Long times pass to allow great clarity of the spaces between writings. Basically, I speak in a greater concise manner if the nature of my writings is a condensed account of a greater period of time. I can’t speak directly on the goings of my semester at conservation school because of the dull and ordinary nature of such occurrences. BUT, I will write now about the interesting lessons I’ve learned about life and existence.
I’ll start with a metaphor
Life is much like a room in the sense that one can be very orderly about the state of their room, whether or not they pick up all the clothes from the floor, form the paper clutter into stacks, recycle useless articles, blahblahblah. Damage to the room from previous owners can be unrepairable without the proper tools and capital to fix them. The white man could have burned, eroded, and confiscated all the wealth from the home and it has been left in such a state for many years, the preceding tenants unable to repair the damage. Or even simply it’s been one person’s house but they’ve been in the direct path of a shit storm for 22 years and have stood no chance, no time to clean up the dirty baggage and wash the dishes. A constant state of upheaval has left no time. Much as is life. This person can not concentrate on the future and instead remains locked on to the damages of the past that cannot be righted. This is what I continue to remind myself, feeling personally attacked by everyone who does not identify as a white male I’ve been on the defense finding that their arguments are seriously flawed. that we can never right the atrocities of the past and that the only move is to move on and live in our mostly equal society. And fight tirelessly against laws that are unequal but I'm pretty sure that wrapped up in the 80s. But what I’ve lacked in understanding is the emotional side of this. They’ve been fucked over, and the feelings are still raw. We have to comply with this. I can’t imagine the atrocity or the continuation of such sentiments. I’m a privileged white male.
But on the Road.
I realize now, by reading my third installment of Kerouac that we have something in common. We need the crazies, we need the interestingly insane people, who live a life unlike anyone from our family or media. People that tear apart the traditional sense of being and stride confidently towards their own destiny. I’ve chosen this because it forms a more interesting life. But since I know how this tale ends I avoid sticking too close to the path. Alcoholic death does not seem like a fate fitting to my soul.
I’m not done, but I’m done writing.