”Do what you can, with what you have, where you are.” Theodore Roosevelt
This past Monday, I came back from a post-Nolo fishing outing. I always go to the same spot at the Nawiliwili harbor, out at the end of the pier. There are two, beat-up metal brackets mounted on the low, wooden beams that ring the pier. I shove my rod holder through them. After casting, I slip my rod into it. I sit opposite, back to afternoon sun, with the wind mostly in my face, keeping my long hair behind me. It ended up being too windy, thanks to Nolo. I left after around an hour.
I confess to being completely ignorant and seriously incompetent in all matters relating to this so called hobby of mine. For the record, I couldn’t care less. I fish to fish and not to catch, if you can believe that. I am the court jester in the palace of this sport. For me, it is a stupendous meditation, primarily because I am barely thinking. I mostly stare at the rod, waiting for the very detectable quiver, when a fish steals my shrimp bait or mistakenly gets caught by the hook. On those rare occasions, when the rod bends over, trying to touch the reel, I know I have to deal with separating my shocking catch from the hook. The goal is to return it to its home with only minor damage, which I am pretty good at.
I really didn’t mean to get off on my fishing prowess, because it is only a lead-in to what I really want to talk about. I am a terribly undisciplined writer, getting lost too easily. OK, I came back from catching wind and feeding the fish my bait. In recent years, my peace of mind has been uncomfortably challenged and whatever can assuage my crazies gets my vote. Fishing and writing center me, providing a kind of familiar comfort, taking me back home to myself.
I probably could have started the story here, but I couldn’t help myself. When I got back from feeding shrimp to the fish, I ended up settling into my favorite spot. I have perfected the art of living simply without really trying. I get confused easily, so the fewer choices I have, the better. It has never been a goal. It is just my nature, not some statement I need to make. Frankly, if I went into any detail, your first thought would likely be, “This guy needs some help.” There just aren’t a lot of distractions for me. It never takes me long to wind up at my corner desk, where I spend an inordinate amount of time.
Now, I can finally get into what has been on my mind for months, without the words to share. I have basically been working since the age of twelve. When I was in the sixth grade at PS 173, I would run to the local deli at lunch time to serve hot dogs and fries to the kids from school. After that, I worked part time at Turnpike Men’s Apparel for a couple of years. Every summer, right through high school, I made my money for the year. My brother and I were raised by our mother, Ida. Our father died when we were quite young. She became a single mother, long before there was any precedent for it. I always felt working was the least I could do. I really liked the idea of being able to take care of myself, before I even knew what it meant.
Shit, here I go again. I gotta be honest with you. I wanted this story to be a small one, just about me and what’s been going on. The last one kind of made the case for BIG. I wrote about the huge difference between being Jewish and Israeli. Most importantly, being against the genocide in Gaza not making me anti-semitic. I do want to finish the above story, which is already a couple of paragraphs long, but first a word from Big.
I got this one departure, I have to share with you. We never think about what it actually means to be a human being. I am not talking about stupid, small stuff either. At the same time, I am not talking high-minded, in the clouds ponderances. Just think about all the things you wish for those you hold dear? That ought to be the truth we are all about for all of us. I just had a flash of nervousness, thinking I am sounding like a cheap imitation of a Jewish Elmer Gantry.
I guess I got bugged, because nobody talks about the best in us, strangled by the epidemic of fascism, polluting the global soul. It makes me feel like a muted poet, without the ability to convey what it truly means to be a human being. This is not about finding some political label for it either, because it is beyond that. We suffer from a kind of myopia, unable to see beyond the horizon what is possible. We are fucken better than we think we are.
OK, so I wanted to sneak in something way Big, before I got back to small. It wasn’t going to be about the details, just the idea of a chiropractic adjustment in what it really means to be human.
Now, my job is to create a segue back to talking about working. Let me tell you something, ever since that deli job, I have been working. I have done so many disparate things over the years, it would blow your mind, which is the last thing I want to do. While I haven’t earned a lot, I sure as shit have learned a lot.
Finally, I get to talk about what I really want to talk about. Settling back in from fishing, I headed straight for my desk, which is a wonderful, emotional placebo. I know I see more clearly from this perch. I looked at the blank screen on my computer, waiting for me to paint my words all over it. In recent months, I have been kind of troubled, spending so much time on these stories. Being a world-class, neurotic semite, something had to be wrong. Well, the only thing wrong was my assessment of time spent on these things and what it actually means.
I swear, I was so relieved to realize that writing these stories has now become my job, miles away from the negativity I was ready to slap on it. There has never been a time since my deli days, when I wasn’t either working or looking for work. When I headed for Santa Fe, NM, after years in the NYC broadcast advertising business, the thought of a conventional job disappeared before I even hit the road. I have been an extraordinarily, lucky guy ever since. I can’t believe all the things I’ve done. I love giving out copies of my memoir, which goes into considerable detail. It’s kind of an insurance policy, making sure my young grandson will get to know me, whether I am here or not.
A bunch of months ago, I found myself with no job, conventional or otherwise. All of a sudden, the phone stopped ringing and emails/texts slithered to a trickle. The reality for me is that my professional life has come to an end, which is certainly not shocking, considering my age. Emotional and mental disciplines are always important and extra important when you get your ticket punched for the geriatric merry-go-round.
I was thinking about all that stuff on Monday, staring at yet another blank screen. Writing these stories is now my job. Nothing has changed for you. If reading my stories takes your mind off whatever the hell is going in your world, even for just a few minutes, I will give myself a merry-go-raise.
Blessings
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https://www.buzzsprout.com/admin/1292459/episodes/19902897-my-new-job