Ronin
A masterless Samurai, a knight without a liege, a priest without a faith. A missile without a mission.
I am struggling to adapt to life with no purpose. I have a list of jobs that totalled 137 active entries the last time I looked at it, but not one of them could be described as a reason for living. I have entered into mothering-mode, multi-tasking throughout the day as things happen, or not, but it means nothing to me. A job ticked off the list is no more meaningfull than a pimple squeezed, you just do it, right?
A friend mentioned this to me when I muttered darkly on the phone about the awful emptiness of afternoons. He also suggested that the other problem was that I no longer had anywhere in the house that I could call mine. The office is shared, the sitting room is shared, even my workshop and stores over the road are shared. There is nowhere that I can call mine, no place where I can strew things around and leave them strewn until I return for another strewing session. I have become put-things-away man, one who fills cupboards and closes the door on them. My future is to file away, I can strew no more.
'A man with no future will always run to his past', from Due South. So, true to that series, I have run to my past, and, strangely, found myself a future. Does that seem odd to you? It seems both ironic and appropriate to me. I love the past, I am fascinated by the two world wars, by the early attempts on Everest, the mysteries of the Hunley, Erebus and Terror, Nobile's lost crewmen, America's lost aviatrix.
Sometimes when the path ahead is too tangled to allow a view, it makes sense to go back a way and study it from behind, or in reflection.
A ronin was expected to commit suicide, or suffer great shame. Or, find another way forward. I never liked the idea of serving anything anyway. Except for meals. I'll always serve those.
Watch this blog-space.
I am struggling to adapt to life with no purpose. I have a list of jobs that totalled 137 active entries the last time I looked at it, but not one of them could be described as a reason for living. I have entered into mothering-mode, multi-tasking throughout the day as things happen, or not, but it means nothing to me. A job ticked off the list is no more meaningfull than a pimple squeezed, you just do it, right?
A friend mentioned this to me when I muttered darkly on the phone about the awful emptiness of afternoons. He also suggested that the other problem was that I no longer had anywhere in the house that I could call mine. The office is shared, the sitting room is shared, even my workshop and stores over the road are shared. There is nowhere that I can call mine, no place where I can strew things around and leave them strewn until I return for another strewing session. I have become put-things-away man, one who fills cupboards and closes the door on them. My future is to file away, I can strew no more.
'A man with no future will always run to his past', from Due South. So, true to that series, I have run to my past, and, strangely, found myself a future. Does that seem odd to you? It seems both ironic and appropriate to me. I love the past, I am fascinated by the two world wars, by the early attempts on Everest, the mysteries of the Hunley, Erebus and Terror, Nobile's lost crewmen, America's lost aviatrix.
Sometimes when the path ahead is too tangled to allow a view, it makes sense to go back a way and study it from behind, or in reflection.
A ronin was expected to commit suicide, or suffer great shame. Or, find another way forward. I never liked the idea of serving anything anyway. Except for meals. I'll always serve those.
Watch this blog-space.
Labels: digital doldrums, drifting in the sargasso
posted by Sopwith-Camel | 6:42 pm
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