A day in the life, a life in the day

29 Nov 16: Tuesday, got home from work, really felt like a man, spit in the toilet, regarded my slacks, my pose, thought I should heat the hot tub for later. Realized how petty I was and didn’t care, gloating over praise from my client, a full day’s work. Crawled into bed with the remains of a Scotch about 7:30. Set the coffee maker on Delay Brew, remembered the way they measure out the whiskey when you get one in Scotland, hardly enough to cover the bottom of the glass. Glimpses of that hollow feeling, of loss. The insides scraped out. You never knew how much you had until they took it out. Dreams with separation anxiety, my mom coming out from Germany next week: seven months already, it’s been. Playing the first record by Dan Hicks I heard, who also died recently, though so few people even knew he was alive. Driving to work in the morning sometimes blanking out, at the light. Seeing my arms fixed on the wheel, my expression, getting in the slot to turn on the freeway, pulling into the parking garage, the same spot, feeling more comfort there day by day, the routine. How when I started it had the staggered, stilted feeling of a dream, disjointed frames. Now it flows like a spigot. Eating lunch at the same stand-up bar in the cafeteria facing the parking lot, thinking about my next meeting, planning. How we shift in and out of roles like actors, onto the next gig. The art of make believe.

Neptune Theater, Seattle

Neptune Theater, Seattle

About pinklightsabre

William Pearse publishes memoir, travel journals, poetry and prose, and lives in the Pacific Northwest.
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13 Responses to A day in the life, a life in the day

  1. walt walker says:

    Love this with, like, a whole lot of love. My recent favorite, and by that I mean I have lots of favorites by you, but this is my most favorite in a while, maybe since the one where you were slinking against the building along the narrow cobblestone street like a rat, or the one where you were sneaking through your neighborhood with your notepad as the neighbors looked out the windows at you. Maybe even since the one where you were climbing the hill in the moonlight with your glass of wine. Anyhoo, I like this one a lot, the way it’s a poem in prose. More people should write prose poems. Glad your into them, in this one here, today. Also, Happy Freakin’ Birthday! It’s you’re birthday where I am right now, anyway. It may be a little bit before it trickles over into your time zone, but I’m CST, and I’m celebratin’. Hope you have a good one, when it gets to ya. Cheers ahoy!

    Liked by 2 people

    • pinklightsabre says:

      That’s the best comment ever, like a pinklightsabre mixer by Walt… I’m shutting my phone off now and enjoying this and some ambient German music, my coffee, the dark …life is good and wishing the same for you and yours buddy. Bill

      Like

  2. byebyebeer says:

    Now I want to spit in a toilet, like a man. Yeah, this is that good. I guess jobs are like borrowed roles we act out for awhile, and something about that makes me feel sad but also relieved.

    Liked by 1 person

    • pinklightsabre says:

      Ah yes the old “spitting in the toilet” image, priceless. It’s a weird confluence of feelings, the work/identity thing — I’m glad for it now and also puzzled by it. Grateful to have a really good gig, should just leave it at that (but I like picking at scabs).

      Like

  3. Beautiful. And it’s interesting how repetition and routine make a life. Even if your role is different in different places.

    Advice: Don’t spit in the toilets at Microsoft.

    Liked by 1 person

  4. rossmurray1 says:

    Did I miss it? Happy birthday, cosmic traveller you.

    Liked by 1 person

  5. ksbeth says:

    happy birthday, bill –

    Like

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