The Man Cracks Down

I’m feeling a little heavy. I’ve had precious little time to write (or blog) and it’s as if all the pressing stuff in my existence––real or imagined––has been piling up on my back. Writing often shucks it away, like a thick molting, and I desperately need to shed some skin. Perhaps the weight of the weather is also a factor. From the sky has dropped all manner of water and seed. Pollen covers every exterior surface like Martian effluvium. The trees, heavy with water from the constant rains, sag in suffering, their branches swollen and cracked in places. I wonder if the trees have been furloughed like the rest of us? The impressive oak out my window most surely has taken a hit on its 401k by the way it frowns at me. Hey, tree, at least you’re still growing.

There was held a serious meeting of the employees of my company to discuss the gravity of the seriousness of the grave situation that we and most of the country is seriously in. It’s forced me to spend every minute in every department trying to get us to the point where we’re at least bailing as much water as we’re taking on. I’m losing. We’re losing. But we’re still bailing. And this situation has robbed me of that extra energy and time that I’ve put to good authorly use in the past. I chip away now with a dog paddle work ethic, never getting too far but keeping my head where the air is. I try not to think about money. I don’t want it to direct my efforts.

But I never quit. I don’t know how. I did, once, when I was young and confused about what it all meant, but not now. I’m not as cool as Cool Hand Luke but I’m always good for a smile and a swing. A part of me likes this, I discover. I like the boot on my back. It’s a test. I may lose, but the fight is good. To fight is good. It cuts the fat, leans the muscle, sharpens the wit, and sometimes, if you’re not careful, hardens the heart. But better to set a lock than be raided by an unfeeling malaise. Just keep the key handy.

So picture me, not on my knees, but with back muscles rippling. Ideas lift me, as well. And where once I carved out time to idle, I will write. And it will be better for it. Because what we cannot have, what we must guard against above all, is a failure to communicate. That would be the end of us all.

Perspective time, kiddies. Let’s never forget the lessons of the late, great #37.

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About S. Norton

Writer, marketer, musician.
This entry was posted in Cinema, Non-fiction, Writing and tagged , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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