Winter Weekend Stroll

I always write with an agenda, I’ve noticed. An update, an opinion or three, or observations. It’s been quite a long time since I’ve written just for writing, so while I will be sharing this entry, be forewarned: it may not be that exciting to you. Of course, that’s not the point in any case. This is my brain out on a winter weekend stroll.

Outside, the leading edges of the next deep freeze, like pale finger tips, start to curl around brick houses, parked cars, and branches that remain from the pre-Christmas ice storm. Inside, I wait for bedsheets to finish their spin cycle, the lingering after-taste of Doritos and orange juice still souring on my tongue as I darken my screen, one pixel-cluster at a time. Songza serenades me with quiet indie melodies that feel like they were either conceived on days like these, or for them.

It’s warm here at my computer, but make no mistake: I am out on a stroll.

I left my store at the end of December, for other work related reasons that I’m tired of getting into, plus that would be re-telling of the kind I’ve tended towards and want to avoid here. My point in saying so now is so you’ll understand that it’s an open weekend. All my weekends have been open this New Year. and yet how quickly they get filled up with something.

Inauthenticity occupies my mind space of late, as do authenticity, being (or conceptions of it), the ways I treat those closest to me, the ways in which I excel without fail, my machine nature and my existence beyond it. A new language of description built from ordinary English, two dimensional words that only find realization in three dimensional experience: a holographic language of transformation and emptiness in equal measures. Something I’ll have to return to later on, when I feel more like sermonizing.


My great intentions fell apart not that long ago, or rather, the stories I had about them before did. They fell during the Great Paradigm Shift that happened about a week ago, in the city not far from here that serves as the archetype of all cities in my subconscious, and has since I was younger, riding with my parents out of tiny seats in old cars at night. A time when I had no conception of buildings, but could perceive multitudes of lights and darkness whirling past me like stars in a vortex, our spaceship/station wagon hurtling through it at highway speeds that seemed infinitely fast to the eyes of an infant.

That city, the city’s spirit that speaks to me more than others, that aims to seduce me but never gets me more than as a tourist, or a temporary bedfellow; it was a witness to transformation, to transformations, only days ago.

Millions of people, all alone in a neon-lit night. Just another day for so many, but not for all of us.

From time to time since, I lie back during unprecedented idle time and stare up and simply “be” in the place of possibility, and see that visions are declared from the place of authenticity and integrity need no building or “rebuilding” . I am all possibilities, and from that place, I choose to be extraordinary, affluent, influential, and compassionate. I choose the possibility of being loved, that the One will find her way to me based on my being authentic. I choose the possibility that money and cars and condos and success will, in turn, fill the clearings that I’ve made for them. I see a future that I want and live into that, knowing that now is the only time for action and that future and past, to invoke David Mitchell, are conventions, like all boundaries. Now is the only moment.

….and I’ve lost it. Wandered a bit too far, reached the edge of the development, reached the ever-retreating line between houses and wheat fields (the houses keep pushing them back). This has been a fun walk, warmer and comfortable despite the frost, and now it’s time to turn my back to the snow-covered wilderness, the untouched snow plateau that betrays only the smallest hints of animal tracks, white nothingness vanishing into the roots of evergreen trees that seem closer than they are actually far.

Time to turn around, placing one foot into the boot tracks the other foot had made not all that long ago to get here, and wander back through the flakes and flurries along the way I came, to get back to the start, to get back home.



Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s