Dreaming With a Broken Heart

It's fall again. The air has gone cold here, at last...well, at least for a few days. I put on the sweaters and scarves and enjoy color for a bit, even though the leaves don't change here. And I want more.

Another birthday is about to pass without the entrance of the following:

• A meaningful romantic relationship with a member of the opposite sex (hell, with any sex, but I'm not wanting one with the same sex)
• A baby
• A trip out of the country
• A job that's my caliber of intellect

These things, as everyone will tell me, are missing because I messed up somewhere. I'm sure of it. Still, small steps are made, no matter how fruitless. Last night I spent about four hours revamping my job search. I dispensed with the distractions that were keeping me from looking out for the partner I want. I don't know what to do about the baby thing, but I'm thinking it may already be too late, with my age. And a trip out of the country just needs to be planned. Where do I want to go? What will I gain from the experience? What do I want to gain?

Can't I just...as they say in the zen monasteries, "be?"

October sort of allows me that. I bundle up, walk down the hill with a fat volume of Rowling's, eat a high-carb breakfast of brioche french toast, and then walk back up the hill. I make tea for one in a four-cup teapot and then sit down with Beethoven and look deep into the screen, or deep into the page. "Drink tea," said Julia Roberts's character in the movie "Notting Hill." "There's lots of tea." I'm mindful of the tea, but the page lends no help. I feel as though writing is suddenly the dumbest idea on the face of the planet and I should be out picking up men, pushing things along.

That's not how it's supposed to happen, though.

So it's writing. For now. A lousy reason to write, but all I know.

Good Sunday to you, dear reader.