four-score and still plenty left to go
there are days when i wish i were forty years older. days when i fucking wish that when i'm left with only memories like this i could have a more gripping story than these meager couple of decades.
earlier this week i realized i'd been inside for a fair stretch of days. no one was about, as usual, so off i went to the nearest diner, to partake in coffee and to spend way too much time there.
i, of course, ended up ordering food after about two hours of lounging. the kid serving me was clearly in his first week at most and apologized drippingly after making the most minor mistakes. i stayed there, drinking coffee and nibbling an omlette for something like five hours. reading my book and contemplating how right it felt to be back in a groove i had shunted off and cast aside so long ago. five hours of reading and coffee and refills and apologies.
i tipped him about 70%. it was just one of those days, the kind when you know doing something a little extra will be appreciated and not taken for granted. when something that you've done for someone else will not be glossed over or disregarded. when you honestly don't care what happens next because all you wanted to do was something that might mean just a little bit more to that someone else.
the week abounds with stories of diners and of pensive recollections. i finished a short this week, another screenplay treatment about 10 minutes long. i finished the first draft in a diner, waiting. i finished it with my headphones on and a laptop sitting next to me, writing in a notebook and listening to Fight Club on my ipod (yes i ripped the audio track and listened to the entire dialogue...hardly the first or last time). but it was when an older gent came in about half an hour later that i wanted to take a sledgehammer to my own head.
he was an older gent, alone like me. seated in non-smoking like me. he pulled out his laptop, like me, and kept it to the side like me. he pulled out a notepad like me and a pen, like me. he pulled out a book, like me. he sat there and wrote, like me, after putting on his headphones. like me.
the clincher being, of course, that this older gent spent his time writing and eating a bowl of ice cream. so very much like me...at least in principle.
this older gent, nothing distinguished about his dress or his air or his anything. nothing at all about this gent, this gent like me. i was staggered, i wanted to figure out where i could buy a sledge like the one i'd thought about before and actually put it to good use. i thought about this man, all the experiences in his life and in his mind, this man like me. i pondered and wondered and just kept going on and on and on. his ice cream and his writing, his book and his laptop and headphones and coffee. like me.
this went on for half an hour, maybe an hour, when i noticed what should have been noticed a lot sooner.
on his left hand, the left hand of this gent like me, was a ring. a golden band. simple. perfect. nothing if not classic. this ring that would, someday, be just like me. the man was, if not now, at least at some time, married. and that made the sledge seem far less meaningful. and makes the pensive wanderings turn to thinking that maybe there's hope for me yet.
the short, the first draft, the first treatment. it wasn't enough. not edgy enough, not loud enough. not brash enough. not different enough. just not enough. so after another day of thought and what have you, out comes the second draft. it will be read tomorrow (meaning later today) and we'll see what will come of it. the movie took a whole mess of drafts, so no harm will come of this needing the same.
there is a tide. unseen, unheard, and undeclared. but it turns. and is turning. just a little longer and it will wash up something very, very different.
the scariest thing about change is basically what scares the whole human race, at the core...uncertainty. not knowing what to do now. not knowing what will come or not knowing if you can even prepare yourself. what fear it is, to know that you have simply changed and that it will be another struggle to come to grips with yourself all over again.
being a different person, changing yourself...it is only scary when you don't see it coming. it's the realization that things have been gained and lost, that realization that opens up a whole new darkness. understanding that you haven't got a clue, anymore.
the next worst thing about change is knowing that it can happen again. knowing that there are things unveiled only upon inspection. knowing that there are experiences in life for which there is no preparation. knowing that someday you will have to look up and be changed again. knowing that someday you will have to face the unknown no matter how much you'd thought about it.
the weather, the tide, the temperatures and the mind. they're all rolling into a new era. they're all re-molding themselves without a care in the world.
it's just that, some days, i wish i were forty years older and done with it already.
earlier this week i realized i'd been inside for a fair stretch of days. no one was about, as usual, so off i went to the nearest diner, to partake in coffee and to spend way too much time there.
i, of course, ended up ordering food after about two hours of lounging. the kid serving me was clearly in his first week at most and apologized drippingly after making the most minor mistakes. i stayed there, drinking coffee and nibbling an omlette for something like five hours. reading my book and contemplating how right it felt to be back in a groove i had shunted off and cast aside so long ago. five hours of reading and coffee and refills and apologies.
i tipped him about 70%. it was just one of those days, the kind when you know doing something a little extra will be appreciated and not taken for granted. when something that you've done for someone else will not be glossed over or disregarded. when you honestly don't care what happens next because all you wanted to do was something that might mean just a little bit more to that someone else.
the week abounds with stories of diners and of pensive recollections. i finished a short this week, another screenplay treatment about 10 minutes long. i finished the first draft in a diner, waiting. i finished it with my headphones on and a laptop sitting next to me, writing in a notebook and listening to Fight Club on my ipod (yes i ripped the audio track and listened to the entire dialogue...hardly the first or last time). but it was when an older gent came in about half an hour later that i wanted to take a sledgehammer to my own head.
he was an older gent, alone like me. seated in non-smoking like me. he pulled out his laptop, like me, and kept it to the side like me. he pulled out a notepad like me and a pen, like me. he pulled out a book, like me. he sat there and wrote, like me, after putting on his headphones. like me.
the clincher being, of course, that this older gent spent his time writing and eating a bowl of ice cream. so very much like me...at least in principle.
this older gent, nothing distinguished about his dress or his air or his anything. nothing at all about this gent, this gent like me. i was staggered, i wanted to figure out where i could buy a sledge like the one i'd thought about before and actually put it to good use. i thought about this man, all the experiences in his life and in his mind, this man like me. i pondered and wondered and just kept going on and on and on. his ice cream and his writing, his book and his laptop and headphones and coffee. like me.
this went on for half an hour, maybe an hour, when i noticed what should have been noticed a lot sooner.
on his left hand, the left hand of this gent like me, was a ring. a golden band. simple. perfect. nothing if not classic. this ring that would, someday, be just like me. the man was, if not now, at least at some time, married. and that made the sledge seem far less meaningful. and makes the pensive wanderings turn to thinking that maybe there's hope for me yet.
the short, the first draft, the first treatment. it wasn't enough. not edgy enough, not loud enough. not brash enough. not different enough. just not enough. so after another day of thought and what have you, out comes the second draft. it will be read tomorrow (meaning later today) and we'll see what will come of it. the movie took a whole mess of drafts, so no harm will come of this needing the same.
there is a tide. unseen, unheard, and undeclared. but it turns. and is turning. just a little longer and it will wash up something very, very different.
the scariest thing about change is basically what scares the whole human race, at the core...uncertainty. not knowing what to do now. not knowing what will come or not knowing if you can even prepare yourself. what fear it is, to know that you have simply changed and that it will be another struggle to come to grips with yourself all over again.
being a different person, changing yourself...it is only scary when you don't see it coming. it's the realization that things have been gained and lost, that realization that opens up a whole new darkness. understanding that you haven't got a clue, anymore.
the next worst thing about change is knowing that it can happen again. knowing that there are things unveiled only upon inspection. knowing that there are experiences in life for which there is no preparation. knowing that someday you will have to look up and be changed again. knowing that someday you will have to face the unknown no matter how much you'd thought about it.
the weather, the tide, the temperatures and the mind. they're all rolling into a new era. they're all re-molding themselves without a care in the world.
it's just that, some days, i wish i were forty years older and done with it already.
posted by Mister Vikas at 5:12 AM
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