. . . people who call my name . . . and people who don’t even know it . . .

(In today’s installment, our intrepid blogger – determined to keep his promise to write at least SOMETHING here daily – despite having had only 3 hours of sleep, manages to get to the gym and the grocery store and – can it be possible – start work on a new writing project? He is afraid, but, here he is, going.)

Lazy Sunday, out here at the lake house (someone else’s lake house, of course) but I did manage to get back to the gym after not having gone for two days, although, perhaps I should have delayed my return to a day when I’d gotten more than three hours of sleep.

In any event, after the gym I stopped at Wegman’s (again) and got a Sunday New York Times and onion bagels, scallion cream cheese and lox, and had a late breakfast/lunch feast of it and the NYT Book Section when I got home.  Before leaving for the gym I had thrown the couch cover from the sun-room sofa into the washer, it’s now out of the dryer and back in place; it needed it and that’s where I spend the majority of my time here, reading or scribbling or some combination of both.

While at Wegman’s, that thing happened which is usually not a thing I like to happen; I heard someone calling my name. This time, however, it was two of my favorite people who include in their family one of my favorite dogs. We had a nice chat (alas, not the dog, who was at home) and the hearing of my name in a public place, the being known, it resonated with a new project on which I have begun working.

I hesitate to say that. I hesitate to mention working – as in – writing. I have had a difficult time since I quit smoking; I truly do think it upset my chemical balance; and I have been in a quite awful depression – and had an event a few weeks ago that made it much worse, and an event or discovery conversation last week that made it even worse AGAIN, and so, the fact that I have written a few sentences, started outlining ideas, started that process again is little short of miraculous – and this has been a VERY STRANGE weekend of almost macabre coincidences, echoes and shadows and synchronicity juxtaposing past catastrophe and calamity with odd in the moment occurences of invitation to exploration and unexpected ecstasies.

Long story short, the project has something to do with a kind of updated take on Looking for Mr. Goodbar and the fortresses of false self in which we surround ourselves with technology and pretense; those impenetrable walls we think we maintain, which, in the end, we needn’t bother with as everyone is so busy creating us in the image they need to complete their own tales, they can’t be bothered with either the selves we really are or the ones we pretend to be. In short, I had made a quick note last night (meaning I had re-written a sentence about three hundred times looking to find its kernel – and still I have not) about:

“He wondered in the age of Grindr and Craigslist what constituted a date; did it become a date when real names and ages were used? Or a picture where the face was not obscured? Face BlurAnd what happened when a hookup turned out to be a potential ‘I’d like to know him better’ and the foundation had already been built of falsehood and masks? I mean, by that time, the descriptive leaps of faith of ‘HWP’ and ‘not bad looking’ and ‘7.5 cut’ had already been revealed as slightly, perhaps, ever just, a bit fudged, so, how to say, ‘Well, you know how I said I was 38?” and a “Freelance Decorator”? In fact, I’m 46 and I work for a moving company.’ And then ask if they want to, maybe, have a drink or dinner or watch a movie one time before fucking? He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been called by – or even been asked for – his real name when ‘seeing’ someone. Seeing meaning, strangers meeting up to do what strangers meeting up do.”

So, I guess, suffering as I am from a disconnect so deep and long-ranging that I am now writing about modern disconnect and what comes of it – and thinking about that theme and how it manifests, it was very interesting to be walking through Wegman’s and hear my name called. And very nice. And, I think, a sign.

Anyway – that’s where I’m going with it today. And here I am, going. Daily. Like I promised myself I would.

One thought on “. . . people who call my name . . . and people who don’t even know it . . .

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