Riffing

[I've been reading Thomas Wolfe's You Can't Go Home Again over the past few weeks. I'm midway through it and the effect it's had on me has been profound. I'm not all too sure I can put into words this effect except to say that it has been good. I've not worked in over a month. Tomorrow night I have a cooking class which I always enjoy but it doesn't put any money in my pocket. All proceeds from my classes go to the culinary studio. With only four people signed up it's not like I'm missing out on much anyway. This is starting out sounding really shitty but honestly I've felt pretty good today, especially tonight. I have no idea why really. Nothing tangible has changed but perhaps this most recent depression is beginning to lift. I pray it's true because this one has been the shittiest in a long while. I've learned from it though, as I always do. I seem to be getting closer and closer to knowing myself through the pain of it. One of the things I've learned is that I need to reach out more. I need to be there for my friends more. One of my oldest, dearest friends called me out last week on my flakiness and lack of availability. It hurt me deeply to know that I've let him down and then it all came crashing down on me. All the friendships I've allowed to expire due to my depression and tendency to isolate myself. This isolation I don't understand. It's self-imposed. There's no reason for it. I like people. I love my friends. When my mind isn't right I retreat into myself and it begins a vicious cycle. I retreat and isolate even more. Honestly sometimes it gets so bad I don't leave the house for days. I don't speak a word to anyone. I don't answer the phone. I don't make calls. When I finally do my speech is stunted. I've become somewhat socially awkward as a result. I don't know why all this is. It's okay though. I know I'm coming out of it and learning in the process. I've gone through much MUCH worse. It's just odd to me. I spend an unhealthy amount of time thinking about myself. After all these years of sobriety and I'm still heavily self-centered. I'm not proud of it but neither am I ashamed. This brings to light one of the most wonderful things I've come upon in reading YCHA lately. Critics of Wolfe said that his work was "too autobiographical." In response to this Thomas Wolfe said that if anything, it wasn't autobiographical enough. He knew that the naked truth of life is infinitely more fascinating than anything the human imagination or literary skill could create. I found it extremely comforting and inspiring to read this from him. I've struggled for years with the dilemma of what to write, what to leave out, etc. I'm beginning to get a handle on it now. The words come, that has always been the easiest part of it for me. It's the form, the structure that has always had me perplexed. It's clear to me that I have a talent with words. I wouldn't call it genius or anything, but I do have a gift. I'm completely untrained, raw and unpolished. Maybe instead of a liability this is an asset. Time and time again Wolfe speaks of writing what one knows and only what one knows. Nothing else will do. That's part of what he meant by saying his work was not autobiographical enough. The naked, unvarnished truth, however painful. That is what I want to achieve. That is what I've always wanted to achieve. I haven't been strong enough in the past to even attempt it but the fear is beginning to fade, some unknown confidence is pushing it away. Part of it is a devil-may-care attitude that has started to develop here in middle age. Who cares if people think it sucks? I need to write it for me. No one else. I need for the things to be said. It's primal. This need is deeply rooted in me. It sprung forth in my childhood and has held me in it's fascinating grip my whole life. When I made the conscious decision to pursue cooking as a career instead of writing I realized at the time that I had freed myself from having to feed, clothe and shelter myself through writing. It took a lot of pressure off, maybe too much pressure. During my 20's the urgent need to write and get these things down ebbed. It wasn't knocking on my door anymore. Instead I was filled with culinary ambition and the drive to be a "success" (or at least to be viewed as one.) I don't feel that need anymore. I don't feel like I have anything to prove to anyone anymore. I just don't care. I know it doesn't really matter anyway. I like cooking for cooking's sake. I like feeding people. I like the act of using my chef's knife. I like creating dishes. I like selecting vegetables and meats in the market. I don't need to see myself on the cover of Food & Wine magazine anymore. It's a non-issue with me now. Instead of feeling resigned to anonymity I feel freed. I feel released. A crisp focus is beginning to appear before me. (As unfocused as all these words may seem tonight!) Out of the darkness and into the light. It's exhilarating. The panic and fear subsided, the eye clear with purpose and resolve. I don't know what the future will bring but I know it will be good. I know it will be right. I know I will again bask in the sunlight of the spirit. I know that I will draw myself out of this depression and walk again among you. It's already happening. When I don't even know it, when I least expect it, it comes, born of the darkness, mysterious and unknown, it comes.]