Saturday, March 14, 2009

Ridiculous Manna

This may as well be a ridiculous post--I think my avoidance of this blog has to do with my fear of sounding ridiculous (and probably some laziness as well).

I've been thinking about how uncaring life is--not necessarily a new thought to the human race. Life seems not to care about one's situation and needs. If you get dumped, life screams past. If you are bypassed by a job opportunity, life continues on without pause. If you have a book that never finds its end, life acts like it doesn't remember you, even if you've met on several occassions and have had long, supposedly intimate conversations.

This feeling has been dogging me the past few months, for a few reasons:
  1. I've now been in Virginia for over a year, and I'm still unsure of why exactly I'm here.
  2. I turned 30 last October and I'm frustrated that I haven't become the child genius authoress I'd hoped to become at age 18.
  3. My book might never leave the confines of my laptop and the world will not be the worse for it.
  4. I realize why I miss New York so much.
The last point has only come to me lately. I used to think it was the public transportation, the crowded-yet-lonely walks to work or wherever, the options that woo you here or there were the reasons for my lust. But now I know. When you are in New York, you get this sensation that you are always on the cusp of something big; that tomorrow might bring something fabulous or deflating and you can't predict what it will be; that every loser in the city has a chance at transforming into something beyond measure.

I know it's all a myth. But it's a beguiling myth.

In Harrisonburg, one is always aware of the concreteness of life. People dream here, of course, but they are concrete dreams: creating a food co-op, buying land and building a McMansion or an earth-friendly dwelling, writing or creating beautiful pieces of prose or art that won't interest anyone outside this sphere (and not because of their lack of greatness, but because there are too many artists and writers in the world and someone has to be ignored), having babies and sewing and forming a safe nest for those things. I'm trying to have those dreams; I have the feeling that I'd be much happier if I did. Then maybe I wouldn't mind slogging to work every Monday through Friday--I'd be content with my scribbling whether or not a publisher accepts it because she is willing to take a chance on it even in this failing economy--I would cheerfully take those pills that protect me from my friendly enemy Seizure and could cause birth defects if I want to have a baby.

What is annoying about the above is that it's so unoriginal, and is probably why white, middle-class citizens like myself are depressed so often. What is also annoying is that for some reason I don't rail against fate or God or whatever for all this. In fact, I can't ever get rid of that notion that there is something larger looming over our existence. I'd rather be an atheist, because then I'd have something concrete to hold onto. But it's in my blood and it isn't going anywhere.

Tom once said that my faith is a very pragmatic, farm sort of faith. You believe in God, he said, but you know you've still got to plant the crops. I think he's right. There's no point in waiting on bended knee, because winter is coming and you can't count on God giving you manna.