Sunday Morning Thoughts: 10.6.19

There’s this trepidation about feeling accomplished. Something that I have, about my own doings. Don’t know if this applies anywhere else.

It’s not that I’m afraid of my accomplishments. Or fear reaching for more. More the opposite. It’s more that I fear that to feel accomplished would be the metaphysical death of me. And who knows, maybe the regular kind of death too.

Now, don’t get me wrong. From time to time, I have mildly basked in the glow of my own achievements. Did so just last evening. Just before sunset. Sat by the fire pit, had half a six pack and read a book I had already read but ‘twas read long enough ago to feel a bit like new again. Left anything that could communicate elsewhere in the house. Just me and the backyard. And I sat there, for I don’t know how long. To the soundtrack of running water, cracking wood and the birds that grace the trees above my head.

Something familiar and almost forgotten.

Someone mentioned it to me some small number of days ago. Despite not being in such a environment for the last decade, I am much more a rural soul than an urban one. Capable of nearly any societal regional structure, I know from being much, much younger to be reminded now that my mind works far better in big silence than big cities. But necessity or desire for contrast or whatever reason had me out of what I would call my element. A valuable experience. And its not as though half of my life still won’t be going on where it has been. I’ll still be back and forth, for many years to come.

But it is nice to have a place such as the one I found to retreat. For me, at least. This place could drive some people mad, I’m sure.

This was no gift, though. This was got. I worked to get to such a point. Lived in a dump of an apartment for far too long and worked and saved, so someday, I can get drunk and watch things burn in my backyard. Which I think was what Emerson was getting at… in a different manner of words.

Because the way the light cast down the side of the valley, broken by the trunks but ignited by what leaves remain upon the crown of gold and ember, the way the life and lives beyond my own perception cry out in whatever they might be capable of, as they bound branch to branch, or into the clear, pale blue of an atmosphere about to retire its illusion, to allow the cosmic truth back in view.

And it is fantastic and I feel better for doing so, for doing a bit of that good ol’ nothing.

But I am also glad today is overcast. And I believe rain is to be coming in.

I don’t fear the act of pursuit. In fact, I adore it. And though it has and still will take many forms and faces in my timeline, a part remains the same. The part that is just out of reach of words. That itch. The one that drives you up and out and into whatever mess you choose to live in and make something of it.

I fear losing that itch. And to me, it seems that to feel accomplished would be the death of that itch.

And what in the fuck would you do then?

Probably just some of that unexplained and unexcused paranoia I keep towing around.

Nevertheless and regardless, onward we all go.

I have things I must be getting to. Inside things as well. There is a wonder with working outside, particularly in this weather. Crisp and clean.

But there is a studio I need to keep setting up. And more personal matters that have yet to be attended to. Cleaning. Unpacking boxes, or by this point, finding a place for the boxes that you just don’t plan on unpacking based upon the newly prioritized importance of the contents. I’ll need to research certain things (sound proofing a room, appliance prices, why the fuck is the cable not working, etc.) And there are bureaucratic matters to attend. They always get you, the bastards.

And somewhere in all of that, I aim to start the set up for new projects. And the revitalization of something left to be finished. A thing which may benefit from my own age and experiential growth. And hopefully, will not suffer for its original time stamp.

And who knows? A song, or story, or some such sort may occur before I find my slumber tonight.

So, I won’t linger here much longer. There was a cloud today of what was on my mind and what I wished to say. Some days are clearer for this than others, and I still am a bit rusty. I don’t know if I cleared that cloud at all for myself, so I can’t imagine that it’d be clear for you, but I won’t find the answer here and now. Elsewhere and later, maybe.

What is it they say about doing the same thing and insanity?

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