“Our separation of each other is an optical illusion of consciousness.” Albert Einstein
The absolute best thing about this kind of writing is that I get to be honest with you. I don’t mean it in some revelatory sense either, believe me. The alternative to me is purposeful and consciously, created bull shit, which we shall call fiction. Truth be told, I don’t have the talent for it and I am at peace.
I am a terribly self-conscious writer and it seems to be near impossible for me to stop bringing it up at the beginning of most every, damn story, no matter where the hell it’s going. It has become part of my narrative. Many years ago, when I started this writing thing, I decided to do absolutely whatever I feel like doing, basking in my stupidity and proud of it.
I’m pretty sure I never talked about what would even have given me the idea to share all this stuff with you. I definitely think it is presumptuous. Who gives a shit about what I have to say? I like to think of it as asking permission for a few minutes of your time, each time. I was struck with that idea earlier in the week. Now, sitting here in front of the screen, I feel a little like a dick, but won’t tap delete. What are you gonna do?
There is always stuff I want to talk with you about. So much happens, even in the course of one day, there is never a shortage of ideas. However, I still have moments of rampant insecurity, which I think is the juice that drives self-expression. Complacency and Creativity are Cancelling energies and Inertia is hatched in the Conflagration. It doesn’t work for me. However, I admit to living in Fear of Word Inertia.
It has become painfully obvious that the past several years of Covid have turned my traveling feet into blocks of concrete. Like it or not, it shrunk all our worlds, almost starting to feel normal after a while. Now, on the other side, I have been teasing myself with the idea of a temporary soul transplant. There have also been shifts in my personal life, making me feel like it’s time to stretch my neck and see what’s going on out there.
I’m pretty sure I am going up to Alaska during the summer for a couple of weeks. Sometimes, it even feels like Kauai is too crowded for me. The greatest thrill I had, when I moved from NYC to Santa Fe in ’87, was camping in southern CO, in the foothills of the Rockies. One particular spot I went to, as often as I could, was magnificently isolated. I’d say I am a pretty modest guy. Out there, it got to a point where I took hikes with no clothes on. It’s like walking around totally relaxed in the privacy of your home, but instead, you’re flooded by a stunning IMAX, total immersion in nature. It was mesmerizing. After all these years, I remember the feeling.
I went to Alaska once before, to a place called Klawock. Man, it is one of my absolute best stories, but way too long an arc to do it justice. The mountain top of this adventure involved almost producing two, low budget films for Roger Corman, both with Native American storylines. The trip north involved finding out the truth about two young, Tlingit boys, being banished for their crimes to an isolated island. In truth, the whole thing was a sham. It was a mess, filled with tribal corruption and misrepresentation. I got the hell out of there before the hatchet fell, no joke. So, that was Klawock.
This time around, the plan is to go a place called Wrangell. It’s got a population of around 2,500 and there ain’t nothing, but nature everywhere you look. The options for my housing are mind blowing. Everything from a fantastic home, perched on a larger than life river, to a small trailer, sitting on a stream in the middle of nowhere.
I am getting these imaginary flashes of being an “add water and stir” Jewish Thoreau. Well, it gets me back to the writing business, which I can’t seem to avoid. I get the feeling I won’t have to even think about writing, because nature will kidnap the keys. Truthfully, I sometimes get tired doing all the work here; a little help wouldn’t kill me.
I don’t know if it is a healthy admission, but some of the best times I have is doing this right now. I already mentioned about being a very, private guy. Long ago, this became my portal to the Universe, my stab at immortality. It is my hysterically, modest tribute to the Buddha. I totally believe in one of his basic tenets, called Dependent Co-Arising. Everything right now is connected to everything that ever was or will be. Eat your heart out Quantum Physics. My very small voice and what I have to say, is the equivalent of a chorus of geniuses. It is my license to write. I owe it all to The Big Man.
A few days ago, I had a good reason for the title I came up with. Of course, I could change the damn title to be more compatible with this story, but I wouldn’t know what to call it, because I think it’s all a bit of a mess.
I was suffering through Costco, with my usual meager purchase. I met someone I knew and she looked at my cart and exclaimed, “One bottle of wine?” I felt obligated to come back with a quick, humorous response, but I couldn’t. I am not sure why I don’t get embarrassed about being such a cheap ass, who thinks it’s just great to have one of everything.
From my next purchase on, I will never buy one bottle of wine again. Clearly, I don’t save any money and just inconvenience myself for no good reason. Is it indicative of more serious problems? I can’t imagine how much worse everything would be if I didn’t write, but I do.
Thanks for your patience.