Almost … almost … not quite

What a year! I mean … What. A. Year. It’s almost been a year since I started this blog. You should see the usage details. Big, big start, steady climb. Total dive. The best of intentions, laid aside to return to work. And now, it turns out, my writing IS MY WORK.

And I feel fine.

Of course, I’m working on this post between assignments. Which is really cool. Cool that I have such great friends in the professional community. It didn’t take long for them to find me, ask me about my unemployment, and find me something to do. Turns out that’s important. Finding something to do. Very important. I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking “These are the words of a desperate man.” But nothing could be further from the truth. It’s been a year … almost … almost a year … not quite.

And I feel fine.

So: that happened. And so much more than that, happened. I’m richer now in experiences than I’ve ever been. I have a community of actor friends that are helping me find my way. I have a community of professional friends that are helping me find my way. And it’s been almost a year since I started this writing about myself stuff. So today I recollect. My roots are deeper back home in Anaconda. So many people reached out to me. Wrote to me. Posted stuff on the blog. Good stuff. All of it. Not one nasty bit in the lot. And it was a lot. It was almost too much. Almost. Not quite.

And about that I feel more than fine. I feel loved. And that’s really, very, very good.

Of course, I’m working on this today just in case there is no December 22nd. And here’s what I have to say about that: isn’t every day kind of like the end of the Earth? I mean, don’t we all live with a certain qualified amount of uncertainty about whether or not tomorrow’s going to happen? I guess I can only speak for myself, but I do. I have for quite awhile. Probably since that winter evening so very long ago. I think it was winter. Milan Lazetich, a family friend, had just died. I was probably six. Maybe five. Anyway I was laying on the couch, putting stuff together in my mind when I asked my mom if the dog was going to die. She said “Yes.” And I was fine with that. Sad, of course, by fine. Then I asked if I was going to die. She said “Yes.” And I was fine with that. Worried, of course, that it was going to happen right then and there. But it didn’t. Then I asked if she was going to die. She thought for a second and said, “Well, yes, honey … I suppose I’m going to die.” And I lost it.

I did not feel fine.

Hours later, or maybe minutes, you know how slippery these things are. I’ve written about that. You’ve read about it. It could have been just that very moment for all I know. It seemed like hours, though. And that’s what’s important. Anyway. Hours later, my dad came home. I was still crying. “Carrying on,” as he called it. (When, by the way, did “carrying on” become something other than crying like a stuck ape for me? Doesn’t matter.) Hours later, my dad came home from working the evening shift at the office. (Must have been tax season.) And he said, “What did you say to him?” to my mother. They had a habit of talking about me while I was right there in the room. Like I wasn’t actually there. So my dad says “What did you say to him?” to my mom, and she says, “Well, I told him I was going to die. Someday.”

And that’s probably when I knew that time is … precious.

I don’t really remember what they did to calm me down. Probably tell me it wasn’t going to happen for a long time. And, of course, it happened. For both of them. Way too soon. But when it did, when it actually came to pass. It was hard, of course. But it wasn’t … impossible.

This past year has been filled with the types of things I simply lacked the imagination to predict. But here, on this almost, almost, not quite anniversary of writing this stuff down I know something:

It could all end tomorrow. It probably won’t.

And I feel fine.