I cannot tell if this is a rut or the good life. Everything seems OK. Nobody is throwing any rocks at me. The bills are paid, more or less. My bike is still relatively new. The A.C. works. No, I guess it is not a rut, it is a routine. Same thing, damn near every day. There is really no need to complain. I’m eating well. Reading good books. Cracking different versions of the same jokes with the same friends I’ve had for about 15 years. I still laugh most of the time.
Still, at the edge of my mind’s eye I see something shifting, restless.
I tried to make a bedroom the living room, and the living room a combination dance floor, repair shop, but the couch got stuck in the hall. I almost took an axe to it to get it out of there.
I could start working all night and sleeping all day. I could wear my pants backwards, eat breakfast for dinner, dinner for breakfast, and lunch on the roof. That might help.
The problem is that the routine was the goal. To get out of the melee and lead a somewhat more predictable life is nice, as anyone who has been blindsided one too many times can tell you.
You know, some groceries in the fridge. Sheets on the bed. Middle class stuff.
This summer may be the time to write a book, or at least an essay or two. I could break out the acrylics and paint more janitors on llamas. Get a tattoo. Carve a moustache. Learn an actual finished song or two on guitar. Start a hot sauce company. Start wearing underwear. Anything to shake things up.
I want something BIG to happen. Famous last words.