Ok trying to do this quickly, got too much work to do. Too much on my mind too much in the world pace, but 3 pages every morning is the jam. The sticky sweet goo of mind encapturment. O but you spelled that wrong! And every day contains the same old discomfort and inaccurate blashmamy that is description. How exact can the swan flight into storms of grieg’s piano, how well does the grey leech out of the sky and exact its presence everywhere, as if to say sorry son the colours over so you gotta get to work.
And that’s what I fear and crave, desire and dread, work, good work bad all work all the same work, here I’m working at my mothers house making kimono bags for no real reason whatsoever it seems cause not sure if they’re even selling, and all a meaningless exercise except I’m getting to pay off the debt to my mum. The thousand dollars I owe her for living beyond my means and having a massive holiday in Vietnam. And O the reward before its earned, my life, the out door ed scuba diving bush walking etc… the doofing massive psychedelic experiences, the kids beautiful and healthy, the time off writing poetry, all time without real employment.
Now don’t get me wrong I worked freakin hard in those vinyards and for that –hang on coffee break- nursery, but it was all for naught in the real career sense, and yes they say that the average human goes through about 3-4 career changes before they get to the one they are meant for. But really, how many others do all that in their teens and stick to something, become successful and some even rich. See I don’t even care about being rich, I just want to be successful, that is, make a difference where-ever I place my time.
This success, this striving O how can I put this feeling into words, like walking into a sunny room and having this 12 flocks of sand pipers land at once and look at me through their branches, waiting for me to send them on the winds of literature analysis or English, like the din of the class fading into my dreaming out the window and me just closing the window subtly and the whole class, stopping their little games of inattention and social rages on a 34 degree day in the afternoon and launching into fine focussed performances of Dylin Thomas.
And me tuning into all the different personalities with mutual respect that each is craving channel, needing a way for them to accept the world in its mad chaos, its inexplainable misunderstood turmoil. The idea that’s its ok not to know something, that its ok if one doesn’t know how to learn, that it can be found, that a way through the dark forests or the bright neon clubs or the desert winds of the mind in the midst of chemical mayhem, the midst of becoming a man or woman, that a way can be slashed, forged, barged, waltzed.
O all these the symptoms of me right now, the mega teenager, the raging hipster jock nerd that never grew up at highschool cause the ceremony didn’t fit, I never got to waltz at the graduation, never got to respect the classroom cause of my social inadequacies, and the run away from the art class, the run away from all of it, under bridges with a bong in my hand and an ego to supply who ever needed a likewise escape.
O there is no escape now, whether primary or high school teaching the desire to go back to school is strong, but is it just in the shadow of not knowing what else I could do or be happy with? Is it all just a trick of association, cause of course if you are interested in poetry, teaching is the natural option? What about the fine art of the kitchen, the delicacies of the plate art? Or the love of massage and health? What about the garden, or the publishing industry? What editing or literary agency or copy writer positions will be made available when I finally graduate?
One thing is for sure I don’t want to rush, and yet some part of me does, says o you have no time! Just do it it’s a great idea etc… but these next 40 or 50 years or whatever of my life, I want to spend in love with my life… O I want to do it all, the great romance with ground, sound and sky, the forrest and expanses of existence… fly on…