Bookcases, Writingcases, Headcases. Books are consuming and writing is creating. They say “write what you know.” Thomas Wolfe mentioned about us being the “sum of all the moments of our life,” and we write about what we’ve experienced. Living and working closely with peers in Los Angeles has taught me a lot about my generation, or at least a segment of it. My circle (or “square,” as some would inevitably argue) viewed the city as a trampoline or a layover. “It’s a city where dreams go to die,” one would say, and we’d snicker about ex-partners who still had that dream during waking hours and would fall asleep to that dream later each night.

Jumping off and moving on has happened to some of us, happening to others, and will happen to the rest. This is the first move I’ve made where I’ve still kept in contact with the group I left behind. Previously, I would slowly stop logging into Facebook after I had too much social interaction in the wherever-the-new-place-was to intertwine my now-life with my past-life. We’re all older now, and we’ve run out of excuses to slack. “Make or break,” “Face the music,” “Step up to the plate.”

One of my close friends moved up here to Seattle a couple of months before me. He was feeling the pressure of instability and had rope burns from holding onto ever slipping dream-job-possibilities. He was recently employed by a stable job and his hands have healed well. Cue Gibbard’s “The Sound of Settling.” But he’s not struggling, and his future is clear. My friend, that is.

Another of my close friends moved to a desert in California to teach after getting accepted into a program he’d been fighting for for years. His future couldn’t be more unclear. His resolve is tested daily, and his towel is ripe for the throwing-in. Compromise takes place anytime you delve into your dreams and find reality lurking within. His physical and mental well-being is slipping, and looming questions arise daily. But that dream of his is holding on, and he’s pursuing it in a truly inspiration-worthy manner.

I think about writing these two friends’ stories, and I think about how clever I fancy myself, avoiding ridicule by claiming to be on the “creation” side of the equation. I push responsibilities out of mind to pursue imagined art. I take slivers of people’s dreams, accomplish that minuscule part of the whole and slap a “done” stamp on it. I’ve got my found bookshelf that I talk about while writing on my found desk. I’ve got a view of the Sound in a city I’ve wanted to be in for fourteen years. I’ve got friends that I use for inspiration, and I’m part of a segment of a generation that doesn’t have any clue of what’s to come.

“Bliss is ignorant.” Isn’t that how it goes?