Diary Entry (6-17-24)
Writing; self-consciousness; 1031 Exchanges; Don DeLillo; jihad; shame and guilt
I just powered my phone down so I can write. I haven’t done that in years. I used to do that all the time. Then again: I used to write for hours on end in busy hipster cafes, in the Bay Area, New York City, Portland, Santa Barbara, wherever I lived. That time, too, has come and gone. Now I solely write at home, in silence, at my desk in the office, perhaps with our dog and a cat or two at my feet.
Man, it was a very busy morning. House sale stuff, mostly. (As many of you know my wife and I are working on selling my house so we can move to Spain.) Specifically: 1031 and potential “bridge loan” complexities. I have never been a math/finance person. Pretty much the exact opposite. It’s ironic and not ironic at all at the same time, because my father was a math and finance guy all the way.
I have come to realize that my father and I—Happy Father’s Day; my dad died of terminal cancer last June 2nd, 2023—spoke very different life languages in myriad ways, essentially in all ways. He spoke math, science, sports and finance. I spoke creativity, writing, emotion, depth. The two worlds did not often collide. Only when he was sick and dying over the course of 23 months did they collide at last, and that was worth every moment. His decline—his suffering—was buffeted by the fact that he and I, once and for all, learned the same language, the language of death and dying, of letting go, of acceptance of What Is, of corporeal and metaphysical transition.
I’ve always been in many ways almost a carbon-copy of my mother: Intense, creative, controlling, egocentric, intelligent, sensitive, book-smart, impractical, complex, containing—as we all do to varying degrees—the good, bad and ugly within me. Shades of variegated gray: The inner spectrum of human life, feeling, desire, thought, wounding, fear, etc.
And yet I’ve also always had a heady dash of my father, too, not the math and science smartness—definitely not that—but the intellect, the arrogance, the kindness, the thoughtful attempt at being conciliatory in a troubled, often brutal world.
This morning was challenging emotionally as well as literally. Before I had three or four text chains going about the house/1031/loan stuff, I made the mistake of continuing to read Don DeLillo’s 2007 novel, Falling Man. It’s quite brilliant; anyone who’s read DeLillo knows his stark, towering talent. But, it’s about 9/11, and he goes into multiple third-person POVs…including one of the 19 terrorist hijackers on that fateful day.
I felt strange this morning reading the terrorist jihad POV. The desire for murderous revenge and death upon innocent Americans. Finding America broadly guilty of anti-Islam fervor and therefore justifying the terror, the flying of two planes into the twin towers, the economic, metaphysical, geostrategic symbol of The United States. The obsessive, no-holds-bar rage of jihad, the religiosity, the incredible belief that paradise was waiting just on the other side of death, that these men were heroes, that they were taking down an evil, racist enemy, that it was all OK and rational and good.
Entering this perspective made me feel, especially first thing in the morning, vomitous, sick to my stomach. It was almost as if I were having some sort of mini-PTSD reaction. It connected to something else in my mind, something which I couldn’t quite decipher. Something current. Outside of myself. And then it dawned on me, the obvious connection: Israel and Palestine. October 7th. What’s going on there now. Hamas. All of it.
The Middle East. America. Terrorism. The stupidity of our involvement in Iraq and Afghanistan. Biden pulling us out.
A sort of spiritual exhaustion.
But anyway, I already felt taxed. Dirty, even. DeLillo describes one of the jihadists as being a man without sex. This made me think of the white incels and the white mass school shooters, also vile and terrifying. How do we solve these problems?
I do not know. And I stay away, as much as possible, from direct politics on this stack. (For political stuff, read my other stack, Sincere American Writing.)
Anyway, then it was all text chains and awkward conversations. I felt foolish speaking to one guy because I didn’t understand some of what he was describing and, because I was already in a weird state of mind, and because I felt generally impatient, and because I didn’t want to be on the phone talking about a 1031 but instead wanted to be writing—which is my one true passion—I talked over him a little and interrupted him and clarified that I already knew that, etc, and seemed to talk a mile a minute. Then he suddenly cut me off and said he had to go to a meeting and he’d call me back in half an hour.
We got off the phone. I felt like a royal jackass. This is another one of my problems. I’m far too sensitive. Always have been. It gets worse under stress. I worry what people think of me. Overthink it. My brain begins to edge towards uncomfortable places. Guilt, shame and fear bloom within me. Then I feel stupid for feeling these things and loathe myself even more; the cycle continues.
I did what I knew best to do in these circumstances: I took a walk and listened to my favorite political/media-criticism podcast, The 5th Column. That made me calm down. I got distracted. Glen Greenwald and Thomas Chatterton Williams were debating about [free speech] The Harper’s Letter, being asked questions by Kmele Foster. This was from early August, 2020. I’ve been listening to the Covid episodes, recalling that fascinating, insane time, when politics was absurd and running us all into a wilderness on fire.
Over an hour later, the guy called me back. I was much more relaxed. I apologized to him and said I should have made sure the first time we talked if it was a good time to chat. And I said I’d been talking too fast and too much, that there was a lot going on. He laughed good-naturedly and assured me it was no biggie. Instantly I felt relieved. We talked for 45 minutes. There is much to discuss with my wife.
The house sale scenario has been really tiring. There are just so many options. We’ve talked to my tax accountant, 1031 specialists, my real estate agent and others, a financial planner, friends and family, Britney’s stepfather who’s also a real estate agent, etc. Just when I think one thing makes sense, some other tax implication rises up to challenge it.
It’s ok, of course. It’ll all get handled. I learned this in AA when I got sober: One day at a time. Step by step. Things change. Things shift. When the loan/1031 guy said, “Michael from Lompoc” when mentioning he’d call me back, I felt ashamed. Michael from Lompoc. I don’t want to be Michael from Lompoc. Anywhere but Lompoc. But I know this is temporary. We’re working on it. It’s moving. It’s happening. June can’t move fast enough for me. I want time to speed ahead, collapse, merge to the future so we can be in Spain now. But that’s of course not how real life works. We see the light on the hill. It’s a ways off. There are hurdles. Steps. Rivers and streams in the way. But we’ll get there. Every day we get a little bit closer.
Maybe I feel a little like a prisoner here, and maybe that’s a little dramatic. But what can I say: I am dramatic sometimes. I live a life steeped in imagination and complexity. That’s what fiction writing is. Now that my novel is out, I feel deflated in many ways. I was obsessed with Substack for two years. Then I published my novel and I focused exclusively on that for half a year. And now I’m here, working on this damn house.
I wish I had more spiritual clarity. I wish I’d meditate again. I always feel better when I meditate. And when I go to AA meetings, which of course I’ve barely been doing. Sometimes these posts are a reminder to myself.