The case that is me

I recently received an email from an old friend I met traveling in Colombia. I forget the circumstances of our meeting, but I remember finding him to be a very unlikely friend to have. A dutchman with stringy hair in loose curls falling past the chin. A prominent beak of a nose and goofy smile. And the strange compliment of an incredibly chiseled body from weightlifting, and a playful egomania to accompany.

We ended up traveling together loosily for a week or so... a few days together in a city, a few apart while we wandered off into the sticks. This happened a couple times until I took a more lasting leap to some islands off the coast and he headed into the dense rainforests of Ecuador. We just got in touch again and this is what he wrote:

Hi there mister Encyclopedia! That's what I called you, but I am not sure I shared that piece of information with you;) You were that guy who had an answer and explanation on everything, highly annoying! You were that existentialist who was questioning everything. Pretty stressful! But somehow I thought you were a special kind of type. So I am happy hearing from you! Whats up, what became of you? Still chessplaying?

I am happy in The Netherlands, and working for an American company. Making lots of money, but it doesnt satisfy me anymore. I am planning new careers, will tell you one day if my plans succeeded...

Ciao Jesse

Warm regards
Jurre

I was a little shocked at my quick reaction to this note. Honestly, I have to say it broke my heart a little and caused a hollow wreck inside my chest where I leapt between a few thoughts, searching for an explanation. The first was, Well my God... he's exactly right! That was me and is still, regardless of the years passed. And is that how he really felt? Was I unbearable? Another was dull rage at his approach, shouting inside me, I was 19 years old! It was appropriate the way I felt, the way I voiced my opinions, and believed that things were happening... actually happening, and that I played some integral part in its evolution. I was a kid, give me a break! And you Jurre! Should I even start? Womanizer! Egomaniac! I talked that stupid girl into trusting you, that Colombiana that you bedded and left! The one with the doe eyes and vacant brain cavity! Oscar Wilde wrote, I am not young enough to know everything. Exactly! A rite of passage! A sad sad, yet hilarious privilege that was mine!

And so I raged for a spell and got it out of my system. I came back to the letter a few days later. I could still feel some self-pity crooning down deep and mulled on it for a while. It's a bummer to realize you've been a pain in the ass and that your personality can be trying; and, that someone you reserved judgement on, didn't do the same for you. But I had to laugh... at my sensitivity, and at his choice of words and the obvious fact he had meant no harm and was merely pointing out a fact or two. I also laughed at the likelihood that I would still, never write back.

To all those who grew up with me and had to field my manias on a daily basis, I apologise and thank you for bearing with me. And I won't pretend that I'm not still a trying bastard when it comes to opinions and matters of intensity. I'm indebted to your patience and support. I take a low bow now and quietly backpeddle behind the curtain...

Greeley Hill, California

There's a piece of land up near where the Sierra Nevadas rise from farmland patchwork seamed with canals and fenceposts. In the valleys the farmers want to sell their water instead of watering with it this year, it makes cents they say, as if the water running beneath the land were theirs to sell. It reminds me of concert and sports ticket scalpers asking for a good sound beating, ruining the essence by ruining the audience and the people's trust in other people. I think Arizona might take a bid on the water or perhaps Nevada would be happy to, now comfortably quadrupling their carrying capacity.

This land is above the thirsty plains, filled with white and doug fir, live oak and ponderosa pine. It was in the family that I've now become a part of. I think of it often; what I'd do first in maintaining it, tending to the himalayan blackberries along the fenceline and ivy at a giant's base. I think of it when the first hour elapses in traffic cos the Bay Bridge's construction continues its plight beyond three years and continues daily bottlenecks of five to three lanes, backing up for miles. I think of commerce and economy and financial security... and then I think of running.

But I imagine too much and it becomes difficult to evaluate my most sincere reactions to the elaborate fantasies I inhabit. Would the quiet become deafening? Would my thumb turn green if I read enough, tried enough... would I try enough? And when the creek dries up in the summertime, could I find water like Cal in East of Eden following the footsteps of his wife in the drought, up the still slippery moss of a giant boulder (one of the best books I've ever read)? Steinbeck always developed that sacred space for his character, a place for respite and refuel and sometimes, for sacrifice. And it's that fear that drives us for freedom and yet, warns us of the way.

I think of the porch and a number of nice places to sit. A cribbage board and bottle of wine, make that two bottles of wine. I imagine something that's not, and perhaps something I don't even want, couldn't handle. Like the southern songs of men being driven crazy by the call of the whippoorwill. But the idea is still there and I do my best to welcome it. One day my hands will have calluses again and maybe my beard will grow in finally. I'll have smooth red lines on my shoulders when I take off my suspenders at night (ha!) and dirt under my nails that'll never come out.

The democratic nomination is candy and I eagerly await each state's results. I like the blues and reds on CNN and that crazy new technology they have, zooming in on each district with Apple products and the whole triangulation of gender, race and social status. I like the way newsrooms all look like Sportscenter with up-to-the-second tickers and bar graphs, with an occasional pie chart of approval. Wolf Blitzer is Michael J. Fox on a full moon night. Anderson Cooper is George Clooney smocked and running down a hospital corridor. Lou Dobbs is Rodney Dangerfield under wraps, a slob in a three-piece suit.

I stirred some gin and soda together and sat down with my baby. The house is cozy and the ten-hour work day is over, rush hour traffic an afterthought to consider again tomorrow. Tonight's race is with Hawaii and Wisconsin, and God bless Washington state, a true stand-up motherfucker for the Dems. I'd like to send a few shoutouts to my political junkie friends... one in the Middle Nowhere, Jordan. Here's to the red, white, and blue and Tom Petty Half-Time Shows. And one for the Olympian, enjoy the mayhem.

Delegates and superdelegates are fucking bologna...

A long time coming...

Every epiphany is hard to hold onto. Within seconds i can feel it drifting, more difficult to grasp. And this one: that i've found what i wished for. And though i've been happy, i didn't realize until now that what i wished for was granted.

It struck me driving across town today on a shopping run for provisions, food and drink. It struck me that i was so happy with my life. That whats come to pass in the the last year was exactly what i'd wished for. And then i went about my day forgetting this strange elation.

2007, another kaleidoscope year like the one before, refracting upon itself, the events and projections melding into one jumbled mess of living. I think that every aim whether gained or lost must still face the scrutiny of what is worthwhile. So often i've managed a feat of stability in reckless moves and undertakings that would otherwise be a success in abandon. Endlessly i have questioned each place and each job and the faces around, contrasting them with something that has never occurred. Production and success, as if i knew what such things meant.

What i wanted all along was to find a place that felt like home. A place where regardless of my job and placement upon the planet the feeling of home would resound. A counteraction of the temporality that i felt. The only way i can find my place again in this monologue is to course myself back a few years. Beautiful Idaho, greens and blues and the sandy earth sliding beneath my feet walking downslope. I filled pages then in notes to self and letters posted to other states. And every song i listened to seemed to put to words what i was feeling and how i was struggling to find the way i was feeling, what i wanted, and how i would go about realizing what exactly i was doing with my time.

And i don't know what i was doing. I believe i was trying to keep things going, to keep that forward progress and optimism rolling until something happened. Every step back into introspection and analysis seemed dangerous and threatening to stability. Minimizing the ripple effect of poor decisions and turnouts. Trying to stay on my feet and keep coming up with plausible plan Bs.

Here it is. Perhaps i tripped upon it, i don't know. It feels like i came the hard way. I can't say i deserve it, but i know its been a long time coming. I'm feeling home again.