November 29th, 2013
Grass Valley, CA
The problem with trying to write
about my life [besides a vague feeling that I’m masturbating in public] is that
it’s not only arranged along an axis of time, but also linked through recurring
circumstance, mindset, etc. The events of my life don’t come in self-evident
packages, and I’ve attempted to slice my life into “episodes” any number of
times so as to be able to write about Something without it being torn apart in
the vacuum of memory by every possible association I could draw—ultimately
these “episodes” are as arbitrary as political borders.
I could chronologically work my way
through a particular trip, or else catalog the experiences I’ve had with a
prominent person, or in a particular place. Deliberating over how I should
organize my writing has caused me to backlog the fuck out of everything,
obsessively rearranging half-formed snippets of writing like Tangrams, trying
to figure out how to present them together as composites, instead of just
working to finish them. All of this has finally led me to one infuriating
deliverance of a conclusion: Fuck it, this is just self-righteous
procrastination.
So…I guess all that’s left is to
write. Otherwise the unfinished .docx files will just keep piling up, as they have for years.
***
Quickly approaching is the last
night I expect to spend in Gold Country for a while [which, of course, could
just as easily mean a few months as it could the rest of my life].
Of course, with no one around
except Alex, two dogs, and a declining number of chickens, I’ve been naked for
the greater part of a week, except for a pair of moccasin boots a girl had
forgotten in my car earlier that year, and a fleece blanket I’ve wrapped myself
in in accordance with the setting sun.
Outside, a large pond [occasionally
patronized by a river otter, supposedly], a hot tub [frequently patronized by
Alex and myself, beer and cigarettes in tow], the best tree swing I’ve ever
met, a massage-and-yoga-retreat-space-to-be, disc golf targets, an RV and a
shed or two, ample space.
The chicken issue has been
bothering me—I’ve been stationed here with a very small set of
responsibilities: to make sure the dog food doesn’t run out, and to make sure
the chickens are let out of their run each morning and locked up again by
nightfall.
First the number dwindled
mysteriously from six to five without my seeing or hearing a thing, and last
night when I went to close up the run I came across just one quiet, wary bird,
though I’d seen the other four puttering around only a couple hours ago. I’ve
since invested a lot of anxiety into this.
Alex has been trying to reassure
me, “This shit just happens. Free range chickens get eaten—sometimes a cat
shows up. It’s not your fault—you’ve been here, doing everything you’ve been
asked to do, everything they’d be doing if they weren’t on vacation. There’s no
way to keep an eye on this entire property all day—it’s huge.”
Mostly my anxiety’s been in a lack
of inspiration. We’ve been sitting around, watching movies and TV, eating,
drinking, a bit of reading. Not the writing—or, failing that, the debauchery—I
felt would do my stay here justice.
***
Fourteen months ago marked my
arrival in Nevada City for the first time.
Five months before that, my friend
Christina had given me my first Thai massage in exchange for my teaching her to
ski. She mentioned off-hand that she thought I’d be good at massage and might try pursuing it myself, and
recommended two schools.
I didn’t give it much thought at
the time, but a couple months later I impulsively signed up for both—Ahern’s
200-hour intensive and Spirit Winds’ entire curriculum of Thai massage
classes—which totaled to a $5200 whim, without seriously considering whether
I’d ever get a return on the investment. It might turn into a new vocation or a
new passion, or it might not. I had the money for the time being and thought
it’d be better spent on exploring a new skill than on rent or more stuff and
things.
***
I coax Alex to come outside for a
cigarette, and suddenly the answers to my stagnation come pouring out.
“You know, my first impulse on that
last day of class was to arrange when I could come back—to sign up to re-take
some classes and deepen my training, and to return to Nevada City for little
vacations from life, now that I’m familiar enough with this place to be
comfortable, and have people I know I could stay with. Or just to take some
more massage classes, in general. But, really, that’s what this whole year’s
been, and my memory’s been vague. I’ve been living the same pinball life, but
honestly, I’ve been on crutches.”
“So you think you just want to close
up this chapter?”
“Yeah. At least for a long, long
time—at least until coming back would feel completely new again. We’ve done so
much cool shit this year, but it’s largely been things we both knew how to
prepare for. Working festivals was a cool new experience, but it only takes
doing one to know what kind of experience to expect on at least a basic level,
so I don’t want to do it again. Even being on a Burning Man project where I’d
learn new skills, like this year—of course it’d be a new experience, but not
the same kind of new. I’d know some of the people, the sort of skills I’d be
learning. Going to New Zealand, at this point in our lives, even though I’ve
never been—I’ve got an idea of what we’d be doing there, and who’d be there.
Sarah said when she went, it almost felt just like visiting relatives, since
the trip was structured around people she already knew, doing things like what
she’s already been doing. I want to go, but not right now—not when we’d have
such an obvious itinerary.”
“I’m with you. That’s why I
suggested we skip New Zealand. Southeast Asia’s something neither of us have a
real concept of, except for stories we’ve heard.”
“Exactly. And I know it’s kind of
the standard baby’s-first-backpacking-trip, it’d be new for us, and neither of us
has any idea what we’d end up doing there once we arrive. And that’s when I
feel alive, and when I feel inspired. And this week I came here to house-sit,
all isolated and comfortable and hoping I’d be able to write. And all I’ve
really done is looked through old writing I never quite finished, wondering
where all my inspiration’s gone. Till today, now that we’re about to leave. And
we’ve done so much cool shit this year, I couldn’t figure out why I haven’t
been inspired by it. But now it’s obvious. This year’s been just as dynamic and
full from an outsider’s perspective as last—but I always knew what was coming.
I planned most of it. The times this year we’ve been happiest—in general, with
ourselves, with each other—have been the times we were winging it and didn’t
know what we’d be doing in ten minutes, two hours, two days. And times like
that have been in the minority for a while. And it’s gotten me so lazy. Scared
to go abroad because I don’t have tons of money—but really, I’ve got money for
a plane ticket, and then some. I probably have enough to reserve as a small
cushion for when we get back. What’s the problem? And yet I’ve been resistant.
It’s just inertia, really….”
The town hasn’t changed, and
Janice’s classes are all pretty similar in structure, but that internal
difference in my approach is the variable that matters. It almost feels like a
betrayal—to fall in love with a place, then slowly come to realize it’s
becoming stifling when, after all, there are still more things to learn and do
and see within it. I must just be fickle—it’s my problem, not the town’s.
And that’s true, in a way. But the
point isn’t for me to chastise myself and try and force an effort to keep my
passions for places, lifestyles, or experiences alive—the point is that my favorite
thing about life is that there’s so much contained within it that I’ll never
run out of things to sample, and that process of sampling is what’s shaped me.
Alex is looking off into space,
shivering a bit, but I know he’s heard me. Most of the time, he’s figured
things out the same time I do—or sooner.
I gather my blanket up and head
inside, full of gratitude. “Let’s get out of here tomorrow and get those
tickets, and keep living. I think I’m going to go write, finally.”
“Yes. Good. I like that.”
“Want to play in a bit? We should
clean up around here soon, too.”
“Just finish whatever you start.”
