This is a song the Beatles did, I guess.
And it's true, you know, and I love her.
Though I mightn't have a right to, I do.
Things have been scary, lately, in my professional life. Things are going to remain a wreck for some time to come - at least through this year, and probably well into the next, if not even well beyond all of that.
I'd done, and I've done, so well, over the years, doing my own thing, not working for anyone but me. Yeah, sure, the income fucking sucked, always, but on that slim margin, I still called the shots. When you're "pushing 50" you don't much relish the idea of changing all sorts of things about the way you've carried on your professional life.
Nevertheless, my telephone has not rung since this past September. I've only just been brushing up details on things I had in the works at that point; wrap ups and embellishments and other giveaways and methods of make work. But nothing new, at all. Nothing.
So yeah, to sit here and contemplate, whether I have that "right," or not, being with her - making some sort of fantastic and miraculous creation that would allow for that, obviously, begins to feel a bit inane, silly, unreasonable, unrealistic, and well, stupid.
In the face of the more immediate need of the balance of last month's rent staring in me in the face, and next month's, and the ones through the summer, I just couldn't look at anything else at all. So, I turned my face, if not my back, on looking at that possibility; on looking upon a possibility that began to look more and more like an impossibility.
Still, all the same, as always, there still remains "just enough." Just enough to get by, but never enough to get there.
We haven't communicated for over a week.
Ugh. Wake me up when September ends.
I'm going to try something, next week, to see what happens.