During the first year after I moved out, my daily routine involved about 2.5 hours on the Carnevale de Filth that is New York's subway system. Up at my elevated platform before dawn, 45 minutes to work among the doddering coffee-sippers. Half an hour downtown, to her place for a couple hours of monkeyshines. Then an hour or so back to upstate Manhattan. Some days felt like an Epic Journey between the Arctic Circle and Buenos Aires, and attempting to write, or even jot down a few notes, was impossible. I was always so bone-tired that I spent most of my time listening to the first five minutes of a podcast before falling asleep with my mouth open. I felt sure one of those nights I'd wake up with a mouth full of loose change.
That all changed when M and the boys moved up here, and visions of an hour less in an Underground Festering Shithole With Those Goddamn Convex Seats danced in my head. Think of the extra writing time! Except there was no extra writing time. There was more fathering time. In my apartment. With my games, and my snacks, and my music. And my children thinking of my place as a daily hangout instead of a fortnightly vacation home.
I settled into a whole new rhythm, and before I knew it, I hadn't posted to my blog in two months.
I got a good smattering of e-mails, wondering how I was doing and hoping I'd write again. Many of these were from my mother, whose missives morphed from intrigue, to concern, to alarm, to outright threats to sell the house and move to New Hampshire unless I wrote again. Naturally, nothing coagulates a family like a little brinkmanship, so I was all, "Do it, you yellabelly! You don't have the GUTS!" And they totally did it, and now they're in contract on a lovely home with a few acres of woods and lake access. A perfect spot for the grandsons to wield their larkery for many languid summer nights to come, all thanks to spite.
Anyway, with that objective achieved, I thought about coming back to the blog. And as luck would have it, I was thinking of exactly that when, while I was grocery shopping, I turned into the GOYA aisle. Miles and acres and furlongs of cans, boxes, and shakers emblazoned with those same four letters: G-O-Y-A. Which, in a sort of wordnerdy, acronymous fever dream, spoke to me:
Get Off Your Ass.
So here I am. Writing here again, and hoping I can keep it up. Because even though I sorta didn't miss it, I also sorta did. Life is just so much more interesting than it's ever been. I hope my writing can do it justice.