I think I just got the meaning of "working stiff" as I wrote it. The working a/k/a walking dead? Sorry to say, I'd agree for most of my life I was a working stiff and working "stiff." Hey, I must be accepting this path I'm on!
"One of the symptoms of an approaching nervous breakdown is the belief that one's work is terribly important," said Bertrand Russell. I felt my work and my position were vital. Truly vital. [Sigh] In truth, I realize it was just an amoeba's pisshole in the Cosmic Snowbank of Life. I'm sure by the following Monday, all traces of me were gone, the coup complete, and my effigy, ash. I'm also sure that all decorum is lost and the standards have slipped sufficiently that no one like me will ever work there again.
Now I work here, at home, trying my best to write my best. Pondering my next move on the keyboard, delving the depths of my forgotten knowings, I'm awake every second. Getting the day-to-day out of the way, laundry, vacuuming, dishes, or cooking; it never stops being about the writing. By day's end, after researching and reading more now than I have in years, I feel brain-tired for better reasons than I've ever known. Sir Roget and I are tight again and we're both pretty happy about it. Tennessee Williams wrote, "When I stop working the rest of the day is posthumous. I'm only really alive when I'm writing."
As seemingly trivial as this blog has been, it is a launching pad for what lies within. Every thing starts somewhere; the first blotch of paint, the tap of the chisel, pen to paper. Do I possess any talent? Sure I do, but the only way I'll ever know for sure is to tell Houston I'm a go, light the fuse and fearlessly blast into the unknown.
"Work while you have the light. You are responsible for the talent that has been entrusted to you." Henri Frederic Amiel
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