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

Categories: musings

Tags: Beatles, Dan Hicks, Day in the Life, identity, mid-life crisis, prose, Scotland, stream-of-consciousness, William Pearse writer