"It is not the critic who counts, not the man who points out how
the strong man stumbles or where the doer of deeds could have done
better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena,
whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood, who strives
valiantly, who errs and comes up short again and again because
there is no effort without error and shortcomings, who knows the
great devotion, who spends himself in a worthy cause, who at best
knows in the end the high achievement of triumph and who, at worst,
if he fails while daring greatly, knows his place shall never
be with those timid and cold souls who knew
neither victory nor defeat."
~ Theodore Roosevelt
To vent. To give air to. From. Find expression for. Isn't it odd that so many of us have different wants, needs, desires and fundamental prerequisites for this bulky chasm we call “life”? If we are, indeed, all connected here, points on a sphere, not individual sapiens in a contorted and abstract world but instead parts of a whole, like when someone places their fingertips on a foggy window and all we can see on the other side is five little oval blotches but on the other side of the window the blotches are connected to fingers, connected to one hand… if we are, indeed, like that, why are we so different? Why is it some of us can breathe at times others cannot? Why do the waves shake some of us harder and faster while others are floating down the Lazy River? Do we float too far?
I have dived in again. There are connections (spider-web-thin and all but invisible) that are forming even as those I love move away. Directions are misleading. My heart tells me to eschew the distance in favor of the openings like windows on the horizon. We get to see a little bit more. It is not a best friend thousands of miles away, but instead, an extension of myself experiencing different flavors of life; following different dreams that have spawned from the same pool.
Now, there is a part of Me in Chicago, New Haven, Fairfax, and in a week, Los Angeles. I am seeing her today to say “goodbye.” Really, though, I cannot wait to see the brilliance which she embraces with her future. It’s scary, and absolutely necessary at the same time. Changing the world from one’s basement is a fairly monumental task. Despite the little-fish-in-a-big-pond syndrome, I think her chances will be dramatically increased as she builds her acquaintances and connections within the field she is sure to ROCK in the near future.
It’s time for me to stop playing. Yes, I know, playing is healthy, and too much work… dull girl… yadda yadda. But I know now where I am going. I have laid the red circles, and the red dot in the center is finally coming into focus. My stint by the window has given me just enough free-thought-time to sort out the details of the plan. Now, it’s time to go back to work, and with a vengeance. Collections. Compilations. Anthologies. I get the theme. But the fire at last has an outlet. Others I don’t care about. (Yes, I know, we’re all connected. So ultimately, I’m screaming at myself, right? Fuck off.) If it means I come home at the end of the day full of cool, clear water with which to nurture the love that is waiting there for me, it is well worth it. Tools come in many forms.
Wagon-ride: day 7!
p.s…. Ms. Smith, if you are out there reading this, please call me. I have been thinking about you, and would love to chat soon.