I’m all out of coffee

I don’t know why, but I have had absolutely no motivation to write lately. I miss the wonderful urge, always of varying strength and duration. It is pointless to reminisce and rehash, because that will certainly not bring it back. The paradox is that I’m writing without an urge – or am I? I listened to PHC (how the hell do I add a link to “Prairie Home Companion” without having to search and dig for a tutorial?) this evening, and had yet another pang of misundercomplishment. It was during a somewhat unpleasant rendition of a fairly enjoyable Xmas carol, when suddenly the ensemble broke into skit. It was a sketch in which Garrison Keillor trys to get his mother to realize he won’t be home for the holidays because he has to try to meet with an editor to finally get something published; he’s been in New York trying to be an author for years, but all he’s found is work as a balloon clown. He’s pretty much a failure, including a recent breakup after 15 years with a woman his mom says has a serious body proportion problem, but he remains optimistic and fights off the loving onslaught of his monther’s reality for quite a while, until he finally agrees to use the tickets she’s bought for him and come home to Minneapolis for Christmas. He is able to maintain a shred of his dignity, refusing to accept that his mother bring some winter clothes to the airport so he can change in the men’s room, saying “I’m 64 years old, mom, I have my own clothes.”  Somehow this story struck a chord with me. I find myself all of a sudden at the age of 30, and really nothing has turned out the way I had envisioned it – other than the fact that I’m living in a city I love (now there’s a topic I could write on for days.. why don’t I do this?). I’m not unhappy, but I’m not content. I have never been content. I think that is what I long for the most in my life – contentedness. What a silly thing to realize, all of a sudden, at the age of 30. Should I have followed my “dreams” and my mom’s advice, and gone into acting? I don’t really want to be a waiter, and I don’t enjoy struggling. I obviously don’t have the discipline and drive to be a writer – I can’t even maintain a blog, ferfuksaik. Should I forge into the law path? Should I try to excel and conquer in my current career? My rope of my life – with all these lines of impulse entwining in some way – is as frayed as ever. The only solution I can see at the moment is to bitch.

I broke a glass earlier in the kicthen while cleaning. Soap, I have come to discover with the wisdom advanced age brings, is slippery as hell. No matter how much I sweep, I seem to find shards of the former pint glass everywhere, knifelike little memories of beverages past.  I had an urge to go to Aldi to buy paper towels to clean my microwave – a strange urge, I know – and decided while there to get the staples I had planned to buy at Trader Joe’s. I was pleased with my flexibility, and so happy with myself for having unexpectedly accomplished so much – it’s the little things that truly make me happy, like finally closing the storm windows, or wiping down a dirty windowsill. This buoyant, sepia-toned feeling of halcyon happiness was crushed by the realization that I am out of Trader Joe’s Bay Blend coffee.

Not a tragedy, but not a good thing, either, by far.