I have a tendency to wring the blood out of any given moment, searching for something that moves.
The other night I read love letters from the Civil War. One day the love I feel and you feel and she and he feels will be as distant as the love that soldier once felt for his sweetheart all those decades ago.
What are we all doing here?
Some days it all makes sense and other days I don’t even care if it does or not. I recently came across a quote from E.B. White:
“I arise in the morning torn between a desire to improve the world and a desire to enjoy the world. This makes it hard to plan the day.”
Boy does this ring true for me. Some days I wake up with a thirst I know is quenchable, a hunger I know I can and must satiate, and the hunt is all part of the fun. Other days I have no interest in large or complex matters, for all that concerns me are the small and meaningless, yet beautiful, moments. There are days when I live in hopes of contributing to the world and finding my place and making some difference, and the very next day I may struggle to want anything but the soft, warm fur of my dog and the large hand of my lover and a cozy cabin far away from any pressing matters of the world, yearning to live a small and forgotten life among the trees and sky.
How should one make sense of these opposites? It’s quite confusing. So I sit in the space between those moments, and wait. Wait it out, until the fog lifts.
Sometimes I drive.
Like tonight. I jut pull the dolphin out of its place on the earth behind my house and cruise down open road with nowhere to go. Sage as my companion, two girls passing through time and space.
The sky turns deep and the world becomes one of red and white lights against a sea of darkness. Who are all these people out here sharing this road? Are some driving just to find a direction, too? Where are we going and what are we all doing? I zoom up higher and higher until I visualize all the moving cars on all the roads on all the earth at this very moment.
It’s later and I’ve turned direction by crossing a quiet, dark overpass. North has become south and my destination is home. I pass a Walmart next to the freeway and notice the other motorhomes parked in the back of the large lot. Their home for the night, and I recall when the space between two white lines used to be mine.
It’s been over a year since my only home was the dolphin. Having a motorhome is different than living in one. I often think of taking it up to the casino parking lot where I spent so many uncertain nights. Just to sleep there for kicks, but I never do. And I remember the uncomfortably deliberate act of having to find a spot to park for the night.
Backing ourselves into corners with no other options sometimes feels the only way to really do the things we know we must do but are afraid to try.
There were those nights I drove for hours through narrow Seattle streets searching for a space that was large enough, safe enough, inconspicuous enough. And still there was that night I was so tired and on my last thread and had circled the same streets probably forty times and time crossed into the next day, when suddenly I hit a low hanging branch and tore off part of my roof rack. What the fuck was I doing? I miss the force that stood behind me during that time.
And now, here I rest, comfortable. I am grateful for the large king bed on which Sage and I now rest. But there is something about those tough and uncomfortable moments that I don’t want to give up ever.
Those melancholy moments.
Their blood runs pure, often times much later than expected.