I wish it wasn’t this way…

Just like a boxer in a title fight
You got to walk in that ring all alone
You’re not the only one who’s made mistakes
But they’re the only thing that you can truly call your own

I wish life was such that someone could take a magic wand and wave it and make everything all better. Make everything work. Make everything easier. Make everything…well, less work, I guess.

I wish at the very least there was someone there who knew the future and helped us to avoid the pitfalls we (or at least I) seem to step into. I hear you, Billy. I hear you, and I do. I own them. Every last one of them. But there are days when I wish I didn’t have to carry them anymoe.

I have forged a suit of armor for myself over the years, rivoted together with this notion that I am a go-getter. That I can’t stop pushing, can’t stop working, can stop moving forward. Part of this is true, but I would characterize it a little differently, I guess. Because in no small measure all of this movement had to do with my wanting to move forward–at least move toward the life I envisioned for myself. But I think I got a little carried away with my rivots. Me thinks I may have rivoted too much.

Because I have, in the past several months, felt quite deficient in the rivot department.

I know, I know. It’s not very apparent. I mean, everyone skips out on their blogs, stops keeping in touch with people, and basically feels paralyzed in their work, sitting in front of their keyboard for hours unable to tap even a single key. Happens every day, right?

Well, not to me, it don’t.

Damn it!

But I have to admit, no matter what it looks like–good or bad–stress tuckers you out. I’ve been tired, my friends. Dead dog tired. I’m embarrassed; I hate it. But it is what it is. My fear is that it will never go away. That I will be like this forever.

Don’t forget your second wind
Wait in that corner until that breeze blows in

I have, over the course of that last several months, tried to keep this in mind. Thank you, Mr. Joel. Point well taken.

And yet, it’s not as if I have completely sat on my hands, either. Since October of 2005, I won a major writing award, met the love of my life, got financed to develop a movie (whilst staving off financial ruin in the process), got engaged, moved into a new house (so to speak), got married, done major renovations on my house (painting ad naseum, redid the downstair bathroom, redid Zach’s new bedrom, put in a new floor throughout most of the top level of the house), refinanced the house, painted the outside of the house, researched something (hockey) I know nothing about for the movie, developed the story, paneled at the 2006 Austin Film Festival, became partners in a great start up business venture (and everything that goes along with keeping something like that afloat and growing–nationally and internationally–and creating two new “products” and then launching them), lived through teenage angst, lived through graduating high school again, lived through packing up and heading off to college (worse when it’s your kid than when it’s yourself), made two gardens, built a patio, re-wrote a screenplay (which moved from “I hate it” to “I think I like it”), worked with a group to develop and pitch a sitcom to a major celebrity (which everyone associated with him loved, but he…well, charitably speaking, no so much. It was the “This doesn’t suit me at all” that was the dead giveaway. In spite of his lawyer/trusted advisor, the person who runs his production company, the person who runs his show, and his wife all saying “This is great! He’s gonna love it!” Now picture me sitting right next to him at the table. And, oh, yeah…the guy, himself, is a writer. And a writerly institution, nonetheless! And he frowns. Can’t meet my gaze. As Austin Powers says…”Awkward.” But I digress. That’s probably a story for another day), started another screenplay (the hockey movie), redid my website (of course, first I had to teach myself how to do that), created Robbye’s website, and made (according to Robbye) the most delicious coffee known to humankind most every morning.

Okay…my friends are right. On one hand, it feels bad–like bragging–to put it all out there. But it also feels good. To see it. To force myself to think through it. List it all. Show myself.

Okay. I am not paralyzed. But why does it feel like I am working three times as hard to get everything done lately? Why does every day have to feel like I am trudging knee-deep through muck?

You’ve been keeping to yourself these days
Cause you’re thinking everything’s gone wrong
Sometimes you just want to lay down and die
That emotion can be so strong

Yes, I have. I admit it! In fact, I will go you one further. I stare at my inbox and all the messages people send me…friends, colleagues, people I need to connect with. And I hit the “new message” button. And I tap out a few words, then nothing. Half the time, I just can’t do it. So I close the window and tell myself I will do it later. And later never comes.

I don’t answer my phone. I conveniently “forget” it at home. I wait until my voicemail box is nearly overflowing. And then maybe, just maybe, once a week or so, I slog through the messages. Half-listening to half of them.

It’s gotten to the point where some people don’t reach out anymore. I feel bad about that. I want to turn that around.

Because it’s not me, I tell you. It’s not me.

But hold on

I am, I am. Every day I am getting out of bed. Every day I am wearing my clothes and chewing my rice. At least as best as I can.

Every day I am owning that I am the sole arbiter of success in my life. That I make it happen. That my actions determine the outcome. Some days I don’t like it. Especially when I am tired. Especially when I am tired of carrying the mantle. Especially when I am feeling decidedly mojo-less.

