Interlude

Sometimes, despite your best efforts, you can’t quite get the words onto the page. It takes pacing around, conversations on the phone about this or that, emails, reading junk books, and traversing the digital miles of the interwebs before you’re able to settle your mind and commit. Today was such a day, and nine hours after I usually plan to hit “Post,” I’m finally ready.

I’ve tracked my stories and word count through the months of this year, watching with equal parts horror and fascination as the lines in the spreadsheet grow, the word counts exceeding that of a master’s level thesis, and the titles of what I’ve written staring back at me in cold admission of specific trends or conversations I’ve had with you all. To say I’m a creature of habit or ritual wouldn’t be far from the truth. And yet…

Even in the struggle to get words to page, I’ve considered these moments a blessing in disguise. On the one hand, there are stories to be told, words to be conveyed, and memories to dig into and relay. On the other hand, there’s this ritualisation, a dedication to the idea that if I’m not writing during the week, I’m somehow losing myself to the banalities of an unfulfilled life. Call it an existential crisis or the maddened thoughts of a writer; it’s my burden that I’ve gladly shouldered.

It also forces me, to a certain extent, to be on the lookout for relatability, for the little things that somehow escape notice each day but form a crucial part of the lives we lead. In some cases, it takes the form of a bird sitting on a gutter during an April blizzard; in others, it’s a hard drive full of memories of yore. Regardless of circumstance, each of these moments, no matter how trivial or unassuming, bears the responsibility of carrying a story and are hesitant messengers.

I’ve written about these birds with their fiery red breasts and soothing blue and white tails. These eastern bluebirds have a particular penchant for the gutter across the way, and, as was the case during today’s abominable April snowstorm, they huddle en masse within camera sight. It helps that most of my equipment is here in Boston, having made the trip across the pond last week in preparation for another trip later in May. It’s no stretch then to get the 100–400mm lens attached and pointed in the right direction, hoping that a twinkling eye and ruffled plumage will remain in place.

This wasn’t a shot I had planned for today. I had spent most of the day conversing with Emma, a recruiter, a former coworker, and others debating the vagueries of what it means to have limited things to do with myself. The thrashing that my high activation ADHD gives to my brain means that I rely on ritualization to motivate myself many days. This is the same ritual that has me heading out the door first thing for an iced coffee, even when it is absolute garbage. It’s the same ritual that puts me in front of my computer by 9 am to write these stories, the same that causes me to wander over to my guitar at some point during the day to play, the same…well, you get the picture. For my space, I rely on these touchpoints, these actions to carry me through the hours between waking and sleeping.

That the bluebird entered my frame of reference was entirely by accident. During our nightly ritual before her bedtime, I was chatting with Emma on FaceTime when I glanced out my window into the windy, white world beyond. There, clinging to the edge of the metal gutter, was my little tufted friend. I realized that I had all my lenses handy so, with nary an “excuse me” to Emma I hopped up and started snapping pictures. George, the cat, was, of course, disgruntled as Emma so audibly allowed me to understand when she conveyed that I was ignoring them both because of some bird. I’m told that such are the treacherous waters of the relationship between human and beast.

In the moment, this bird was a necessary prop in a story yet to be told. Unwitting though it was, it formed the foundation of what you’ve come to read so far — the wanderings and wonderings of just another man. I’m grateful for the interlude that it offered, however, for without it, I’d not have found quite the same burst of joy or wordiness and perhaps would’ve just left you with a poem. Either way, this interlude, however brief, was needed.

May it ever be so.

https://medium.com/read-or-die/read-or-die-publication-rules-03813fc16904