Not a bad prelude to a life of dreams.
I come from a large Catholic family, and took my first road-trip at fifteen-years old. My parents didn’t have time to miss me. I went to Montreal with an older and wiser friend who was 17. The next summer I hitch-hiked to the East Coast and burrowed in Cambridge while the anti-war protesters rioted down the street at Harvard Square. And that was just the beginning. One lonely trip after another. A half-smart kid from a thumbtack town with a knack for living on the edge of trouble.
Restless. Underpowered. Stubborn beyond reason. I drifted to the West Coast one lost summer. In Santa Barbara, I stayed with friends of my hitch-hiking buddy who was sinfully handsome, got all the girls, and later went certifiably insane. Eventually, I would teach Special Education in Detroit and soothe the psychologically frail. Meanwhile , in Santa Barbara, our hosts had a dog that wasn’t feeling well. On the trip to the vet, I got assigned to sit in the back-seat and hold the sickling. I felt its stomach quake. An almost biblical foretelling. When the dog puked on me? I felt vectored by the angels to be less than zero.
Before leaving town, I visited a chic Santa Barbara bookstore. I had the feeling that I was in for a long-long life at the bottom, and that there must be an art to it. Deep down inside, where I should've had leaden anger, I had fighting exuberance. Well, I couldn't quite find the book that I was looking for, and so I thought that I'd have to write it for the next sad-sack a million miles away from home with euphoria his blood. A life's assignment. I should've given up. But I’ve got a peasant drive along with something that science can’t explain. Do you think that there’s such a thing as a spiritual IQ? Why do some experts experience God with organic gusto, and other experts experience God at an academic remove? I think that receptivity to the divine in art is an analogous thingy. Even then, many are called and few are chosen to actively create as opposed to politely receive. Therein lies the inner-road to headache, heartache and all kinds of rejection. Maybe I don't know enough to quit.
To make matters worse, I'm left-handed. "Zurdo" to the Spanish and "Sinistra" to the Italians. That means I'm Southwest of the norm in my instincts. A boon for the humorist but a real embarrassment for the inner-cop. I'm a lapsed Catholic but still believe in the Pagan/Vatican hierarchy. Spirit-Mind-Body in descending order. The artist/comic in me inverts them to good effect. The sexual-libertine in me inverted them to good effect as a young buck, and continues to invert them now as an old goat to really problematic effect. My psycho-sexual apologia: I have the erotic imagination of rock star and the body of retiring writer.
I'm pulled to extremes. It would make a lesser man crazy or numb. But I'm neither defeated nor dead before my time. I do lots of yoga. Religiously, but without the moralizing. Did Michelangelo want to save the world? No. He wanted to express what was Divine in his ornery, animalistic, ego-maniacal nature. And for that, he had to mind his own inner-tabernacle even as he was working under the Pope's Dome.
I do lots of yoga. Then I write about Life in the City as a properly rebellious and poetry-intoxicated Irishman. Full of blarney but increasing centered. Self-centered on the outside and magic-stone centered within.
I’m very good at moving through the social-spheres. Of course, I default into being a dusty urban cowboy. But I've tried so many
different things in my quest for "place". It given me a reserve of experience that can be used to fortify and broaden someone else's narrative. I enjoy being a sympathetic audience while drawing my own boundaries.
That's my "game". I'm good at it. I long to be great at it.
I've recently read, "Why I am a Pagan" by the European New Right virtuoso Alain deBenoist. An excellent book that brings Nietzsche back down to earth. I am not a nihilist. I am not a Social Progressive. I am not an atomized, hyper-independent, ultra-individualist artist. Rather, I'm a blue-collar guy from a long line of Cathedral builders, Temple builders and, possibly, Oracle janitors. I have an ancestry.
I don't do movies. But I wish that I had a woman who'd pinch me in the ass and say, "Let's go!"
Classical Music, of course. Bach because he's the master of math and flow, science and emotion. Mozart because of his celestial whimsy. Beethoven because of his gruff gravitas and beauteous melody. In spite of my Pagan leanings, I'm uncharmed by Wagner. I'm a muted and reserved Brahms kind of guy. His cello sonatas get me where I om.
Hillbilly music. Johnny Cash. June Carter-Cash. Merle Haggard. I've got their genes, and their miles too, but I'm a bit of the sensitive-poet type. Yuk! I don't listen to country music often, but when I hear it? The Celtic nomad in me sighs.
--Reading and Writing.
--Good ol' fashioned hillbilly music (to keep me honest).
--Family (to whom I owe my genes and arts).
--Sexual chemistry. Okay, sexual-alchemy. I've had to turn to mythology and The Hermitic Tradition to get a Larger-Than-Catholic view of sex. And to get a Larger-Than-Modern-Feminist view of sex, too. For short-hand, I could explain myself as a Jungian. However, Jung is too tame for my imagination which requires not only the most central Female Archetypes, but the most extreme Female Archetypes on the far frontier. The satellite archetypes. The Bad Girls who're exiled to the fringe orbit.
--Yapping above my learning. It's my right as a blue-collar guy to rant. It's also my birthright to take a whole lot of lumps for being wrong, and count the scars as trophies.