The drive isn’t gone. Just different. Changed. Evolved, or the like.
Goes with time. With age. Or so I’ve been told. And so, now, I might start to say more often myself. Almost three decades. Just enough to know for sure about how little you know. Which I guess means I know something.
But the former conditions of personal rituals no longer exist. Yet, the rituals remain, in search of which way of feeling why about what would best suit the conditions at play.
So, what is this modified ambition I claim into existence?
Well, it stinks still something heavy of what was. I suppose nothing moving forward in life has a choice but to bear the mark of the past to themselves.
Save, perhaps, the amnesiacs without eye patches.
I recently had a grand conversation with a warrior turned patriarchal monk.
But, more a Kung Fu monk than the beekeeping kind.
We work together. In a job I never specifically talk about here. Primarily because I am the fourth generation of my bloodline in this profession. And as such, my reverence for many methods of what they call the old school, particularly in portions of personal conduct and maintenance, is quite high. And part of those ancient ways states you need not share with those that don’t share the trade. You can talk about it with those you work beside because you both share the experience. But to discuss many details with those outside the profession, would either be a revelation that the average folk don’t need to think of for their own well-being, or some sort of exploitation of ego based not on your own personal merits but of the reputation of those that had come before.
And because of the nature of the work, I don’t speak of it often. Not with those who don’t understand. As it is often not sunshine and roses, so to speak.
That sounds kind of sketchy though, right? It’s not an assassin’s guild or something. Though, that would be cool. Imagine? I was some sort of stealthy being, lurking around to keep some well-funded or influenced status quo in balance with deadly ability? A whisper in the night for justice that keeps the constructs of society operating whilst the layman sleeps and eats and watches TV. A man with no proof of existence yet a reputation as an entity other worldly in cunning and ruthlessness. Imagine?
Yeah, it’s not that. It’s a job. Well respected by most of the general population. A good job. I think, at least.
But as anyone does with the folks they spend long stretches of time with and share a point of common ground- we pick each other’s minds, this monk and I.
He asked me this.
If you weren’t doing this, what would you be doing?
And so, I thought.
For the kind of long moment that you can only do when you direct all the efforts of consciousness to navigating the ol’ noggin for the answer you see as most true. The kind you can only do before folks you know can understand some of your more peculiar methods of thinking.
Over the next three hours, I gave him half a dozen options, all of which made sense in their own right. And though they were mentioned in past tense, some form of almost each and every one of them resides still somewhere in my current way of life.
A renaissance man, he says.
Considering my temporary struggle to spell the word, I would like to think myself anything but. I think myself lazy. I think and dwell on the feeling that all my efforts fall short of the fantasies young fools dream up for themselves. I think myself the perpetual amateur, sustained only by the depth of his delusion.
Yet before all that can seep and scream its way in, I cease.
And say to him, maybe. Something like that.
A little habit reformation I’ve drummed up for myself. Custom made.
You see here. Before I run the tired routine of getting mad at myself for not doing enough, I recall that each and every effort, attempt, study, rehearsal or any sort of thing at all- takes time.
This here, takes time. Costs time.
Efficiency is good in these situations, of course. It is the most finite and unchangeable resource in our three-dimensional world. For even super computers take time to process queries. And Rome, New York wasn’t built in a day. Not that I’m sure I’ve ever been there. Maybe. It’s a big state.
But to expect proficiency instantly, is some far-off kind of insanity. It takes time to do anything. Even for prodigies and virtuosos.
So, perhaps that should be where my intention and attention goes. The increase of efficiency of these partially refaced ambitions. To get good again and better at all the things that still come with an ease. Or joy. Despite much rust.
Of course, the neglect exists. I know this because my hand cramps quickly after writing direct on page these days. Maybe a condition of more time between now and the finale of my scholastic life. Maybe it was the lack of yardstick knuckle reinforcement.
Depends on who you ask.
But that is a condition that should be remedied. Because there is nothing quite like the tune created by graphite or ink against paper. Keeps the rhythm of the words at a graceful flow.
Though the keyboard clack can keep a nice beat.
But this one has clacked enough for tonight.
Oh yeah, sorry. I was working again today. Did’t get to writing in the AM. False advertising. Fake news. I wrote this after the sun went down.
The day is correct, at least.