Dear Wind, pick up.
This week I was called 'young' twice. Once by an acquaintance of mine in their mid thirties, and once by myself while standing in the middle of a bookstore. This week I feel it too, and not the good kind either. Blind young. Floundering young. Wild young. Bad young.
After dinner three nights ago with Scotch and Rags in little Vietnam, we drove to the mall (of all places) to exorcise our inner yuppies. We even got eggnog lattes. While shuffling around the beehivesque bookstore under the main floor (similarly to you, Liza) I fell into a zen-like state. Instant bliss at McNally Robinson, always. I looked for some stuff and waved stupidly at the Phantom carpenter decending the escalator. After said wave, I found myself cursing my youth while hiding in the photography section. Well, mainly my young years. I don't really know what to say, sometimes I wear my age well, and all the rest of the time I am blowing it at being young. Majority of the time I am guilty of racing forward through time by means of wishful thinking, willing future husbands and babies and dream jobs into my open, idealistic arms. With that said, I have never been one to rewind with regret. If I do find myself going back in time, it is usually to the recent past that has glued itself to my insides with joyful connotations.
Now it is Christmastime. Here it is, hi hello.
I am well fed, drinking wine at the table surrounded by my blood. We played cards and are about to set the table yet again for another feed. This was a good season and the goodness and generosity of my family made me weep on the floor of my Grandma's closet--twice. It is never a family gathering without some epic crying session and a roomful of raised voices. Yes, we sang. We always sing. I am always my proudest when we sing in collective voice. I could sing those hymns forever. To be frank, even with all the singing and the eating and the neck craning laughter, this year I felt like I was missing an important link, a chunk, a portion, a sliver, a limb, a pivotal organ. I arrived incomplete, burdened, heavy booted and wild eyed. Christmastime is supposed to be joyful but all I could think of was the last family gathering when I was none of those things. I am not sure. I am unsure.
All I know for sure, for sure is that fingers are crossed in high hopes that the year ahead will be filled to the tits with art making and photo printing (in my home, in the room that should host the kitchen but doesn't and never will. This is an acknowledged downside. On the bright side, I recently traded a round of wedding photography for a darkroom) and cooking (oh please God send me a kitchen) and baby holding and tree planting and food serving and land coverage and lots of drawing and a shit tonne of printmaking. All of those things would be welcomed. The year of the art. The art of what? I am unsure.
I do know that I will be back on a short bus in five mere months, lacing up my boots (new steel toe Vikings for Christmas, I guess that means I am almost a vet?!) with cold fingers, weaving music through my ears and psyching myself up for another day against the elements. The elements are welcomed; my body needs a good weathering. In five months I will be homeless once again. Something which I am also okay with. As far as the patch in time from now until May, I am unsure. I spy transition in the interim. Those damn, unpredictable interims--they get me everytime. God only knows.
Take me Wind. Blow me across the sea into the arms of someone with a noteworthy mouth. Or toss me to the treetops and let me sing my loudest in the land. Strip me and shake the coins from my pockets, send me sailing down Main in the fiercest of tailwinds on my bicycle. Land me in the lap of luxury, heave me to the depths of despair. Dear Wind, please keep me moving, I could care less of the direction. Give me something to write about.
(I will probably regret writing that in two months).
Two steps forward one step back. I know that dance. I will take it so long as I am in motion.
This has been an interesting year. Never in my wildest would I have imagined all of the bananas things that went down this year. Goodnight! Apparently, steaks are on in my childhood home and I can hear my name is being called through the hall, down the stairs and into the old blue room where I am tappa-tapping contentedly. I am home, for now.
Happy interim, your Madgesty.