i want to run away.

no kidding.

i just want to wander and zigzag and tiptoe around the world for a while, and scratch it and vacuum goodness from it, to the greatest quantity i can possibly gather and grasp, just forget about success and the future and trying to `shape my life' and loss and mcdeath and micro$oft and rent and “meaning” and relationships and just:

do what really fucking matters,

which really, is each little human's personal thing. and my personal thing, my pretties, is everything! and i am not just speaking of this site, i mean everything, this entire earth, the fragrances, a sculpture, romeo and juliet, some stars, the feeling of running, a mislaid book, a weary traveler, coffee in a styrofoam cup and the energy emanating from the body of a person in love.

i just want to be allowed to do whatever i damn want.. many might see it as a personal weakness but i cannot for the life of me satisfy myself with thoughts of something better, whilst doing something i loathe. if i have a mind-numbing, depressing job, i can’t be happy knowing that later, i can read, i can collapse on the floor or cry for no reason if i want. i have to be able to do whatever i want, when i want. otherwise, i feel an urge to die. i never see the point in doing things i do not need to do. i’m sure some of you might tell me you need to get your hands a little dirty in order to work for what you want.. the things i want don't require work though. the things i want just require me to have the bravery to just say "screw it, i'm separating myself from you, nasty, brainless world".

the insane part of this is, i am already separated.. i don't know why i cant make it certified and take my separation somewhere pretty, rather than letting my separation remain a stagnant, ill existence. around the rest of you, working for and like the rest of you, but never really being a part of it.

i want to dash about and write a while and sneak into theaters and kiss a stranger and steal a sailboat and be part of a cabaret show and see a castle and touch some stone.. play in disneyland, pretend to be a child, draw graphs which map quite ludicrous things.. just, anything.
i have to have the courage to be an absolute nobody. this is all i really want.

i read franny & zooey quite recently.. franny said it better than i could have:

"i'm not afraid to compete. it's just the opposite. don't you see that? i'm afraid i will compete- that's what scares me. that's why i quit the theater department. just because i'm so horribly conditioned to accept everybody else's values, and just because i like applause and people to rave about me, doesn't make it right. i'm ashamed of it. i'm sick of it. i'm sick of not having the courage to be an absolute nobody. i'm sick of myself and everybody else that wants to make some kind of a splash."

{back by popular demand}

In the Pacific Northwest, the Winters are mild enough to surf year round. If you're lucky enough to have a share of coast. On the beach there's sand, like any other beach, but mere feet away and there's pine trees. While your bare feet dodge sharp seashells and rocks, pinecones are another worry. The wind gets so fierce that Kiters run the risk of being blown to Baja but they always manage to find their way back to their Eurovan in time for 420, with a little boogie boarding to round off a perfect Northwestern day. Sure, the water is barely above freezing and the sun is somewhere else, tanning other West Coast faces but the surf is steady enough and a good wetsuit, once pissed in, warms the body nicely.

A little whiskey never killed anyone either (except for Jim Morrison.)

I used to do this every Sunday whether it was Rock Climbing season or Snowboarding season. My room mate and I would drive thru McDonald's and get five hamburgers/cheeseburgers apiece and the then the quick hour to the Oregon coast where near freezing water and high winds greeted us. After the dreaded towel-change, where cutting wind and prying eyes met balls and nervous tattoos. With squeezing wetsuit we would run towards white foam with only the flirting seals and gray sky reflected water ahead.

Once I was arrested and the officer sited me as "Medium height, athletic build." Did you hear him? "Athletic build," I was outdoorsy and athletic and a fucking surfing, rock climbing dude which is actually sort of typical for this neck of the woods. In the summer, I would Rock Climb in the Coburg Hills; my back to the sun, my hands raw but perfect and only the squirrels and the stray dog Pepper to hear me pray. With chalk in my hair, I imagined a life of growing slowly older but better at my chosen activities. Be it the crossword or lead climbing Smith Rock, the gray would sink slowly in while my knowledge and skill increased with every passing year.

When the Summer humidity faded to gray rain, I would make the quick hour trip to the mountain where, with Scotch-guarded rave pants, I would ride my snowboard down the slushy slopes. Soggy cigarettes and beef jerky on the lift along with quick get-to-know-yous with skiing strangers filled my winters. I would find the trees and powder and float my winters away amid a white sea of awesome jumps and kick-ass jibs. Bruised and sore, I would round it all off with a nightcap of whiskey at the neighborhood bar.

A little whiskey never killed anyone (except Frank Sinatra.)

I had this ExGames lifestyle that I was completely content with (...with which I was completely content.) It was the kind of thing that I enjoyed doing and being a part of (...of which I enjoyed being a part). Often we engage in things that we can't fully give ourselves to but this was no such thing. I was neither ashamed nor embarrassed of my action-packed lifestyle. I wore each scar, obtained while practicing said activity, with pride. This is who I was.

Then I got married.

Then I had a kid.


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