billfriday.com

fictionary… 8 megapixel artist… bloody awful poet.

The Warehouse of Brand New Dreams

Urban Lumberjack 02

In my favorite picture of me, I look like classed-up shit.  Or maybe just shit on the outside, and class, invisible, on the inside.

Either way, it’s me.

I’m told I look skinny.  But I must make up for it in ways not seen by the naked eye.  And get your mind out of the gutter, right now.  My kids could be reading this, after I’m dead, of course.

In the thoughts that went through my mind between that last paragraph and this one, I realize how many things I’ve written that I know won’t see the light of day before I’m gone.  Things I’ve written that are so honest, they even scare me when I consider the possibility of making them public while I’m still around to reap the consequences.  And not things that are acceptable between consenting adults, but things that a lifetime of reinforcement cause me to share only with myself and the blank computer screen.

I do hint at them, in poems, mostly.  Sometimes in song lyrics that only have music playing inside my head as I write.  Regrets about the past.  Fears about the future.  And how many people I’ve hurt from there to here.  As a writer, I know it’s assumed that everything is fair game, especially those things that you’ve lived through and survived.  But most of them are an embarrassment to me, and I will probably keep them locked away for safe keeping, until I have made peace with them in this life, or am at peace in the next.

This evening, I had my daily talk with one of the drivers who come in and out of the warehouse with freight and parcels headed from point of origin to destination every day.  I’ve known him my entire time here. I was the one who spotted the heart attack he was having back in ’09 while he sat in a chair waiting for his truck to be loaded up for another run.  There’s a closeness between folks when one recognizes the looming mortality on the face of the other.  Mortality that could just as easily be your own face as his.  On this day, he was stunned when I told him that in two weeks, when I finally work my last day here, I will be leaving just three weeks short of nine years.  Nine years as, essentially, as a blue-collar temp. 

He’s been here for sixteen.

Today, we talked about all the drivers and warehousemen we’ve known, and how much each one ended up hating the work they did.  The same work he and I have done.  By the end of our conversation, he asked me if I regretted the last nine years, on the road and in the warehouse.  I told him that without those years, which seem to have passed overnight, and taken me through a lifetime’s worth of trials that, without it, I would have learned nothing, had nothing, to show for my fifty-some-odd years on this earth.  That seemingly, all the lessons I’ve learned in my life came to pass in these nine years, doing something I hated, just to survive.

And that in leaving I know, looking back, this was exactly where I needed to be to understand anything about where I’m going.

A couple of days ago, I posted something on social media that went like this,

“I used to call this place The Warehouse of Broken Dreams. No more. From this moment forward, I call it The Warehouse of Brand New Dreams.”

I’ve got two weeks to go until I step out of here and into an unknown future that these last nine years have prepared me for.

And maybe then I won’t be afraid of the all the honesty I’ve kept hidden in this life, while there’s still more life to be lived.

More to follow.

 

© Copyright 2017 William S. Friday

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7 thoughts on “The Warehouse of Brand New Dreams

  1. footloosedon on said:

    I love your raw honesty even when you’re not telling us the whole story.

    Liked by 3 people

    • Thanks, Don. I’m learning that raw, and honesty, don’t have to be mutually exclusive. Nor are they opposites, because you can be both tender and raw, all at the same time. As all can tell who have read me lately, I’m learning new things everyday. And I’m sharing them as fast as I can.

      Like

  2. Was that a candid photo taken at 306 or 307? Were you aware that.it waa taken? For what its worth you do not look like shit. The photo exhudes you and it doesn’t exhude shit. People who claim to have class exhude pos in photos. Yes, I am judging.

    Your writing\posting (and lack thereof) exhudes honesty

    I have blabbed more than I should have. Tons still remain in journals. I like to think I will burm them.

    If we saw each other randomly…would you detect the angst? My guess is no bc I wouldn’t let you.

    The fact rhat you saved your coworker could prove me wrong.

    I.don’t.know.what my purpose is. I am looking to read more about yours

    So.it goes. Ir has to go someplace

    Liked by 1 person

    • Yes, 3:06 a.m. No, not candid. It’s actually a selfie (I have loooong arms). Also, this one is NOT the photo I alluded to, but thank you about the for what it’s worth. As far as exuding honesty, it ain’t easy doing that when you’re saying barely anything at all. Poetry is the simplest form of honesty because you say so little, or say so much with so few words, either way. Blogging is harder because you actually have to open up… or outright lie… which I won’t do. And finally, angst is UNIVERSAL, so yeah, I probably would.

      We’ll both keep writing.

      Liked by 1 person

  3. You are saying multitudes, thank you for that. The feeling of vulnerability screams out to me and I feel the words melt along the page and… well, that’s just it I feel! Love stopping by to see what you are up to or what you have conquered/learned, or like me are in the midst of.

    Liked by 1 person

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