Everything I Know
The idea of ever writing another book again starts and ends with the most ambitious idea ever - just writing down, Everything I Know.
And in the end, it probably won't mean that much to anyone anyway, but it's an idea that keeps kicking around, and comes painfully clear when I have a couple of beers, or a glass of wine and then a couple more beers after watching the Yankees beat the Royals. Tonight.
And therein lies the problem. As a writer there is this huge ego driven ideal that whatever you write, somebody, somewhere is going to have a connection and will read along. That is a tremendous leap of faith. It is also a wonderful concept and something that always pushed me forward. I've been well read and I appreciate it.
Yet as a young man, I couldn't figure out why everyone wouldn't read my pearls of wisdom. As a young adult, I figured I'd find a niche. As an adult, I looked to find my voice, and then the world caved in for me, and I figured that no one could possibly give a shit because I had been totally wrong.
And this is where I sit. Completely humbled by the world, no longer cocksure and confident, and scrambling to find a place...any place where I might fit in.
And what do I know for sure?
Not much.
I thought I knew a whole lot.
Not anymore.
And my boys sit with me. Waiting for me to fill them with knowledge. They are anxiously awaiting me to lead them in one way or another, and God help me, I'll try with all my might, but Everything I Know?
So help me, God, there ain't much.
And I'm not all that down about it. Don't get me wrong. It's just that illusions will drive your existence if you allow them too, and all the things you know for sure, will crumble. Eventually, they'll crumble.
The foundation has been weak through the past week. The very legs I've been standing on have grown weary with the weight of what I've been carrying (insert the joke there, Pops) but through the quiet of the recuperation, I've been humbled further, knowing that we are all just renting these bodies and that when they wear out, it is the spirit that moves forward.
And where that spirit goes, who the hell knows? And where it all begins and why it all ends -for some quicker than for others - and why there is no rhyme or reason that even the most simplest of writers can understand, we'll never know....
And why Everything I Know can never truly come off the ground because...
...through it all I don't know shit about shit.
And in the end, it probably won't mean that much to anyone anyway, but it's an idea that keeps kicking around, and comes painfully clear when I have a couple of beers, or a glass of wine and then a couple more beers after watching the Yankees beat the Royals. Tonight.
And therein lies the problem. As a writer there is this huge ego driven ideal that whatever you write, somebody, somewhere is going to have a connection and will read along. That is a tremendous leap of faith. It is also a wonderful concept and something that always pushed me forward. I've been well read and I appreciate it.
Yet as a young man, I couldn't figure out why everyone wouldn't read my pearls of wisdom. As a young adult, I figured I'd find a niche. As an adult, I looked to find my voice, and then the world caved in for me, and I figured that no one could possibly give a shit because I had been totally wrong.
And this is where I sit. Completely humbled by the world, no longer cocksure and confident, and scrambling to find a place...any place where I might fit in.
And what do I know for sure?
Not much.
I thought I knew a whole lot.
Not anymore.
And my boys sit with me. Waiting for me to fill them with knowledge. They are anxiously awaiting me to lead them in one way or another, and God help me, I'll try with all my might, but Everything I Know?
So help me, God, there ain't much.
And I'm not all that down about it. Don't get me wrong. It's just that illusions will drive your existence if you allow them too, and all the things you know for sure, will crumble. Eventually, they'll crumble.
The foundation has been weak through the past week. The very legs I've been standing on have grown weary with the weight of what I've been carrying (insert the joke there, Pops) but through the quiet of the recuperation, I've been humbled further, knowing that we are all just renting these bodies and that when they wear out, it is the spirit that moves forward.
And where that spirit goes, who the hell knows? And where it all begins and why it all ends -for some quicker than for others - and why there is no rhyme or reason that even the most simplest of writers can understand, we'll never know....
And why Everything I Know can never truly come off the ground because...
...through it all I don't know shit about shit.
Comments
It was incredible, really.
You know more shit about shit than others and so you should probably write again. :-) But I get you about the illusions driving you. It's better than sitting stagnant though, isn't it? Writing a book probably feels inconsequential to you right now - and in reality, in the big picture, coming off this huge loss, it is. But it's something to do while riding on the bus of illusions.
Life is better with a breaded pork chop in my hands.