All week long, I chug through my days with nothing in sight but the weekend. If I can just get through Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, I can finally grasp the golden ring of the weekend. Then the weekend comes, and I don't get done what I want (which is usually to relax and forget about work), and suddenly it's Monday again.
I'm 44 years old, and I'm wishing my life away.
It's a good life. I have no idea why I'm not savoring the days, each day I spend with this child who's now taller than I am and whose voice dropped an octave in the last week or the husband who's enough younger that I'm certain to leave him behind when I leave this earth, so I might as well enjoy him now. I'm spinning my wheels madly to get through a series of days just to reach a shorter series of days that hold promise but don't always deliver results. Why am I so anxious to leave my weekdays behind me? What can I do to learn to cherish them and drag them out the way I do my weekends so my life stops whizzing by me so fast?
I'm John at the bar in the old Billy Joel song:
Now, John at the bar is a friend of mine
He gets me my drinks for free
And he's quick with a joke and a light of your smoke
But there's some place that he'd rather be
That's me. Tolerating the customers of my weeks and constantly worrying that wherever I am, there's a better place out there to be.
I'd love to say I'm like John Lennon, happily watching the wheels go round and round, no longer riding on the merry-go-round, but the truth is, I'm on the merry-go-round and not likely to get off any time soon. Round and round I go, always with an eye to the landscape for the spot I'd like to land just as soon as the damn thing stops.
I know it's my own fault for selling my soul. If I'd remained true and been willing to starve for my art--or worse, let Fiona starve--I might feel more professionally fulfilled. Instead, I sold my soul. At least I sold it in the 80s when the market was high.
Friday, June 27, 2008
Saturday, June 14, 2008
All my heroes have been...journalists
It wasn't that long ago that I realized that apart from English pop stars of the 60s, all my real heroes have been journalists. From my childhood Watergate days, when Woodward and Bernstein changed the world, to the first Gulf War when Wolf Blitzer brought the scuds into my living room, to the Sunday mornings of my middle age, when Tim Russert got me to think more analytically about all the crap politicians spread. Walter Cronkite, Dan Rather, Bill Moyers, Tom Brokaw, and even Barbara Walters in her day, had the ability to change the world with their words alone.
I'm a lazy feature writer myself--not a hard-hitting, energetic newshound. Perhaps that's why I'm in awe of those whose passions are uncovering the truth. I don't buy the argument that most journalists are pushing their own agendas, be it liberal, conservative, or whatever. I think any journalist worth his salt would sell out his own grandmother if it made a good story.
So I'm profoundly affected by the fact that Tim Russert just dropped dead yesterday. He was a vibrant force like none I've ever seen--full of pride in his family, love of life, and love for the game. As I get older, I feel it more and more when someone not old, not apparently sick, is seemingly struck by the middle finger of God. No matter how much we may want to be here, we ultimately have no fucking choice in the matter.
I know there's other stuff going on in the world right now that demands my attention, and it will get its due. For example, four Boy Scouts were given the finger of God the other day, and it broke my heart. But it took a journalist to tell me about it. (Unfortunately, it was Anne Curry, who makes me want to hurl my cereal at the TV every morning. We need the Tim Russerts of the profession more than ever if we're left with only the likes of her.) There are plenty of bad apples out there spoiling the whole barrel for some news consumers, but to me that only proves my point. The newsgatherers are some of the most powerful people in the world. Their words can bring down administrations and end injustice.
My daughter is toying with the idea of being a journalist. Right now I think she's drawn to the idea of being on TV, but if I know her, she's more likely to find she gets her high from wielding the mighty pen. And even if she changes her mind about what she wants to do in life, I couldn't be more proud that the idea at least crossed her mind.
I'm a lazy feature writer myself--not a hard-hitting, energetic newshound. Perhaps that's why I'm in awe of those whose passions are uncovering the truth. I don't buy the argument that most journalists are pushing their own agendas, be it liberal, conservative, or whatever. I think any journalist worth his salt would sell out his own grandmother if it made a good story.
So I'm profoundly affected by the fact that Tim Russert just dropped dead yesterday. He was a vibrant force like none I've ever seen--full of pride in his family, love of life, and love for the game. As I get older, I feel it more and more when someone not old, not apparently sick, is seemingly struck by the middle finger of God. No matter how much we may want to be here, we ultimately have no fucking choice in the matter.
I know there's other stuff going on in the world right now that demands my attention, and it will get its due. For example, four Boy Scouts were given the finger of God the other day, and it broke my heart. But it took a journalist to tell me about it. (Unfortunately, it was Anne Curry, who makes me want to hurl my cereal at the TV every morning. We need the Tim Russerts of the profession more than ever if we're left with only the likes of her.) There are plenty of bad apples out there spoiling the whole barrel for some news consumers, but to me that only proves my point. The newsgatherers are some of the most powerful people in the world. Their words can bring down administrations and end injustice.
My daughter is toying with the idea of being a journalist. Right now I think she's drawn to the idea of being on TV, but if I know her, she's more likely to find she gets her high from wielding the mighty pen. And even if she changes her mind about what she wants to do in life, I couldn't be more proud that the idea at least crossed her mind.
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