I must have become insane and sane again at least 100 times since my last post. I must have covered 10,000 miles of countryside in my beat-up, but beast, of a Toyota Corolla. The last eight months can be summed up in three-thousand gallons of gas, six broken hearts, three flat tires, a few white lies, countless hours of doubting my purpose, hundreds of photos lost, a good hard lesson or two, a kiss here and a kiss there, sweet goodnights beneath the moon, mornings in dewy mountain meadows, and an innumerable surplus of love and new understanding for the way world is and the way I am in the world. The expansiveness of my experiences blows my mind, and I am grateful.
All of the sudden despite all these beautiful occasions in my thirty-second year, in the hot, thick of an impending Arkansas summer, I find myself grasping at a mirage of stability and happiness, of a grounded life in love and purpose, and I wonder candidly, "What am I doing here?"
The more one searches, the less one finds.
Perhaps the lesson for me now, and maybe for you, is that there is no lesson. There is only the process of becoming. There is never a definitive why, a definitive means to an end, and there is no where I need to be other than right here, right now, writing my thoughts which may ultimately be absorbed into a vast sea of information, the black hole of cyberspace.
I am okay with that.
"We keep slaying our small dragons as the big one waits." - Charles Bukowski
I come to this clean, well-lighted pub for three addictions: writing, reading Charles Bukowski, Kesey, Walt Whitman and the like, and the anticipation of who might sit down next to me.
Maybe it will be him. It never is.
Last week the guy that sat down next to me was a larger, old man, who sat a bit hunched over in his oversized quilted flannel. He grumbled a bit when he talked and had a big nose and whiskers where his beard used to be. He was the product of the sixties you'd imagine if you read Ram Dass, Kesey, or Timothy Leary. He told me of a daughter he thought he may have and said she was conceived during a mescaline trip in the summer before the summer of love. His stories remind me of my anachronous existence in this post-beat and post-1960s world. Fueled by coffee and whiskey, I was attentive to his fascinating stories. This guy had actually kicked it with Allen Ginsberg outside the donut shop on Banyan Street just off Haight and Ashbury. I should probably spend more time in San Francisco.
My virtual wine buddy and soul journey confidant lives there--somewhere above a bustling street in a cozy nook I imagine. We've never met. If there's anyone who could match my openness, it is Her. She has an edge and wanderlust to match Kerouac--she might even be a bit more beatnik than me. Maybe she and Alan Watts would sit in the park all Zen-like, talking about how fascinating and frustrating the difficulty of knowing oneself is. Eventually they would make out in the grass.
Just this evening, as I slump into the comfort of my pen and solitude at the shiny, maple bar, I am also carrying on a deep, meaningful conversation with Her on Facebook chat. Coffee. Whiskey. Weed. And Her. Four things that blow my heart wide open and elicit self-disclosure. Through our streams of wordy babbling consciousness, we realize She and I are beatniks living in a post-apocalyptic era. Everything we need to know about becoming has been revealed and we are just helping each other trust the painful and fascinating, as Alan Watts had put it, process of self-expression and living slightly outside the mores of conventional society. Over our wine and poetic discourse, we go on and on about romantic relationships, drug experiences, things we are trying hard not to regret and how the day's been. Like always, today we come to the same realization:
We are okay.
...and I always feel a bit more sane.