It’s not yet 8am. The foghorn from the bridge sounds every 18 seconds. This has been going on since sometime yesterday. The morning sun has broken through. It lights my apartment. It warms the left side of my face and neck as I sit on the sofa editing poems I’ve written but am not happy with.
Last night, as I was reading, I thought this writing thing shouldn’t be that hard. I just need more practice and maybe better routines. Starting this morning, I had intended to attempt writing a new poem each day. I thought I could pick an object and just riff on it: Seagull, Avocados, A Diner in Santa Fe, Junk Mail. Instead, I spent part of my morning trying to write about the final stop on long-haul passenger trains – imagining that they’re always lonely stops in dusty towns – wondering about who rides until the very end? Geographically, that doesn’t make any sense. Trains probably don’t terminate in Elmwood, Illinois, yet I can hear the conductor passing through the cars shouting out, “Last stop… Elmwood, Illinois.” For some reason, I envision the end of the line being some small town in the middle of the country with one stop sign and one gas station, but little else. The writing was a non-starter and then I got lost scrolling, zooming, and looking at maps for a bit.
Last night, I tried to listen to the city sounds. The foghorn, a few firecrackers, a distant siren. I heard my upstairs neighbor close his windows. In that moment, I noticed the absence of those sounds I’ve always associated with summer nights: cricket chirps and cicada buzz. Maybe I need to get out of the city for a weekend? Head to where the stars are brighter.
I’ve been thinking a lot about minor urges – the slight tug of desire and the comforts of those things that were once familiar. On a recent lunch date with a woman who described herself as a free spirit who has never settled down, I explained that I’m coming at life from the opposite end of the spectrum. Having been “settled down” most of my life, I’m still learning how to walk between those past lives of routine and responsibility and this current life of wandering and being more in the moment – wherever and with whomever that moment takes place. Because there’s no roadmap or guidebook, the pull of returning to what I’ve known and the ways I’ve lived is strong. The desire to replicate parts of past lives into my new geography with new people may be little more than me looking for ways to ground myself in something familiar, safe, and recognizable.
What I can’t seem to break free from are these minor bouts of over-thinking. So long as I continue to meet new people (new friends, potential colleagues/co-workers, dates), I find myself asking, always asking, so how is this going to work? How do they fit in? What do I want this relationship to look like? On the one hand, I want to be an active participant in building relationships. I want to be somewhat deliberate. But I’ve also resigned myself to letting things play out however they will play out. With new friends, letting it become whatever it becomes seems easy. With dates and jobs, not so much. With dates and jobs, it seems like I should be able to answer, quite concisely, the questions: what do I want? what am I looking for? Yet no amount of thinking, no amount of visioning seems to bring any clarity to those questions. What I’m stuck with is saying (to myself), I know what I’ve liked in the past, and I wouldn’t mind more of that. I know the jobs I’ve liked. I know the relationships I’ve liked. Articulating those things, much less actively pursing them, is a different story.
It’s now 9:30. The day, or at least the apartment, is warming up. The foghorn has stopped. I’ve made little progress on my thinking. Through the open windows, I can hear my downstairs neighbor coaxing his dog to jump or do a trick. He’s using that high-pitched voice we use when we talk to dogs. I’m building my list of “I shoulds.” I should go for a run. I should write that poem. I should look for and apply to more jobs. I should get back to the two books I’m reading. I should practice my breathing. I should probably stop here.