I had some bizarre dreams last night, which led to this post. Yeah, I know…out there.
Not all my friends have been images of rectitude.
Over a few have been hell raisers, imperfect, inconstant, and flawed. Just like me when I knew them.
Straight people don’t get it. By that, I am not talking about sexual orientation but about a sort of lack of bend of creative cognizance; they’ve sat in the pews and listened to correct political or social ideology spoken by politicians, teachers, ministers, or bosses. Go to work, perform your job, vote the party line, live in a safe pocket of suburbia – you know, conformists. But to those who lived on the wilder side, a friend may be just as imperfect as we. In fact, they probably are. Who else will lend you cash for your next frolicking detour to Indianapolis to see the old sweetie you broke up with two years ago? Or help with the rent when there are no gigs, and the job as a dishwasher went south?
We are magnificent monoliths of propriety. We live a respectable life. Yes, there may have been a wilder time, but that is past. We are deacons of our churches, wardens of our lodge, and school board members. Our current batch of friends reflect us in the mirror of class and caste.
There was a wild intermission between childhood and adult life. We don’t talk about it much except in hushed whispers when memories and dreams stir and rise to the surface: when we visit a club and realize that we used to perform that song, visit an art gallery and itch to paint again or find a compelling reason to write.
Some things remain constant, and you really can hide or run. But you can’t change who you are inside. Your true friends realize this. They understand the “whys and wherefores” of the times you howl at the moon, get the wild sparkle in your eyes, or ask for the cash to get you to Indianapolis.
Artwork by L.N. Carreras, copyright
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‘It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness’–and so darn much fun.
You got that right!
I was thinking of this today. I was thinking that I’m still on my “wild intermission” in many respects. I’m not a pillar of my community. I’m not a deacon(ess??) in my church. I’d be a conformist but I can’t do that. My boss called me a rebel and I shrugged. What are you if you are authentically a horse of a different color? I’m not proud or ashamed of it, but I know it’s true. How did that happen? I have theories but they are all irrelevant. Most of my neighbor spend their time maintaining their status quo, tending to their possessions, doing what is expected of them. It’s who they are. This is NOT a judgment. Just a lifetime observation. Maybe if I’d had kids.
Nah, kids get blamed for a lot. My kids were influenced by me, and your kids would have taken after you.
I too find myself slipping back into my intermission, and see it as a relevant part of my life. I tried the straight and narrow, and found it too confining, and boring.
Wait…I think I hear my inner Bukowski murmuring…
I think this is the period when writing means the most. When I look back in the future, I think I would be thankful I record the wildness.