Fall's first significant cold front arrived last night. My initial thought was to call it the first cold front of the winter, but that isn't exactly correct. Winter doesn't begin until December 21st. There was a brief period of time when the weather was close to perfect. Just cool enough, but not cold, and just warm enough, but not hot. I am glad that the cold has finally killed the mosquitoes, though.
How do people ever write journals or diaries? Here I am, literally talking about the weather and what is or isn't winter. How is it that other people have so much going on in their lives that they actually have enough to discuss? I have a vague memory of some comedian, Louis CK, I think, discussing the impact George Carlin had on him. Carlin would throw out his material every year and start over again, forcing himself to come up with something new. When CK started doing the same thing, it forced him to dig deeper out of himself to come up with new material. Maybe that will happen with me eventually, if I keep at it long enough. But fear is that there is no deeper me, that this is all there is. What if I find out that I've just been kidding myself all these years into thinking that I'm more complex than I really am? I don't know what I would do with that thought.
One thing I do know is that at this very moment, I feel a malaise. I'm sitting in my home, alone. It's past 9 PM on a Tuesday. I'm 35 years old. There is no one here but me and my cat. The campaign I worked so hard on for so much of the year is over, and it looks like I'll get the position that I wanted. But there's no one here to celebrate with me. It's a terrible, lonely feeling.
I surprised myself this year. I've been single, all year. I can count on one hand the number of partners I've had. I used to believe that I was addicted to sex but I've come to learn from the experience of this year that I was addicted to seduction. And I've abandoned the seduction in favor of my career, and the effort toward the career seems to be coming to fruition, but it doesn't seem to make me any more content, any happier. Neither did any of the seduction, though, so I suppose it's a wash. As far as I can tell I've merely traded one treadmill for a slightly more productive one. What a stupid thought; how can you have a more productive treadmill?
Nevertheless, despite the loneliness I feel, I don't find myself perpetually, compulsively seeking new partners, new conquests. And that's something. That's a form of progress. I just thought progress would feel better than this.