It’s Tuesday. I’m sitting in an old Portland house with the drizzle drizzling outside and the cars making that wet road sound they always make here. All day, i hear the sound of coming and going and it seems like a long time since i was the one staying. In a few days i will turn 34 years old and last night i found myself questioning my trajectory under the weight of the question “am i too old for this?” I suppose by ‘this’ i mean this lifestyle that I’ve chosen (or perhaps it has chosen me?) and by ‘too old for’ i mean “at an age where some greater sense of stability is desired”. For the past several years i’ve believed myself to be relatively untethered. I have no real home. No rent to pay. No financial debt. A lovely partner who sticks by me from stillness to storm and back again without tying a single string. And a nationwide community of people who help support us in our tumbles, our springings forth, and our hidings in the rocks, from the great dust bowl of our lives.
But as age spills out of hiding like a shadow, i see a fetter. I feel roots lashing out against my feet, but i am chained to the wandering goat, married to the tornado’s tumult. In the calm void i long for the call of a crowd, the expulsion of my demons, the temporal nature of being, tied to the table of a city or a desert oasis and split open end to end by it’s festering wanderlust. I reminisce in half truths, pining for the adoration of a few, the understanding of a a fewer, and the ambivolence of the masses. I follow fortune like an albatross, and yet, as fortune’s captain, wear the weight of my own misgivings around my filthy neck, forever destined to be blinded by freedom’s sun. And though freedom and fortune forever dwell at odds, we sail until the splinters slice our hands and the sea soaks through the marrow into that dark blood that suckles still at the teat of eternal uncertainty. Is there falseness in my feet? Is it fair to flush the wanting with the flowing jug? Sometimes when the whirlwind wanes, i see a soft light glowing. It welcomes without needing and nurtures without knowing. I want to become it but it will not have me. So i sit with it a while, trying to burn it’s grave beauty into my being. And when time begs me to fear death, i say, “not now”. Now it’s Friday and in a few hours i will be 34. I’m not sure where this (or anything else) came from, but i can’t shake the feeling that there is something that ties us all together. I don’t know how to reconcile the weight of aging other than to shrug it off as an irrelevant detail and attempt to tap into that stream of being that underlies us all. I see glimpses of that stream which cannot be conveyed neatly within the constructs of our social limitations but i guess i’ll just keep trying to build veils out of words and sounds and hope they are transparent enough to share some sense of the human experience. Here’s to another year of living and sharing in the art of life. Thanks to everyone who takes the time to look into this little window and to those who allow me to look into theirs. may flowers grow in our footsteps, -d