Error 79

Every morning I hand-write three Morning Pages. Finishing page two, I saw that page three wasn't blank (I print lines on the backs of used copy paper to be a little green) and I needed to print a fresh one.

No problem. I opened the blank document on my phone and pushed print, but the phone said, printer unavailable.

I checked the printer: Error 79. HP error messages are almost as detailed as those on Apollo 13. This set off my frustration which increased as I repeatedly removed jams, power-cycled the printer, and got Error 79 for my troubles.

Fixing these errors tends to follow a pattern. I begin curious, move to frustation and anger (this morning I pounded my first against the wall), worry that I'll be unable to fix things, want to give up but keep going, and most times end up at some kind of solution.

Today, I downgraded the firmware and restored factory defaults. The blank morning page printed and I finished my writing.

It's good that I fixed the problem. Good that the process worked. I could let go some of the frustration, trust the process and my abilities, but so far I haven't gotten to that stage. I'm also stuck worrying a little if the fix will continue to work, if there will be other errors. Frustration and worry, what good are they doing me?

Error 79 is in my past now. Things fall apart and sometimes I can fix them. That there is a kind of miracle and, at least for a moment, I'll focus on that at least as much as on my worrying and frustration, whatever numbers those errors happend to be.

Reasons For Writing

Time to time, I'm asked why I write. The question used to annoy me without understanding the source of my annoyance. It was probably that I had no answer for myself and didn't need anyone else pressuring me to explain. Of course, they weren't pressuring, that was all me. People were merely curious or just trying to be polite.

There was a time I wrote to build an audience (even if I didn't want to admit that desire). I even toyed with the idea of writing freelance as my job. And I write prose poetry with an eye toward publishing and (I'll admit it now) dream of some amount of fame. All of this is one form or another of hoping people will like and approve of me. But even that desire doesn't account for all the notebooks, the blog entries, the millions of words I write.

So why am I writing?

I guess I'm used to it. I've done it for so long without a sense of purpose beyond filling pages that this is just what I do and maybe who I am. I enjoy it, sure, but there's something more and less than joy involved. I'm so accustomed to writing that I just write.

There's no denying that I imagine a reader (or a few million) following along, breathless in the face of my genius, but even without that, I keep writing.

I'd like to think the reasons are beyond understanding, but it's probably not that complex. I see a blank line, have ink in my pen and time on my hands. I know what to do, Moving the pen comforts and excites me. One line leads to two. One page to three or four.

Ask me why I'm writing and I may say, “because that's what I do.” It doesn't seem like much of an answer, and you're probably just asking to be polite, but maybe it's as profound an answer as anyone could ever give.

A New World

I'm in Texas, visiting a friend, thinking how we need more solar panels, electric vehicles, heat pumps, and sustainable systems to move away from burning oil and gas that supports dictatorial regimes in Russia, the Middle East, and the US right wing. It just makes sense to produce sustainable (endless) energy rather than remain at the whim of tyrants.

However, it's difficult for individuals to adjust to new paradigms and feel welcome in a new world. My house doesn't have solar panels because my family worries they will look ugly. Which is to say they would look different from our asphalt roof, an ugly but familiar thing.

Bigger barriers come from those profiting off the status quo. Oil companies, utilities, Saudis, Russians, Republicans, and automakers, expert massive influence over politics and perception.

They convince individuals that reasonable ideas such as the New Green Deal are fringe lunacy by pointing to what will be "lost," a very relative term. We "lost" film cameras, typewriters, and fax machines as their time passed and new things came along. (There's an argument around analog vs. digital, but I've made that elsewhere.) Losses are opportunities. Every exit is an entrance to some new place.

Often, we need a push. I bought an electric vehicle because Tesla made the car of my dreams. I'll never buy another gas burner. Our power bills are about to climb and that may push us to solar.

Globally, the Saudi Prince murdered a reporter and the royal family supported the 9/11 attacks. The Russians invaded Ukraine. Republicans are working to end our democracy. Individually, we stand up by moving away from dependence on the tyrants' economic supports, one electric car, one solar array, one vote at a time. It's a slow process, but I feel as though we might finally be sailing toward a new world.

Let's hope it's a good one.

Where's The Bottom?

Last night I was so tired that I stayed up late. I know that makes no sense, but it's what I do. I stayed up, watched a movie I'd seen before, and ate too much junk. None of this is unusual for me.

When I finally went to bed, I lay there wondering, where's the bottom?

In stories of addiction and recovery, there's the moment when someone hits bottom, stops drinking, and changes their life. My struggles are with food and bad habits. It's not like I can just stop eating or sitting.

When I think I'm at the bottom — weighing 225 pounds instead of 185-190 or spending the night feeling sick instead of sleeping — I wake ready to a change, but then I stay up late on the couch with a bag of chips.

Perhaps I'm looking in the wrong direction. Rather than staring into the abyss trying to find the bottom, I should to the sunlight and blue sky above this deep hole. I'm not sure how to do that.

Slowly, right? Except I fail to see how a short run or long walk moves me toward the light and ignore how the junk food and sleeplessness lead me deeper into darkness.

Usually, I try for some of conclusion in these posts. Today, I just have questions, some anxiety, and a picture of holding onto the side of a seemingly bottomless hole that also feels too high to climb.

Writing that, however, I notice a handhold just above my head. I think I can reach that. What happens next? I'll just have to see.