Some thoughts from my home.
My new job doesn’t start until Dec. 1st. I have been home since last Monday. It has been a thoughtful visit. I saw my grandmother has grown more frail, I started writing again, read a big adventure book and realized that I have a lot of work to do as I stand on the cusp of 25. A lot of work to do. For what, remains unclear.
I realized many things. The following may be of more interest than others. Some I will not share because they are none of your business.
First, I am a lot like my father. I have known this for a long while, but it struck me more this last trip home. First, I have his legs. That’s weird, but he has small ankles like me and our calves are also similar in shape. I never knew my dad had such feminine legs. Weird. He also is a “thinker.” Whereas, my mom is a pleaser, smoother-overer, ignorer. Many aspects of my personality are from his side as that’s where I get all my manic tendencies and the wild ups and downs. My father was a drinker (read: alcoholic) until his ten-year class reunion. Lately he has been depressed. I thought about it a lot these past eight days that I have been in Oklahoma, and I think I understand a little more. For us (my father and I), there is hope in the uncertain. My life has few plans, and I am only (almost) 25. Despite the mid-mid life crisis that ebbs and flows throughout my psyche, I am comforted in how very uncertain life is assuming I live to some ripe old age and not damned by cirrhosis ( like my grandpa and most likely, my father). But, I think I would be depressed too if I were staring at 60 and knowing most of my choices have been made. My father can no longer drink, and I think the only way he can exercise his manic demons is through religion. He is a thoughtful follower of the Christian religion, and I am proud of how he interprets a faith I have lost long ago.
I was also overwhelmed (again as this happens from time to time) by how boring my life is and will probably always be. Perhaps just as some men dream of dating some sweet T.A.P. or chics want that billionare mogul with a hear of gold, I think a lot of “adventures,” and it gets worse everytime I read some absurd story full of foreign countries and ancient texts. For example, I spent a couple days sailing through “The Historian,” which is a tale of DRACULA, and I actually was jealous of these characters hunting him. I mean seriously, I am sad that I cannot read Latin and able to smell ancient parchment. I think I believe in past lives. That is a comfort for my insanity.
I also had an interesting moment in church today. I am torn religiously. I know I can never believe in God the way that I used to because I am so much more logical than I once was. To me, there is no way I can be a completely faithful person. The bible is too contradictory and written and interpreted by too many people with agendas for me to ever really believe in the Christian (or any) religion. It just doesn’t make sense that there is some omnipotent being waiting to sail our souls to this blissful afterlife. I am also disturbed by how easily religion appeases the masses (shout out to Marx) and how it is a perfect tale: Believe in this one thing and you will be reunited with all those you love in bliss while being saved from damnation…of course, we won’t come through on this until you're dead, so you really don’t have anyway of knowing if we are full of shit or not. But faith, my friends, that’s what is required for the pearled gates and golden streets. Not to mention the virgins (depending on what you practice and preach).
It's impossible for me to reconcile these thoughts, but at church today, as I listened to our new, wonderful preacher that may save the church my grandparents chartered, I realized religion okay. To have 50+ people to love and support you under whatever auspices needed is okay, and most of the things (in my church, anyway) said appear to help, not hurt. And watching tears fall from my mother's eyes and the joy my father feels at hearing he is on the path toward some kind of peace, is perfect for me. I don’t want anyone to doubt and worry like I do. I want them to believe and enjoy that opiate, be it true or not…I don’t care either way.
Life is hard. People are fucked up. As I sit in my too expensive CK coat drinking my second 24 oz Miller lite, I know that it will all end as it began. There is little we can do. And, to quote the disciple Paul as remembered/translated by some dudes: Rejoice with those who rejoice; mourn with those who mourn.
Did I mention I miss D.C.? And the unknown waiting there that I know I can never have here or maybe, anywhere?