I had to give up on the Bear Story. It was too much. Too fresh. Felt like trying to get a grip on a slippery boulder, only to have to try to lift it to an impossible height. Got tired of writing in 2017, an unfortunate development for sure. Part of it is that there is no external incentive, money, adoration, whatever, in it for me. It’s also cause the Farm/Homestead has become the dominant call. Our initial goal was more food than we can eat, and the bed of radishes I’m feeding my chickens right now is evidence of the achievement of that goal. The writer, content producer in me can’t help but scoff, all this good life material and I’m not even sharing it.
I stand sort of bewildered and blown out, by the world. I think that’s an apt description of approaching middle age itself. Sometimes solitude and time to self feel like a deathly needed glass of water in Death Valley, but when it’s finally gripped, you yearn for the others. There’s god in that.
Finally saw that In The Wild movie, didn’t see it when it initially came out, the hype was nauseating, but I think I read an article telling his story. Even knowing it was coming, the ending made me cry. Having to put down my nine year old laberdoodle Cujo recently has done that to me, made me all blubbery. It sits right there behind a thin film of ego constructed stoicism. I’m still in the truck weeks ago, driving him that beautiful, sunny morning, music blaring, insane. Petting him and crying. Songs were all poignant, topical. Hendrix Along the Watchtower, Audioslave Like A Stone. The later carried a hidden poignancy since I first heard it. I knew it would pop up like that in the future, its meaning and purpose foreshadowed, long ago and into the future, both at once.
The need to write is strong. But the avenue seems obstructed. I keep trying to restart the journal like one of my cheap, alway needing repaired, riding mowers. It feels like life itself, things work, they break, you work to fix them, defeat, try again, and again, then it works, for a while.
Everything is connected. A sort of sentence you’d read in a self-help book or maybe on a t-shirt. We’ve done that, popularized everything, reduced everything to the “essentials.” When you get that grip though, the correct angle and lens, it can sparkle, however briefly, a light projected through the angles of the mass. It’s all spinning together, one humongous organic organism, withering away in some crippled search for meaning. Crippled because its been detached from any natural process. And you realize, you ride on the mass, staring back at yourself, a reflection of a person, forever pulled and yanked by the whole. Your screams can neither be categorized as exaltation or lamentation, only your ego in breaths between, can look with a selfie-stick of self, and try to make sense of it.
Parenthood shows this. It’s a tragic drama. Child, tabula rosa, utterly dependent, push parent self to its highest, most mature forms, but then roles gradually reverse and deteriorate, around seven or eight, now it’s about learning to let go, letting them be their own person, learning to shut off that attachment, and move on. It’s about control, and your lack of it. You end up back where you were before, you have to cultivate a detachment to it all, recognize it all goes on just fine without you. That becomes a horror of adulthood I think, watching when people die and everyone just goes on about their business.
Writing interrupted, call from Aunt D, my Grandama’s sister. Women. Old women. The way of talking about illness and the burdens of others like it’s somehow your fault. The sort of blame that creeps in your bones, and makes you want to shake it off like a dog. But you know they love you, mean well, but something bad is in that. Time. Saturn. The supposed End. For years been hearing about how Grandma’s going down hill, sort of bugging everyone with it. What do you say? You can almost feel embarrassed if you’re in a good mood, or enjoying yourself. Feel I get that a lot, people being negative and it bugging me. “Being negative” that’s another t-shit type thought, isn’t it? Or the inverse, Be Positive. Like a battery terminal, or an electron. Turned on. And it feels like that doesn’t it, an added something, a buzz, a good mood. Collectively, we’ve had ours stolen, replaced with false promises of shitty food, silicone breasts and tentative safety. Talk about your dreams with others, they’ll ask about health insurance. Man doesn’t live on health insurance, right?
So that’s about where I’m at. Feels good banging the keys. Letting the fingers play. The words are there, but to what end? Half contemplating, saying fuck it and doing Nanowrimo again. Got this character percolating, Horus Rizen. Think middle aged Holden Caulfield. I know that’s a little ahistorical, he’s an old dead fucker by now. But I think the world is very much middle aged Holden Caulfield, or is it Charlie Manson? Actually it’s more like Holden Caulfield’s kid, after Holden got with a hippie chick, ate a little LSD, and ended up working for a software start-up. Holden’s at death’s store (door), he’s flipped, realized how grand life is, and frantically works at plugging his brain/soul into a computer, like Ray Kurzweil. Horus can’t do anything but drink organic coffee from Chiapis and scroll through the terrorizing news thread on his Ipad…anyway, you tell me.