Jenny and I spoke the other day regarding what we both see as the unending battle for time.  I mentioned I resented work and the responsibilities of living (e.g., groceries and chores) because they left so little time for what really is important to me.

This survival thing comes at a cost, you know?  Dreams are spent needlessly on getting from day to day, week to week.  Hopes fill the coffers of those from whom we need things.

And frustration and disappointment seem our own true rewards.

For example, I find myself struggling with little success to complete the Dreamdarkers manuscript.  Writing on that scale is not something that can be done in fifteen-minute increments.  On the contrary, I must delve into the story for hours at a time to find that place wherein it grows, wherein the stream of consciousness freely offers up its bountiful secrets.  I find it meaningless to attempt a bit of writing here and there when I have a few minutes to sit and work the keyboard.

To add insult to that injury, End of the Warm Season continues developing in my mind.  I fear it might suffer horrible losses if I’m not permitted to extricate the information in a timely manner, to transcribe the thoughts and images before they are lost to my own mental abyss.

Then there are other writs hovering silently in the shadows awaiting their time, like the epoch The Breaking of Worlds and the newly discovered Centralia (or whatever that one will be called), not to mention several others for which I’ve already jotted down notes and started working texts.

But I must also consider the people I feel I am betraying at present.

I’ve been asked to assist a friend who is having surgery in early August.  Regrettably, I am on call the week of his procedure.  Add to that my inability at present to take time off from work due to not having been there long enough to utilize what sick and vacation time I’ve accrued.

Meanwhile, I have to house- and dog-sit this coming weekend, yet I need to go to the family farm that same weekend.  It appears I’ll be taking my canine charge with me, a feat not to be underestimated given the drive (three hours) and the circumstances (two other dogs, three cats, plenty of people, and a whole lot of farm animals to consider).  Nevertheless, I cannot ignore my responsibilities, and neither can I pretend the need to visit is any more important than the desire to visit.  We’re talking about my family after all.

If I am to make good on my escape from Dallas around the end of this year, it behooves me to begin seeking with prudence both accommodations and employment in the area where I intend (hope?) to live.  This comes back to family, however, and is not as simple as wanting to just get away.  My siblings have turned their collective backs on responsibilities in this manner.  Who then is left to tend to blood relationships if not me?  No one.

I would hope one day that others might feel the same for me.  No, I don’t mean those from the same womb as I.  Such a thing is almost laughable to consider.  What I mean is the adopted family I have, as every gay person has been forced to piece together.  If I’m unwilling to surrender for those I love, how could I ever expect anyone else to do the same for me?

The call of nature seems a persistent voice in my head.  Too often I must forgo walks in lieu of necessities.  Too often I bid farewell to opportunities in which I could lose myself in Earth’s bounty, even for the briefest of moments.  It’s all too common now.  Even my weekends have become minefields of mandatory menageries that occupy all but the briefest of moments.  Time to shower?  Barely.  Time to sit and relax?  Hardly.

The list goes on, of course, but I’ll refrain from boring you with further lamentations of my forfeitures to capitalism and the need to live.  Someone has to pay the bills.  Someone has to love The Kids and tend to their needs, both physical and emotional.  Someone has to keep the lights on, the water running, the house livable, the trash taken out, food on the table, and on and on ad nauseam.

Still, time’s altar tastes more blood from martyred wants than does any other dais.  The plinth upon which we stand, the foundation which keeps us sheltered and fed, demands so much.  Who are we to complain if we’re unwilling to give up what it provides in return for our sacrifices?