Squinting to See the Green Light

Sometimes when I sit down here to share some of the eureka moments that burst open in my head like fast-forward flowers, the inspiration fizzles. It’s almost as though they’re just for me, or at least for a to-be-determined few.

Part of it, I think, is that I’m just not inspired in this town anymore, or at least not enough to push the “whoa!” of a momentary realization out from my heart and head through my arms and into typing hands. At least not very often. Why is that? I don’t know. I used to be so eager to put pen to paper or fingers to keys. I guess it’s that even though I’m doing completely different things and living in a different abode than when I left “forever” a year and two months ago, it’s the same place with the same stultifying force that slowed this Superball almost to a stop. I become animated in conversation sometimes, especially if it pertains to animals or Ireland or love, but in black and white, I’m just about spent. Good thing I’m leaving “forever” again in a month and a day.

I had the Feeling not long after I first moved here, almost seven years ago, and for a good span after that: an overwhelming strength in knowing what I was doing, even if it didn’t make any sense. I was where I belonged. The certainty welled up as an exultant YESSSSSSS that swept away everything else like a flash flood — or sometimes as a forceful “this will not stand, man!” Or both.

But now it’s like things are dying a little bit at a time, not least of all my old, old grandma. Maybe when her spirit breaks free, so will mine (in a different way, of course — I intend to stay in this body a good long time yet . . . though one never knows, does one?).

It’s almost hard to write about the magic, even though it’s obviously still happening behind and under the scenes, because I remember its full force only from before, when I felt it last. Remembering is not experiencing.

Self-expression is borderline exhausting. I’m weary. But a spark keeps me trudging, keeps these words smoldering out onto the screen for some reason . . . until one fine morning . . . .


This Is That

I have two days off coming up again after my day shift tomorrow. I think I’ll use them to drive around and leave copies of my book everywhere. Anybody want a Superball drop-in? I could put a couple visits into the itinerary.

I’m getting a full refund from the airline booking site (Kiwi.com). Hallelujah! At least I can start from scratch and they don’t get any extra benefit from me for their lackluster customer service. I’m now waiting on Aer Lingus after I submitted a form today requesting their special student rates. However that pans out, I can now fly to Ireland sooner — probably leaving August 21 at the latest, at least a full week earlier than I originally planned! That is working out amazingly.

I doctored the broken tail and cracked leg of my unicorn, Serendipity, with rainbow tie-dye “Duck Tape” in anticipation of journeying north for a handoff in three weeks. Also going along will be my plant, Spider-Planty (for the second time — a well-traveled plant), and my magicalest little box of magical things. They will be looked after until a day when we might all come together again — once I become a rich novelist resident in Ireland and can afford to ship everything. Or something like that.

Even though all this is happening and I feel better than I did for a while, I still feel a bit glum. I guess it just doesn’t seem real yet, and it still feels like I have so far to go, with so many complete unknowns.

My selves keep having conversations about it:

“Of course I’m moving to Ireland. That’s just the sort of thing I would do.”

“Wait . . . but what am I doing? I don’t know what I’m doing!”

“Yes, you do. You know exactly what you’re doing: following your heart, same as always. What is this concern? You’re an adventurer! And you know you can’t very well stay here.”

“No, that’s true. There’s nothing for me here.”

“So . . . okay. It doesn’t get any clearer than that. The question is what we’re going to do in the meantime.”

“Isn’t it always.”

“We could do a blog post.”

“Sure, let’s do that.”

“What do we have to write about, though?”

“Oh, all the things. Thises and thats.”

“This is that.”