Time marches on. In the context of my day-to-day, I feel a little stuck in between dreams of yesteryear and whatever new horizons I hope to explore. It isn’t that I am failing to make efforts to pilot into a new future with my life, moreso that, like a ship, a life takes a wide breadth to alter course so dramatically. This is what I tell myself.

My sailboat languishes for sale, now certainly not going to find a new owner until this 2024 Pacific Hurricane Season has been weathered. The success of my plan to bank money by working as a builder in the PNW this summer has not been entirely unmitigated, the complicated nature of working with family at play, as well as difficulty striking that perfect harmony of schedules with surveyors, millers, engineers, and the county permitting office. It isn’t that the project won’t move forward, it is that it refuses to be pigeonholed into a timeline that suits me best. Fits and starts of high effort spells followed by uncertain pauses leave time passing quickly but timelines drawing longer with equal speed; as of yet, neither newly-minted walls nor coins of gold loom large. A recent pinning of my knee by a boulder while terraforming has left me hobbling and facing uncomfortable questions like who would I be without this longstanding persona of indefadigable physical energy that I find so gratifying to wear. It has been ten years since I learned to understand that my mental health can not be managed/steamrolled by blunt-force resiliency…is it funny that I’ve yet to accept the same with regards to my physical health? It might be said that we make too much of the idea of different healths. Physical Health. Mental Health. Really, they are one, and with Health a regimen of obstinacy will only take you so far.

Some weeks ago I had occasion to gather in Seattle with a fantastic group of old friends from college. Together we celebrated our dear friend who recently emerged from a battle with a nasty brain tumor–emerging victorious by all accounts, I should note. Together we saw this 41 year old man undergo a Bar Mitsvah, his right-of-passage only tardy by 28 years or so. We bore witness to Noah’s explication of a passage of religious text devoted to the idea of second chances. I could not help but ask myself–thankfully I had the grace to not answer myself–how many new beginnings have I had? On a personal level, the weekend prompted a complex array of emotions. I cherished the opportunity to see so many familiar faces; they don’t necessarily tell you that once the seemingly endless well of wedding parties dries up, once kids start popping out, the years can really fly by without occasion to gather so frivolously, so luxuriously. Still, I couldn’t not notice that out of the 20 or so college ‘mates, I was the sole individual without a significant other and children at the center of life. This undoubtedly chafed a little extra in light of the mild self-consciousness I felt surrounded by these lawyers, and doctors, and journalists, and political consultants, and…so on. These, the very wide eyes that had entered the regal halls of higher education with me, the very fabric of my unruly existence at 18, 20, 22 years. Those children went on to foster whole lives: careers, families, purpose. Did I? I won’t disrespect the reader so much as to make the petulant claim that I have built nothing in that same time, but it is true that I can’t quite put my finger on *what* it is that I have built.

That same weekend I had occasion to recount that I wrote my college entrance essay on the topic of Kris Kristofferson; I also ultimately chose to go to Kristofferson’s alma mater, not entirely for reasons outside of that factoid. The gist of the essay was that I viewed Kris to be a role model and Renaissance Man–capital R, capital M–who personified a grounded yet delirious outcome only really possible (I posited) through a broad education across the Liberal Arts. It would seem that I always aspired to be aloof, dipping toes here and there in the warm superficie above the cold depths. The difference, I suppose, is that I aspired to have bigger toes.

For those unfamiliar, let me briefly paint a picture of Kris Kristofferson’s multi-dimensional brilliance. Poet. Rhodes Scholar. certified Guitar picker. Beer swilling, bar room brawling helicopter pilot. Movie screen actor. One of the great (imho) songwriters of all time. Irrefutable romantic. His brief love story with Janis Joplin (culminating in her recording–to be relesased postumously–of his song: Me and Bobby McGee) stands probably too influentially in my mind. With retrospect I shouldn’t have believed that the bellwether of an idea was one prominent famous dude, but, hey, I thought highly of myself.

And perhaps I have followed in his path. I’ve made wines, I’ve tasted some acclaim. I’ve written a novel. I’ve started to play the guitar, time and again, though never progressing. I’ve learned to build tangible things with my hands. I’ve lived, largely, at times. But I feel as having fallen vastly short of his model. If I had published my novel, would I feel differently? Almost assuredly. If I had learned to play the guitar with even modest proficiency would I feel differentely? Quite likely. Or might I just have other excuses to proffer towards the conclusion that I seem so intrinsically committed to? Hm.

I peck these words out from Vancouver island, Canada. I’m here on a brief work tangent and can’t help but compare this cool, rainy clime with the humid,  balmy summer that I had expected to be living in Nayarit, Mexico. I feel immensely more comfortable here–let that not go unsaid or unappreciated–but also more empty, more listless. In the absence of high seas adventures and irrational love affairs I really don’t aspire for this blog to be a never-ending recitation of my mopey lamentations, (though by this point why pretend to be *too* uncomfortable with the notion) but it is important to me that it be genuine. Interesting and true would be the ideal, but I’ll settle at least for true. For my own benefit,  if not for the reader’s. Maybe I’ve just unwittingly stumbled upon the distinction between a blog post and an essay, or an article. Is it that at its core a blog entry prioritizes the author (self) whereas an essay (at least a successful one) is more in service of the audience? Likely I’m now philosophizing emptily to make myself feel interesting.

So, again, time marches on. I’m not exactly living the throes of The Comedown in the same way as when I last checked in, but I’m still fumbling–not quite dancing–in the dark a bit. I have the vague confidence that I am, indeed, moving in my chosen direction, I just can’t quite clock the progress in any given moment. Time to put on a Kristofferson album and have a little blind faith in the long history of decisions that has ushered me this point on this path…shouldn’t be so complicated.  Publish some words. Plant some vines. Build something. Foster roots of a more figurative variety. Oh, and Pen a posthumously-awarded Gold Record for an ex lover. You know, the basics.