Farewell, Sturbridge, MA

I was supposed to leave in a half hour. Considering that I’m not showered, the car’s not packed, and in other words I’m not remotely ready, I’m assuming that I’ll leave in… a while. The point is, I’m leaving. Eventually.

Panda’s really upset that I haven’t spoken about her yet. Panda is my panda bear (I’d call her a stuffed panda bear, but she is sensitive about that). She is going to be my companion on this ridiculous road trip of mine. So consider this a forewarning that as time goes on… my relationship with her will probably become closer and you will hear far too much about her.

What I’m trying to casually say but failing is that Panda is very real to me, and I love her, and sometimes our relationship might appear a bit schizophrenic… or something. 😛

ANYWAYS, I just wanted to write a little something before I left. I wasn’t expecting it to be profound or inspiring, since I’m still waking up and I have a million other things on my mind.

I’m going to miss this silly place, as much as I currently can’t stand it. Especially my house, and my room – for that’s my safe place. But it’s true that I barely ever leave my room, because the outside world here has lost all beauty. So as much as I will miss the comfort… the safety… I will not miss the slow fading of my soul.

See- that was deep, right? Haha.

First stop: Jeanmarie. My dear writer friend is allowing me refuge in her humble abode in the Pennsylvania mountains. We have yet to meet in person, and I am very excited about it. We’re going to sip tea and talk about the things that matter.

Good bye, my friends. Although you will remain no further away from me as you are now. So more appropriate would perhaps be… Goodbye, my room and my security and the suffocation of my Self.

I need to just shut up and get packing.

To Fill the Empty Spaces

“The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.”
-Kahlil Gibran

Rock on to my second blog post.

I’ve noticed that people have interpreted various different meanings from their reading of my first post, “Wanderlust”. Some saw and appreciated the journey ahead of me, continuing to support me; some people appreciated and commented on my writing skills (i love you), while others cracked up at and appreciated the humorous bits.

Yet then there was that small percentage of individuals who noticed the maple syrup between the bark. They noticed… the sadness? The desperation, perhaps. They noticed that this was my attempt at ascending from somewhere, and searching again for the sunshine. They noticed the facetious (and yet somehow not) lines considering suicide and it’s potential merits. Those who might have known me in the past noticed a difference, or perhaps a noticeable fading, of my usual optimism and incorrigible twinkle.

By no means do I believe that the twinkle is gone… merely that… perhaps it has been carved out.

There’s a difference between giving up and growing up – at some essential level I know this. However, when Time consistently presents itself as merely being a catalyst for pain and devastation, giving up seems an undeniable part of growing. I have found myself wanting to “give up” again and again these past few years, especially these past few months. Repeatedly I become overwhelmed by the vast expanse of Future, beginning to see it as monstrous evil TIME forging towards me, bringing wave after wave of undulating pain (enter fierce dinosaur-like creature, “Arrrgh”, then pausing to casually check his pocket watch).

Perhaps if I only pictured it that way, I wouldn’t be so overwhelmed. Just slightly befuddled.

Befuddled I can work with.

The empty spaces inside me have developed slowly; slowly, I will nourish these spaces and fill them once more.


I’ve wanted to see America for a long time now. Our history, albeit brief, is still colorful and sensuous. I long to feel it in the lands around me. However, the most I ever seem to manage are little blips across the map; nothing ever substantial, nothing that could leave a deep impression. Vermont is the only place away from home that has managed to nestle it’s way into my heart. Summer after summer I spend there, each time glimpsing pieces of myself, each time falling more in love with the landscape and the earth.

Yet there is so much more out there that I wish to see.

That is why, starting Wednesday, April 30th, 2008… I will finally get to experience a little more.

My wanderlust has been settling in slowly, like maple syrup across tree bark. I received a flash of freedom here, a glimpse of going away there, but now that wanderlust has settled in for good, I am overwhelmed with the desire to leave. It is more than merely an impulse to get out of Dodge (or in this case, Sturbridge, Massachusetts). What I really need is to experience another place. I don’t mean I need a vacation, or to go to a day spa – what I need is to follow the curves of the land, and sift my fingers through the soil.

I need to believe that there is something beyond the everyday.

To believe in more than I currently do, for the last few years have been a painful crawling descent into disillusionment.

Melodramatic? Perhaps. Morbid? A bit. Nevertheless, it is true. Due to some conglomeration of my excessive anxiety, unwavering trust, hopeful naivete, and over-analytical nature… I have fallen apart. The sum of my parts has resulted in a breakdown of all the pieces. I care too much, I feel too acutely, I try too hard, I hurt too deeply, and it all results in the slow loss of Self, and eventually… disillusionment.

So there I was, disillusioned and weary, wondering what step to take next. Suicide was an option, but I have not the stomach for blood and gore…and lack the vanity to complete the act. Complacency was considered, but I would rather the slow death of having my cells burned off one by one. Insanity was brushed upon (even visited briefly) but was found to be an inadequate harbor for my pain.

I strongly believe that when the soul is weak, and the heart disillusioned, that great changes are needed in order to thrive. Great changes are not easy; in fact, they are terrifying, and often appear impossible. However, all great change requires is imagination, a surge of strength, and that tiny voice inside your head that peeps “fuck it”. Neither the strength (nor the voice) even need to be sincere – they can be a completely bullshit effort at appearing strong and fucking it. As long as they fulfill the requirement of making a change, then they have served their purpose, and true strength will eventually be derived by this. The change within may come slower than the tangible changes around you, but at least the wheels have been set in motion.

My big “fuck it” moment never really happened. Instead, there appeared to be an excessive amount of “what the fuck?” moments that eventually led to a breakdown.

Whatever works.

What I’m trying to tell you is that I’m leaving in three days to see the country. Who knows how long I’ll last. Perhaps I’ll make it a solid week, and then come running back home to Pugsly’s lopsided grin and ridiculously lame bark. Or perhaps I’ll make it a couple months, as planned, and get to meet new people and alter a few of my skewed perceptions on the world. Then there is that fancy possibility that I shall never return, and my heart will carve out a home in a piece of a mountain somewhere, where I will live off the land and write epic-worthy poetry.

Or live in a decrepit trailer with a cowboy who calls me “twinkie,” pisses on the pink flamingos in the yard, and passes out drunk while making love.

Whatever works.