On Saturday night, I went to a reading of sorts. Story Fest brought together a handful of Bay Area journalists on a stage occasionally accompanied by a trio (or was it quartet) of musicians. The stories were touching and funny, shocking and earnest. One told of coming to San Francisco chasing her dream of being a writer, maybe even a famous and wealthy one. One told of the time when he was driving a bus and a pedestrian hurrying towards him was killed by a car. Another had come out to California to dig into a grizzly murder case involving someone he had gone to high school with. Another was of a married couple who own a restaurant together and have a cute/funny/endearing backstory. There were seven or eight stories in all, along with a short film and a story told through dance. The program was broken into three acts.
On the walk home, I felt that familiar sense of admiration and wonder that I have for this vibrant and diverse city. So many stories and so many talented story tellers. So many lives being lived. I felt inspired, a little determined, and also like a fraud. Maybe fraud is the wrong word, but I felt that maybe under different circumstances, I’d have done more with the little writing talent that I have.
I’ve been feeling this way a lot lately. Like I’m somehow out of place in or out of sync with the world. As though my sense of purpose has been knocked crooked and wobbly like wonky shopping cart. As though my values are diverging away from society’s values. I’m slowing down and simplifying, the world seems to be speeding up and growing more complex. Moreover, I’ll sometimes wonder if I’ve missed my calling. I’ll wonder if I’ve put my energies towards the wrong things or if there’s more to life than how I’m currently living it.
The flip side of inspiration can, at times, feel like a lumpy mix between jealousy and defeat… an admission that desire requires action, and I often feel too tired for that type of action, the long and concerted type of effort.
After the show, I stopped by the pub where I said hi to friends and slowly forgot about my mild ambitions. On Sunday the ghosts of those ambitions lingered. I wrote one or two poems, had a food-truck burrito, and spent my afternoon mentally wandering the paths I haven’t taken.