uneasy writer

Following the daily drama of politics has been a lot like having back surgery, only miserable. If there is an upside, it's that all the self-loathing I once reserved for navel gazing is now redirected towards rubbernecking. Maybe not all. I still catch myself reliving the past, looking for something in the bookshelf, an old movie comes on, a song plays. That isn't to be helped. Dreams, oh god, sometimes I think maybe I should sleep in the guest room, who knows what I'm saying in my sleep. But fewer of these dreams are of horizons, maybe that is what happens as we hit the down hill slope of our lives.

We moved to this big house, on the ridge over a river as it meets a delta, a wildlife preserve, so that my bird list is building like silt. We can peek at the ocean through our little forest of hemlocks and madronas and alders and doug firs. In the middle of our yard is this amazing yew, and I stare at it when I have coffee in the morning like a narcissist. We are 5 minutes from the boat launch, where we catch flounders and rock sole and dungeness crab. Our son graduated high school, and we grill on the deck and introduce his girlfriend to Wes Anderson films. I longboard with my daughter in our neighborhood, where we pick blackberries on our way home and wave at neighbors who know our names and smile. It all feels like a guilty surrender.

I went to the dentist for the first time in three years and I had no cavities. Ok, now I'm just showing off.

It would be incredibly embarrassing to know that people I know in real life might be reading my personal thoughts. I cannot believe I ever once wanted to be a writer.


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