That said, the tide is turning. I can feel it. Rather, I should say, I am turning the tide. Because I think we’ve established that there is no omnipotent someone or something turning the tide for us. I am moving the ball downfield again on my screenwriting career, and I hope to have some cool news about that soon. Every day, Robbye and I are putting it together better and better: our home, our life, our love. I am trying to be a good father and business partner. I am trying to get back in touch with friends and others whom I have too long neglected.

And I am trying to cut myself a little slack. More to the point, I am trying to forgive myself. Recognize that, though more than “worth it”, it sure as hell ain’t “easy”. And own that, too. And, as Robbye would say, that “I maybe a superhero, but I am only one superhero.” And be okay with that. And be okay with me, warts and all.

So I step into the ring every day, in spite of everything. Many times, in spite of myself. And I keep slugging.

Till that old second wind comes along

Every day I hear Billy Joel in my head.

You’re havin’ a hard time, and lately you don’t feel so good/You’re
gettin’ a bad reputation in the neighborhood.”

I run through the lyrics of the song, Second Wind, like a mantra.
It’s either supremely important or supremely insane. I’ve yet to
figure out which.

“It’s alright, it’s alright/Sometimes that’s what it takes”

More often than not lately, I sit in front of my trusty iBook and
feel quite un-trusty, myself. I stare at the blank window. It
stares back, unblinking. Empty space. Waiting for a Universe.
Big. But no bang.

“You’re only human/You’re allowed to make your share of mistakes.”

It’s something between my shoulders. A…something. In me, but not
of me. I can feel throughout tissue and bone. Wrapped around,
engulfing each individual cell. Squeezing. And yet…emanating?
Like it can’t decide what to do next. Implode or explode? …That
is the question.

“You better believe there will be times in your life/When you’ll be
feel like a stumbling fool.”

It’s a parasite, it is. Uninvited, unwanted. There nonetheless. No
picture of cooperative symbiosis here. No happy little yellow bird
merrily cleaning the big croc’s choppers sans concern. I wish it was
a little yellow bird. At least that would be cute. This thing is
black. No…it’s negative color. Beyond black. Black hole color.
Nothing cute about it. It sucks in light. It feeds off my color.
My light. It leaves me exhausted and, more often than not,
incapacitated.

“So take it from me you’ll learn more from your accidents/Than
anything that you could ever learn in school.”

I wake up each morning praying it’s gone. Sometimes I think it is.
I lay in bed, still. I feel like myself. Like the morning of my
worst hangover ever. Open my eyes. No problem. All is well in the
world. Eventuality, however, is the winner and still champion. Give
it a minute, and…hmmm… “Why is my arm screwed around like that?
Why is my face jammed against the wall? Why am I sleeping in my
pants? Why am I missing one sock?” Apologies to Mr. Joel, it is at
this time the words of Peter Gabriel are most profound: “Here comes
the flood.”

“Don’t forget your second wind/Sooner or later you’ll get your second
wind.”

Functionally, it blocks impulses from my brain to my fingers.
Experientially, it stops me dead in my tracks. Makes every day
exponentially more difficult than it should be. And when I try to
push through in spite of it, you better believe, baby, the empire
truly does strike back. Forget whatever shit Darth Vader pulled on
Han or Chewie. That’s got nothing on that which I have come to term
“fuzz and fog mode.” Oh, yeah? Think you’re tricky, eh? Well, how
about I block every coherent thought in your pathetic head? How’s
that work for you? I put one foot in front of the other for as long
as I can stand it. Sometimes, though, the mud is simply too deep.
My legs get tired. I thought so.

“It’s not always easy living in this world of pain/You’re gonna be
crashing into stone walls again and again.”

When I’m not directly impacted by it (read: when I’m performing one
of the few impressive feats of which I am currently capable, which
include guessing the ending on Law & Order: SVU reruns and clicking
through craigslist), I think about it. Worry about it. Obsess over
it. “What is it? How did it get there? Why is it there?” And the
most pressing question: “When will I be free of it?”

“It’s alright, it’s alright/Though you feel your heart break.”

Even worse, there are times, like when I’m running, when suddenly
it’s gone. Thoughts and ideas and insights and to dos come flooding
into my conscious mind. Okay…they’re tentative at first. Little
Munchkins, poking their heads gingerly out from behind oversized
daisies and gingerbread houses. But as soon as they sense the all
clear, they break out into song. They party like it’s 1999. It’s
overwhelming and euphoric all at once. And for those precious
minutes, I am once again on my game. I can feel the zone. I party
with them. Too bad I just can’t keep running. Again…my legs get
tired.

“You’re only human/You’re gonna have to deal with heartache.”