American Zen Apartment
...or This. Is. Spartan!
No way does my new place look this good but I have to check and see which pictures of my grandson I've already uploaded to my email so I don't erase any that I haven't saved (my cell phone camera's memory's maxed out with Gavin and Buddy the dog pics). Next time, ya'll will get the ten cent tour, promise.
I'm not necessarily an advocate of the Spartan lifestyle (although I loved 300, airbrushed abs and all). There's something to be said for kitchen counters, a sofa, a bed that's non-inflatable or chairs that aren't so rickety they don't sway back and forth when you walk past them.Tables, I've also come to realize, are underappreciated pieces of furniture.
It's going to be home for at least the next year as I'd insisted on locking myself into a 12 month lease for my protection. I have no tv, no stereo, no internet access (I'm writing this at the local Hudson library, which gives you only an hour's worth of access at a predetermined terminal).
Therefore, in order to avoid feeding on my own mind, I'd begun devoting every spare minute since Friday to proofing American Zen from stem to stern. Which is apt.
My fictional bassist, the laid-back Rob Svenson, would advise me to take up the Zen lifestyle. Like it or not, I have. I finished my novel's final proofing by Sunday night so now I guess my monastic lifestyle will impel me to finish other projects. Either it'll be The Bone Bridge, American Zen II: Rock of Ages (also proofed in its incomplete state this w/e) or my hostage negotiation thriller, The Toy Cop. So far, the way it's panning out, American Zen II is getting my nocturnal attention.
If I had my druthers, though, I'd rather be blogging. As always, there's so much going on. I've read the White House has made its second round of automaker bailouts and restructuring conditional on Rick Wagoner quitting and the pathetic but always entertaining GOP dumbshow is up to its old tricks.
Man, would I love a bloody, quivering piece of that.
Unfortunately, internet access, as said, is both sporadic and fleeting. And it can't accurately be said that my ex is interested in dealing with the results that she'd singlehandedly brought about.
Living here is strange. I feel as if I'm housesitting. Or more accurately, I feel as if I'm living someone else's life, someone who doesn't or was ever meant to exist. Perhaps it's a reflection of the echoing emptiness of these four rooms.
Yet it would be the height of folly to assume that one can suddenly rip a man from his only kith and kin for over 15 years, bar him from visiting except when you have need of him, violate an earlier promise to not do exactly that to him and not make that man feel hollow and existential.
Zen is not for everyone. It wouldn't do for a guy like George W. Bush, a man famed for his aversion to introspection. Zen is also not for me.
Because there's also something to be said for the axiom that states, "Sometimes when you stare at the abyss, the abyss stares back at you."
Political blogging, as with writing novels, is a way for me to crawl over the lip of that insatiable, yawning abyss. It's my way of saying in the best possible words not only that "I was here" but, "I am here" as are 6.1 billion human beings.
Thank you for choosing to watch my life unfold, to watch for proof of life to the necessary exclusion of almost all others.
It's time to get back to work, to once again make Pottersville the place to go for alternative, vicious gonzo journalism on all matters both political and social.