introduction

grr.

spewed too much for the Introduction section on Blogger, so I'll just make it the first post:

I've travelled around the U.S., living in six different states for most of my youth and young manhood.  The past eight or so years I've been living in Europe, mostly in Ireland.  I stayed still, finally, on purpose.  But now it is time to travel again.  I have some puzzles to solve, some blood-deep knots to unravel, some more lessons to learn, and plenty of growing up still to get done.  I find, even after the experiment of living in one place for several years in a row, that I feel and think and realise and acknowledge and interact and discover much more naturally when I'm moving.

Whether causing destruction or feeling destroyed, for better or worse my mind is occupied by Death on a minute-by-minute basis; it occupies my mind in every idle moment, permanently.  I don't know where it comes from, or what it means, if anything, at least not yet.  But it affords the resources for a continually heavy heart as much as itching hopeful feet and a desire to get as much living done while I still have heart beats left.

On account of this steadfast house guest in my mind, and other unshakable afflictions, I generally prefer to be alone, away from people.  Walking some empty hills or sitting at a table with dinner for one: that is where I feel most relaxed.  People are, of course, sensational explosive adventures to behold and explore in their own right, and I have met quite a few dear ones who have added so much warm sweetness to an otherwise cold and sour soul.  But the demons and rages that wretch and hiss below the surface of my attempts to be gentile and compassionate, they worry me, and -- save for a few holy heroes I've been blessed to know -- each and every time I've tried to connect and share this ever-brewing storm, it's resulted in boldly reliable evidence that I have not found my proper place on this globe yet, my people, my home.  I don't think my war is unique, only the expression.  The general taboo against such expression leads me to two choices: zip it up and be a good little soldier with no feelings or opinions, or opt for solitude.  I most often choose the latter.  I admire the explorers and the era of the Beat Generation for being, as I would declare them, "men who wanted to feel everything, and write it down."  I'd prefer to explore the crooked creeping creaking filthy hallways of all my emotional store -- alone if necessary -- than shut these sensations off and run as yet another number in a zombie-like marathon to nowhere.

So now is a time for movement.  For the safety of strangers.  For beauty.  For trying before dying.  For doing the dirty business of digging through the bone-old muck to find the precious gems worth saving.  For, as Yuri would say, the terrible convenience of working alone.