LJ: Start again.

In the past 400 or so days I have:

1) Stopped writing entirely.
2) Completely given in to my workaholic nature.
3) Completely given in to my perfectionist nature.
4) Annoyed those around me at least once because of #2 and #3.
5) Lost a brother to matrimony.
6) Lost a roommate to impending matrimony.
7) Accepted I will probably never experience matrimony.
8) Started an argument that ended a destructive friendship.
9) Promptly fell for an amazing woman, roughly 17 minutes after achieving #7.
10) Felt genuine fear (see: 9:47am 9/11/01).
11) Blew woman from #9 away with variety of prowesses.
12) Lost woman from #9 to schmuck.
13) Went to Centralia.
14) Fell into a successful rut.
15) Lost 15 lbs.
16) Decided to write again.

The most troubling of them all is #14. I have a tendency to fall into ruts.

I graduated from college in 1996 with a degree in theater, which the parents of my then-girlfriend thought was pure folly. I believed them, and ended up in a very bad rut. Then I moved to Illinois to escape the bad rut and found myself in a only-slightly-better rut. I moved to PA and fell into a far, far worse rut. Then I moved to NoVA and relished that my life just didn't seem to be better, that I was in a much better place than I have ever been.

I have a position of high responsibility at a company that does event lighting and theatrical system installations. I am the resident stage manager of a buzz-producing theater company in a decent-sized city. I am respected for the job I do in both of those capacities. I hire people. I fire people. I thrill at the thought that I can say something, and it will get done, because I have hired and fired the right people. I thrill at the responsibility.

But I am on the road at 8:30 am, and see the same herd, moving the same way, every day. I get here and, on a macro scale, do the same thing I did the day before. It's the details of the experience that make it interesting.

I guess that's kind of the point, isn't it?

I stay at work really late most nights, because I am doing three titled jobs (Rental Manager, Production Manager, Webmaster), and getting paid one. I am a professional martyr, in a way. I live meagerly so this small business can maintain its advantage. Friends call in the evening and are mystified why I'm still at work.

I like being here. This is what I wanted. I like my desk. I like my clutter. There is accomplishment in the chaos.

But the chaos doesn't change. Only the way I organize it.

I keep hoping for Drama! I am such a middle-of-the-road guy. The force of my life, the road I am on, demands that I remain a centrist, a diplomat, an appeaser. There is some karmic punishment when I stretch my bounds.

I feel, at times, like I should get up and go again. Anywhere. Just not Here.

Sometimes I am not a fan of Here. Sometimes I am.

I hate my duality. I wish I could fling myself to the extremes I want to go to. But I can't ignore my responsibility. I can't ignore Consequence. And the truth is, I don't want to. I like this life. I've managed to salvage something pretty good out of it. After the last few years, that's pretty remarkable, I think.

I guess the other part of it is that I would actually accept #7. I get to that point every once in a while. You know how they say that you just get out there and try... swing the bat... eventually you're going to hit the ball. That may be true. But I've also realized that there are .300 ball players and there are .025 ball players. You never hear about those guys.

I'm slowly gaining a disturbing perspective. I'm slowly realizing that I may simply be a supporting player. Not an extra. I have too many friends to be an extra. I still matter to a few people, and to those people I will always matter. But the number of people to whom I once mattered deeply has dwindled. And I guess it's just that I'm not anyone's Number One except my own. (That's out of necessity more than selfishness, I think.) I am Number Two, Three, Six. And I guess that I've extrapolated a trend, based on the past few years of dropping from One to Two to Five to Twelve, where I will be tending my cats and waiting for the Cub Scouts to come clear the leaves from my lawn.

I'm not really bitter. Not really. I want everything. I've been so successful over the past two years that I had the balls to think I could have it. And I have no patience. A few weeks ago, the calendar became an ominous thing to me. It was a brief flash. But I think I had my first glimpse of Mortality. So I guess I'm getting impatient, because friends have died without living up to their promise, and I want to make sure I'm not one who lives to Expectancy and still hasn't fulfilled my promise.

And maybe I'm just deluding myself. Maybe I am just a supporting player, and I have fulfilled my promise. That's nearly impossible to swallow, but it's a possibility, however remote.