Monday, October 5, 2009

looking back I take a breath and hold my pen tightly

Have a seat and let me tell you one of my favorite lines from the story I am working on right now.



"...the past is a cluster of irrelevant details that only you remember and shouldn't reflect on unless there's been enough time to polish it up and make it shine."

Like a runner who has lost his shoe halfway through a race I have paused to look backwards on the path I have traveled and some people have caught up and I wonder if I am now running in a pack or was this just a moment where we all stood still and acknowledged the starting line we all remember.

This past weekend I studied facades and faces in Las Vegas of all places. I did the things that people act like they should do and want to do and travel there to do, except gamble of course. Mostly I sat around and spent time watching other people create memories that they will go home and share, like little secrets or snippets from movies they enjoyed. The lights and sounds, towering colors and booming aromas, all designed to make you feel like you have experienced the time of your life, when all you really did was walk down the street.

I'm on vacation right now and I am having the hardest time understanding why I am not interested in disconnecting from things, why I don't want to flee my life, wanting instead to be in the depths of myself, delving into what brings me passion and joy. I have spent so much of my life disconnected from myself through stimulants and behavior, dodging the connections that bring other people satisfaction, I would have to say most of everything I have done so far has been a vacation from my responsibility to myself.

My dog is sitting in a corner drinking water and when he finishes he reminds me that this is not necessarily so and the experiences I have chosen are necessary for understanding the path I am on. Don't trust talking dogs!

I'm going to share with you my one and only fear. That I have become the recorder, the monk in the tower with the plume in his hand, the mirror that reflects a painted window through which the horizon can no longer be seen. For the first time in many years I wonder if my actions of writing are the period on a very long sentence or the beginning of a new chapter.

The answer is in a past that lurks in the future. I will know it only when I have had time to properly polish it up and either see my reflection or look through the window on my world.

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