i woke up today, 29 going on "the-rest-of-my-life". not because i'm having an almost-mid-midlife crisis. i'm really not much on personal crisis.

no, this was much more intentional. i had a conversation on which i had, in advance, hung the direction of the next several years of my life, and where said life would take place¹. as conversations go, it wasn't drastically life altering in anyway. i essentially got what i asked for.

the irony is that i'm now beginning to pack my life and look for the next place, the next job, the next life. money goes so far (too far most of the time). after that.

after that, there's always a suitcase and a plane².

tonight, though, there are no planes. tonight i'll just feel the separation of where i am and where i hope to be. tomorrow i'll find the glimmer of a new life, peaking through the coffee. nudging me toward tomorrow.

and in that, i'll close this blog. so few entries. it's quite sad really. but i think it's time to start something new.






¹ at this point i'm sure you thought "wow, no pressure or anything" or one of the many variations on this comment, all intimately laced with sarcasm. what's even better is that it was purely unexpressed pressure. i find people to be most honest when they have no clue of the implications.

² this statement does not apply to everyone. some satiate their restlessness with new jeans or chunky monkey ice cream. some don't even know what chunky monkey ice cream is, poor sad souls. i quite enjoy chunky monkey ice cream, especially when real bananas are involved. it is not, however, even a bad solution to what i currently feel. right now my heart knows only planes or long drives. my soul has already started wandering. walking across the country. across the atlantic. it started doing that years ago in times like this; tired of waiting for action, forcing my hand. so for some time, as we have often done, we'll wander independent of each other. sad, eagar ghosts who only see the world around them in overlapping images. both worlds, wandering and stationary, blending together to create a dizzy life. we'll see each other soon my friend. in some coffee shop, at some sunset, in some cool breeze on the other side of the country or world or who knows where. and we'll smile and know, whole again. our new home.

my dreams are tangible beings, standing in front of me, shifting silently from one leg to the other, the awkward dance of the impatient. nobody says anything. apparently they're all waiting on me.

it's disturbing. you wouldn't think it would be. i wouldn't anyway. having your dreams so close they could reach out and touch you at any moment.
but it is.
staring at them like children, or friends, or who the hell knows what. beautiful and real, wanting to make me smile. to make me happy. my little ones, trying to grow up before my eyes.

all they need is me-my time, my attention, my unrelenting devotion.
it's a hell of a thing to know that you can't feed them all.
how do you make that choice? to feed one and watch the other starve. to spread what you have around so that all live but none too much. not wanting to play favorites, even though there are obvious favorites. everyone has favorites. i know, that even as close as they are, i can't make it work. i can't build them all to independence, not all at the same time. i don't think i was expecting them all at the same time.

i've known of my finiteness since the age of 12 when broken bones showed me that unaided flight was beyond me, but i'm just now realizing that my finiteness is a bit too much so to be able to adequately feed all of my dreams. some will have to starve, to wait on the side for their time. i imagine one or two won't make it. they'll leave me. or they'll starve to death in utter devotion.

it was easier when i could see them as imaginary. some far off ideas that i read in a book. lose yourself in it for a time and then come out of that world into your own. they come with you in some way, vaguely, abstractly, nothing more.

but now they're here, still here. so close. so real. staring at me with love and desire. i can feel their breathing sighs. i realize i'm holding my breath. i shift legs. scratch my left eyebrow.

it's a hell of a thing. knowing you can't feed them all.

i don't believe in objectivity. not that i don't believe it's a good idea. it's a great idea. modernism, globalism: beautiful concepts. everything is in the open. everything and everyone connected into one massive hive-live being. great idea. makes a lot of life-aspects stunningly better. but it doesn't create objectivity. it generates knowledge. knowledge that is still filtered through the subjectivity of our own experiences, of our own lives. only God is objective. he's omniscient. since he knows everything (knowing every experience and perspective at the same time (relatively speaking of course, because time is irrelevant to him)), he is simultaneously subjective from every point. he is objective through the entire spectrum of the subjective.

which brings me to now.

subjectivity is a bitch. it's true.
all i can do is stare through the back of my thoughts at everyone walking so purposefully on the other side.

and act accordingly.

i've stopped writing.
i just thought about that this morning, after the second cup of coffee. it makes sense i guess. i've been friends with a professional writer, which makes my attempts look more like a hobby. i worked to prove i could do anything at my job. and i did. the result, unfortunately, is that i'm now tasked with a broader scope of responsibilities (design being one of them. i hate design). the writing has been completely taken from me and given to the new guy. he's become the writer here. i'm treated like the most literate non-writing person in the world.

so it's a natural progression i guess. to stop writing. it's depressing though. it's hard to lose things you love.

