(BBQ Oysters, Lagunitas Tap Room)
I dreamed of being awoken by an alarm. A few weeks ago I wrote of what a horror that must daily be. It is what the mind does to itself, I guess. It manufactures horror where there is none. I had to check my phone, just to verify. The dreamed danger seemed as real as the other. I had read some Kafka last night before going to sleep, portions of "The Trial."
I tried to go back to sleep after writing the above paragraph. No alarm, real or imaginary, woke me again, but neither did I sleep. Just my inner voice terrorizing me to wakefulness. Many would be alarmed, I'm certain, if they could hear my inner monologue. To know the true shape of such a thing. It must be that way for many. When you spend enough time with others - particularly if you're in love with them - you can begin to hear their inner voice, to occasional dismay, the fretting of it.
Selavy asks a good question this morning: "What do you look forward to?" (approx.) I was lying in the darkness of my bed asking what my answer would be. Rachel and Rhys occupied every thought. I suppose that some of the criticisms that people have for why others get married and have children might be true. It gives one something to do, takes the mind off of self, somewhat. It relieves one burden by the acceptance of others.
I think about Rhys growing up, becoming the person that he will become. There are little hints piling up inside of him now, arranging themselves to a common order, though each also in their own way. I look forward to witnessing that, participating, etc.
My whole life I have heard quips and quotes and aphorisms about the value of living for others. I have always been far too selfish to give myself over to such a thing, and am suspicious of those who insist upon it.
Then, there is the boy, and I find myself living for another over and over, each time noticing and navigating it less. It is becoming more natural for me, even easy at times, though mostly as I compare my current self to my past self. Still, sometimes I feel a reluctance to, even a fear of, losing any more of my self.
The word looks like serf when italicized. The more emphasis, the more distortion.
I struggle to find time to write here each day, to go to the gym. But what of me is left if I do not? Balance becomes harder to strike, but also more important. It forces your life into a shape, though not always one of your choosing.
What of me, alone? Certainly there must be an independent forward that I can look to. Or no, perhaps we do not talk of such things. We are told that is also selfishness, to consider oneself as detached in any way from the primary thing. It is dangerous to fantasize of being self-determining when one is not. One must maintain a collective idea of the future if one ever plans on arriving there. It is a practice that Rachel and I often entertain, to generate a shared fantasy about the future. Italy, etc. It is how we arrive, when all is working.
Nobody looks forward to getting into debt, nobody dreams of that day, and only the strange and curious dream of saving. Not "having savings" (in the form of wealth), but actually doing the saving, month by month. So little seems possible without one or the other, or both. What dullness is daily suffered to create lines of sight.
I dream of eating oysters.