I actually awoke in a good mood. We had a nice b'fast prepped by Chris and Wendie for their mom, but then I almost immediately felt an overpowering need for solitude. That happens sometimes and always has. Today was a bit different. I needed some of that "brutal honesty" my friend referred to, and it needed to be directed squarely at myself. I needed to write.
I told Chris to let the others know that I was going to vanish. I figured they wouldn't mind since it was Mother's Day and it would be nice for them to spend some time quality time with Mary, sans Todd. I strapped on the Mp3 player, crawled in bed and puked into the journal. For exactly the first time since we had left. Nearly a month ago. Astounding. I had written nearly every day last summer and this sort semi stream- of- conscious writing, as I've mentioned, has been something I have depended on to organize thoughts and clarify them into ideas.
The primary "Revelation- of- the- Obvious" was that, regardless of the rationalization, I had lost sight of why I was out here. That was a direct result of trying too hard to incorporate Chris, and vice versa.
We had discussed the idea that we were walking similar yet only parallel paths; not the same one. I'd used the metaphor "painting different parts of the same mural." Somewhere along the way, I had nearly quit focusing on my "part", and had let it turn into some odd sort vacation. One that now had no structure and little defined purpose; I was sailing without a compass. Enter irritation. My blessed discontent. Always my biggest nemesis and the canary in the mental coal mine at the same time.
The conversation with Chris and Wendie on Friday had helped to refocus my purpose in Michigan, but I believe the conversation Saturday may have been more important to the long term. I live to find truth, even if it's not to be found. It's the quest that drives me. It ensures that I continue to grow rather than slipping into complacency, waiting to die. It's a subconscious, unquenchable, and admittedly uncommon drive to define, then identify, agenda and to see the world without the filters of fear. Free from the standard- bearers masquerading as media then share what I see. Remember that? So do I, but where's it been? There have been glimpses, but somewhere along the way I had softened my edge, and started to play the role of some semi- mystical, douchebag travel writer.
I don't want to be a travel writer. The world has too many travel writers. I would rather be raped by a pod of killer whales than be a travel writer. Travel writers make good cocktail party guests because they're comfortable with the ordinary. With few exceptions, they seem to prefer the practice of Cliche' Douchebaggery, writing the same things with only slightly different characters, and insisting on telling us about the "sun rising like a Phoenix from the ashes that was once the dead of night beyond the mountains to the east", or some silly shit like that.
Phoenix? Phuck the Phoenix.
Their contribution, in my mind, is not even bathroom reading material. It's wipe- your- ass material. I have no interest in following the footsteps of Peter Jenkins or Steve Newman. They have no real content (other than Pete's dead dog), so they simply spew warm, fuzzy, poorly constructed poetic anecdotes. Beware the writer who tries to be oh- so- pretty. Fancy wordsmithiness is often mental- makeup; a deception trying to conceal that they really have nothing original to say, hoping you wont notice, or worse- pretending to have something to say yet having no idea what the hell they're talking about.
Somewhere along the way, I had been gelded. I had become concerned with hurting feelings, or seeming unfair. This started in Oklahoma City, and it's pissing me off. I'm not interested in making hundreds of friends to display in my ego's trophy case. Nor am I interested in singing Kumbaya to every town hoping they offer the jester a Coke and a Smile.
Once this obvious realization hit me, the weight lifted and my energy level skyrocketed. Chris and I have distinctly different voices, and equally diverging ways of dealing with people and world. I have little interest in placating anyone for the sake of peace, and often literally thrive on genuine conflict. Most of the few people I respect and admire have in common the willingness to stand up and tell me, family, friends, authority, and most importantly themselves and the world when they are wrong.
No, I'm not "well adjusted". I tried it on for size, and didn't adjust well to the "Bullshit of the Well Adjusted", otherwise my life would not include sleeping with Black Widows and pulling ticks! For the record, I am damn proud of that. Google MLK's speech on being "well adjusted" while you sit and shake your head!
Traveling with another person can be difficult at times. Ultimately the trip can become a battle of wills, styles, and wants. In a case such as ours, that can be a good thing if for nothing else than to serve as a reminder that we're sharing experiences rather than jointly creating them. We're both willing to go our own ways if and when it's needed, and at this point it was needed, at least for a bit. I was eternally grateful on this Mother's Day that we had gotten the bus ticket. And, I was grateful to Shalain for suggesting it, seemingly out of the blue, and at just the right time. I called her and told her so.
These are briefly some of the conclusions I had come to this Mother's Day afternoon in New Jersey. There were others of course, but this is enough for now. I feel as though I've written a manifesto. At least it was Phoenix- free!
