Shitting Bricks
I asked another man out on a date.
He said yes.
Just two straights sitting in the niche-est brewery in a town full of niche breweries, chatting about work, design, life, and technical details. Sipping slowly at my one I-still-need-to-drive-home-later-and-no-longer-engage-in-that-kind-of-fuckery beer, I inevitably told him about all the different bricks I had shit in my life.
Graduating college and moving to Washington with no money, no job, and no plan - That’s a brick. Finding some writing jobs to try earning a living with what I thought might be my craft, and barely scraping by - That’s another brick. The valet job that caught me when writing didn’t work; the edibles company that was supposed to be my entry into the weed business; the furniture I started building in my basement with secondhand tools - All their own bricks.
The time I spent working on a prototype aircraft in the California desert was worth several bricks, all on its own. Technical skills, confidence as a craftsman, and lessons learned about how large organizations tend to function - A few of the many bricks that were shit in Mojave, CA.
The side hustles that seemed so promising. The years of college-degree-approved service in the mining industry. The businesses started, sweat over, and abandoned after the mine-cycle finally turned so violently it chucked me right out.
Little piles of bricks were shit at each of these stops along the way.
My man-date looked at me with increasing surprise, which often happens when I tell people about my bricks. “Well, of course you feel like you haven’t built anything. You’ve had like 30 jobs…”
He thought he was exaggerating. I stopped counting after the 25th. But I kept walking. Kept trying. Kept making bricks.
Every couple of years I would turn around and take a look. Each time I was shocked and dismayed. Knowing how much work went into each brick and how many bricks I had made, I expected to find a strong, sizeable foundation. Something with a respectable footprint. Maybe even a few walls mostly completed.
All I’ve ever seen is scattered piles of bricks. Some neatly laid, some artfully arranged, and others seemingly tossed aside in a moment of rage or indifference.
And I hated the piles.
I hated the bricks.
I hated the asshole who shit them and walked away.
I turned back to whatever direction currently seemed like forward, and walked on. Made more bricks.
These days I find myself surveying the piles, and wondering about their true worth. If I squint, I can just make out the wandering path between them. If I’m gracious, I can concede that I really have come a long, long way. But it’s hard to accept that work had meaning when you can’t point to anything solid.
And so I retrace my steps.
I inspect each little pile, looking for the worthiest bricks in the bunch. I bust off any remaining shit-stained mortar, and set them neatly in my rucksack before heading to the next pile.
They have meaning, these bricks. I don’t know exactly what it is yet, but the images and ideas get clearer with each one I pick up. I’ll keep carrying them for as long as I need to.
This time, when I’m ready, I intend to lay them all in the same place.
