here I am dealing with people like Sharon, who finds something critical to say about everything and everyone and unofficially rules the condo building with a bitter, iron thumb. Yesterday I found her in the lobby proclaiming, loudly, “I wonder why they can’t get this stain out of the carpet” while the people who work their assess off to clean up after us toiled nearby.¹

I wrote a book, found an agent, and have learned the art of waiting. After nearly sixty-seven years. Waiting is as stupid as I thought it would be, but here we are. Getting a book published by someone else isn’t something I can ram through. Annoying.

I managed to get a few written pieces published in fancy places.

I’ve taken numerous classes, attended numerous webinars to learn this craft of writing. I sort of sleep, though from the neck up and the hips down everything hurts all the damn time, even lying down. Oh, and the hands. They only sort of work.

Why am I not writing anything? Well, first of all, I’m tired. We’re all tired. We have a front row seat to the ruination of our country, as ICE agents literally threaten the safety of my sons and many other sons and daughters everywhere. As a lawless President and his henchmen dismantle everything good we stood for. Many of us still stand for. Waiting for an election that might turn the tide to be blatantly discounted or prevented is terrifying, it turns out. Mourning the concept of goodness is devastating.

But also, everything is done. The people I love are as good as they can be now. There’s nothing more I can do. I’ve moved the scary money in scary ways, and so far I’m OK.² Everyone is where they need to be right now, in the best situation they can be in given the circumstance. Given anything I can control or influence. The book is done for now, unless and until a publisher tells me to start rewriting. I’ve moved and survived—kee-rist that was hard. I still have good friends, and some new ones who are fun and smart. And now, it appears, I’m empty. I don’t know how to refill. I don’t know how to exist anymore without a battle to fight, a crisis to manage, a mountain to move.

That’s fucked up.

I’ve spent the last ten days deliberately doing nothing³. Cooking, rearranging things in the new place, sitting in my living room. I’m rewatching Vera from the first season. I’m half-reading books, but not good ones because I can’t focus that much. I’m watching YouTube videos.⁴ I’m trying to learn to do a push up by starting with 20 counter-height ones daily. My sons brought the Peloton bike here yesterday, and I’m going to take extra anti-vertigo stuff and ride it for the first time in years. I’m stretching, trying to make my ankles more bendy and less piano-string-tight. I walk this Malinois dressed as a Beagle four or five times a day.

Yesterday I was just sitting here minding my own business when I felt what might be the first drop of gas hitting the bottom of my tank. It didn’t last long, but it was there, it felt great, and it prompted this too-long ramble to be delivered to your in-box.⁵ ⁶

I wrote something. Thank you for being there to receive it.

I’m on season two of Vera now. There are twelve seasons to go after this. We’ll see how many British bodies need to fall, and murders she needs to solve, before the tank is full enough to go anywhere

.

1. Yes, obviously I do whatever I can to ruin her day as often as possible.

2. The one good thing about getting old is you’re never going to last long enough to pay off those loans.

3. As opposed to accidentally doing nothing while I spin my wheels and get frustrated because I got nothing done.

4. Those Australian ambulance crew are so well funded!

5. I was kvetching to my friend Esther about this state I’m in, and she said, “Go write a Substack.” Well, Esther, you were right again!

6. I’m going to send this a day early for my usual schedule just to clear the decks and have nothing “looming,” no matter how small.