The soft white pine table on which I write reminds me of the same table I found in Montreal last year. That was the last time I sat down to write in an unfamiliar environment with a quiet backdrop of lo-fi pop and low hanging Edison bulbs. That was also the last time I felt far enough away from my actual life to get away with dreaming about the boundless form of tomorrow. From that point, almost exactly one year ago, there was much planning and deliberating and love and talk of crossing continents to prove the universe wrong against all odds - and then a deep silence. The cyclical nature of all things made its rounds and I found myself an evolved human being, although geographically in the same place. A year ran, but did I? As illogical as it is to call the resulting feeling stagnation, my body’s receptors continue to confuse it as so. And so, here I am, the same kid who started this blog years ago to figure out the restlessness, in the same god-damn state. How many times do I need to burst from this chrysalis and when will I finally hit a stride where life feels a little like that feeling of no-mind monks hit when they are floating an inch above their pillows?
I’m 26 now. I’ve never thought about my age nor can imagine when I finally will. I believe in the spiritual undercurrent of all things all while remaining almost completely oblivious to where my life could possibly be going. I’m writing this now thinking my kin will someday benefit from this…so that’s something. Mother, I’m thinking about kids! Though not in the near future… although I think a kid would be a fantastic project; to mold a super-baby. Get that little guy to read Infinite Jest at 7 years old. #Goals
All of those projections are just a touch drunk on the feeling of permanence that my mind somehow naturally pushes back to sober ephemerality. I’m afraid to plan because now I’m almost certain that nothing is certain. Then why lock yourself down to anything? Montreal of 2016 unhinged me of American rigidity and showed me how to create with my hands, write poetry, play with hair that seemed to never end. I guess all of it needed to be taken away again to make space for the nihilistic buoyancy that is now necessary to jump again. Hark and unhinge again! “Enough is enough. One turns at last from even glory itself with a sigh of relief.” - Annie Dillard
If I were to write about my tentative plans for the next couple of months, my employers would be worried, my family would be concerned I would get stranded somewhere along the journey, and my business associates would speculate the music will die. Alas dear friends, from the depths of our own mysteries we find our way back to the latitudes of our homes. So let’s instead ask ourselves what home really looks like and head there. That search is my only real plan.