i seem to be doing that a lot lately. losing things i love.

apparently facebook doesn't really allow you to quit. not really. i got an email today that says "[some person] wants to be your friend." which was interesting to me as i didn't think i existed in facebookuniverse any more. i was wrong. it happens sometimes.

so i go back to login to see what happens. "welcome back" it says. like i just took a short vacation or something. while i'm flattered that facebook cares so much that it doesn't want to let me go, i don't know that this is actually a good thing. social networks shouldn't miss me and hold on when i say goodbye. i feel like i'm being stalked by facebook. not by anyone. by the actual program. it's kind of scary. i'm wondering if i should lock my door. like maybe a big computer is going to show up on my doorstep and ask me to go for coffee. which is just ridiculous i know. computer systems can't drink coffee.

it's amazing to me how much i censor my thoughts even when i know that no one is going to read this. i'm on draft three of a simple note about how i deleted my facebook to allow myself the freedom to really write my thoughts on a page that no one will read (sort of give me that daring sense of openness that someone could actually know what i'm thinking, but with little danger because not even i read this page). and i'm still censoring. brilliant eh? maybe i'm hiding these thoughts from myself. (let's play at psychology right?)

i'm thinking things i don't want to admit to thinking. connecting dots that aren't in the same picture and staring at the picture like it's some zen revelation. it's not zen. hell, it's not even real. i know that. but i still keep looking at the picture and tracing the lines.

i think that's one of the main reasons i feel like disappearing right now (there's always a reason. maybe not a good one. maybe just plenty of bad ones). to disconnect from ideas. long enough that i can change the perception of the people around me. back to a more (less) comfortable place.

i wish stories didn't always get told after they were finished. you hear bits and pieces along the way. chapters within the story. but not the whole book. that seems to only get told at the end, when everyone's gathered around sharing their portion. their memories.

that was this weekend, and the one before, after my grandmother died. many of them i knew, the stories. i was in a lot of them. the unruly child that refused to be tamed. the chocolate cakes and birthday wishes. cat scratches and skinned knees.

but of all of them, i think the one i loved hearing most, was the one at the end, both in telling and in life.

i don't think anyone really knows the the details of the beginning. i don't think she shared that part, out of modesty i'd guess. she loved my grandfather, never stopped, even when age made her stop changing the flowers on his grave every so often.

so, since no one knows, i'm going to give you my version. it's mostly factual. i just filled in the gaps.


Grandmother's Bingo Partner

when everyone grew up, they grew out. all the children and grandchildren going in their different directions. grandmother couldn't stand to be too still for too long. life had to move, have some purpose, some action, some something. so amongst the many activities that took over her time, from baking for the church, and sending cards to every sick person with a mailing address, she played bingo. weekly. the kind of bingo where people actually care about winning the prize, even if they don't totally care about the prize itself.

she was a spark, my grandmother, even if no longer the whole fire. so i guess i shouldn't be surprised that old age and poor site couldn't hide her from the smiling, elderly gentleman that came to sit next to her soon after she started attending.

i'm assuming, of course, that he had poor site. for all i know he had perfect vision. i don't think anyone knew that part, and i forgot to ask. not that it matters. it doesn't. so since it doesn't, let's give him bad vision.

it started with polite conversations and lots of smiles. modest smiles, deep with age, that form from years of experience. they aren't light, these, looking at shallow depths. these smiles have eyes that see your entire life in ways we youth can't even understand. he could probably know my heart and soul from the color of my socks and how far i pulled them up my calf.

but i'm losing you, i can tell. back to the story.

smiles. lots of smiles. that only grew wider and more permanent. then one day, standing over the prize table he asks, "what would you like. tell me what you want and i'll win it for you." like two teenagers at the fair. she pointed and smiled. he didn't let her down. a tradition was started. each week it was the same. they'd stand over the table and he'd deliver the same line with the same smile that she couldn't tire of. and he would win. he would always win. i think it's a testament to love. love rigged bingo, on some cosmic, this-shouldn't-happen-every-time, miracle level.

even in the end, when she was in pain, and words didn't want to leave her mouth. the phone would ring. his name would be called. her hand would extend. all she wanted was the phone. the voice didn't make the pain go away. it just helped keep the smile there.

he wasn't the whole smile. no one was. their were pieces for my mother, my dad. aunts and uncles. they were big pieces. along with grandchildren and friends, the world in general. everything was her smile, because she saw her children, her happy life in everything around her.

but he was the finishing touch. he was the last love in the last days that took that smile, and broke apart the lips to let the teeth gleam from behind.


***


it's beautiful isn't it? i won't cheapen it with morals and takeaways. it needs none. it is its own takeaway.