Sunday

It's Sunday and the day is bright sun, hot humid air dappled by a lone bird’s cry, and the dog's strategic barking. I have ignored the dog’s rants at passing bicyclists and delivery trucks. Usually I scream at him, achieving nothing for the neighbors but a barking dog and screaming owner. No one should be sleeping at 1:30 in the afternoon anyway. Let the dog shout and run.

There is work to do, but I am not doing it. There are web sites to build, advertisements to create, printing to arrange, plans to develop, a front porch to paint, laundry to do, and the second floor of our home requires attention, especially now that I cleaned the first floor yesterday. There might even be some jealously involved.

I should phone my children – both adults now – just to say hello, to hear about their latest adventures, but I won’t. Not today. I should talk to our youngest son about yesterday’s behaviour – his and mine – and work through it, but all I have done so far is revoke the punishment of no computer. My small reconciliation.

The list of discussions my wife and I should have is a long one now. Between my job and her launch of two businesses, we seem too tired for dialog. Understandable, but I wonder if the list will eventually end up folded in some drawer to become a piece of history we wonder about in the future.

Today, I take my recreation in the pen, driven by a voice deep from the interior — so far away from here. I feel like I am writing aimlessly, but I know better. Perhaps the movement of the pen will shake me free, allow the voice to emerge from its cavernous hideout to mark the page with eloquent, powerful meaning.

Is it birth I seek? Am I that ordinary? I think not; the metaphor is too simple, the image too predictable, and — now don't take this the wrong way — somehow too feminine. In the midst of this quiet confusion, I do find some things to be clear. For example, the distant voice has a duality to it. It is simultaneously my voice (pure albeit muffled) and not my voice at all (foreign and obnoxious). Of course, this observation — or is it a realization? — could be little more than the ploy of my imagination or perhaps a sublimation.

Is there something I am avoiding? Of course, that's the wrong question, a scheme to move me sideways instead of forward. Such are questions: tools to unearth discovery and change, yet devices we use to cover up what is essential for true inquiry. What I am is but one more artist no one will know in the way artists crave to be known. Not fame; please, don't insult me. Fame is distortion, pleasant at times no doubt, but it offers nothing but image and ultimately failure.

Ah, yes, the voice. Back to the voice. I'm sure you can hear it, too. And it is likely the very same voice, the difference being in what we hear, how we respond, how it vibrates our bellies, how it never wanes to silence in the same way.

Yesterday I cleaned the house for three years (ok, I mean “hours”), with blues and rock and roll on the stereo. I took my time. I turned away feelings that would lead me to do something else. I worked at a steady pace, not too fast, not too slow. I swept, I vacuumed, did dishes, started laundry, put things away, took out trash, cleaned the bathroom, washed all the floors, and when I was done, I savoured those few moments of accomplishment before resigning myself to the inevitable return of the chores. Life is dirty and messy. We can’t really clean it up. We can just deploy stop-gap measures – the best we can do.

I wonder if I am doing the best I can do. I figure it depends on the question. Sometimes I am the best I can be. Often, not.

Sometimes, I watch my wife. I watch her walk across a room or take in her face as she sleeps on the couch during a television show. I am always aware of loving her, though often I am uneasy because I am sure I don’t really know her as well as I would like to or should. Does she really tell me what she thinks about things? Sometimes does she think back to her past lover, her time with him, and miss certain days, certain times when life was good and the future was bright? Does she really think I am the loner that I pretend to be?

Is it good to ask questions? I suppose in the long run it is, but sometimes I wish I were a much simpler man, without a voice within. Life would be easier, maybe better. I don’t know really.
But if I am to be who I am, I am glad I can write, put thoughts to paper, even rambles like this one. I am grateful for that.

The dog is curled up in the shade now. I wonder if the incessant chirp of the bird bothers him. I wonder if his thirst is ever bigger than wanting water. I wonder if he ever shakes his head at me as he wonders what on earth I was thinking when I thought I would make a great dog owner. And when he brings me the ball to throw, does he do that because he wants me to know he loves me and wants to spend time with me? I have to think he does.