Notes of an Eager SimpletonThe end of the day is always an enormous and premature relief. Part of me says, "Freedom Is Ours! We will not be Held Down by the Strops of Death any more! We are Unique! We are Original! We are Individual!" While the other pragmatic parts whisper to each other, "Where are we going on this? Why are we spending our energy like this? We'll be right back here tomorrow, to shovel the shit of a forgotten age, to sweep the bones from the floors of commerce to collect the trash from the universal Heap."
That's no way to run a life, I'm afraid. There are dire consequences building up ahead of me, and I'll have to learn to swim through the dust in if I'm going to make it. There are a few optimistic aspects, if one cares to look hard enough. My woman is my woman and I am her man. We have a good little home, with pets and cupboards, and floors, and a bed. We have windows, even, through which we might espy great unprecedented happenings. The likelihood, however, of us enjoying our blessings each and every one is small. We are so blessed that we are bound to waste many of them. As long as we cherish the time by the minute and not by the day; as long as we enjoy the moments instant by instant and not landmark by landmark; as long as we drink of the road in a constant slake instead of sip by casual sip or gulp by striding gulp, we'll be alright. There are factors in a man's life that are beyond his reach, clear of his grasp. There are events that mark a man's life and character that occur despite him. Words that are said regardless of his true feelings, feelings that are felt besides his need for total control. The perpetual branding by time; the occasional massage of pride; the sporadic instances in which a man is heroic in some way, such as doing the dishes or felling the terrorsome lions; these sum towards an unequal and indefinable ending, an apparently random outcome. I don't believe in coincidence, however. I'd rather believe in something beyond myself, higher and invisible. That way, my life is not an inane expense of hours and days and years and decades and seconds and seconds and seconds drifting away like atoms. I speak not only of God, but His Plans. My depression is a vulture, growing and growing old, he is gray and bloody, covered with a maroon skin of dried prey, salivating mad and viral, flying heavy and ever-hungry, swooping down on my life with terrible persuasion, exacting force, and cruel skill. This and these are times I am walled, floored, gun to the back gun to the head gun to the stomach times of do something about it now or forever reap the terrible consequences of life spent in sorrow and self-loathing. There are no medicines for this condition, there is only a simple and magnificently virile remedy: travel and freedom. These can cure the cruelest of cancers and the vilest of disease. These can expel black tumorous hatred and yellow malignant wizening neuroses. These will dig holes in the dying earth of the brain and plant fresh crops of corn, pumpkins, and lowers where there was previously only gray nothing. And so I miss these friends of mine, these glorious eagles of independence, one part individuality and one part of humility in the face of obvious God. The modest prayers of the traveler are holy. The ascetic thirsts of wander are glory. The simple pleasures of exposure to the unknown are the longest lasting. I have a partner in phenomenon, and I love her. Come with me into insecurity and chance, dear, let's give the winds that dance they've been asking us for.
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