Pretentious Musings

Daylight hangs in the air on a sagging cloth, heavy and light, Sunday draws to a close. Behind me, four months set in history, dense and colorful, surreal and tangibly good. Before me, two short weeks in this strange house with this motley crew and then another journey. This nomadic life is rich, zesty, passionate, and forever painful. Thrusting oneself into another territory, offering one’s heart to a new cast, settling in such transcendent circumstances yields abundance and ache; separation is inevitable. I always feel the stakes being pulled up from under me, but God it is beautiful.

Our man Bill Shakespeare wrote: “These churling chiding winds remind me that I am alive.” I recite this often as I trudge up the Shankill, flailing in shrapnel gales. It’s all rather uncomfortable, quite imperfect, and at the same time impeccably alive. This is a life better than I could have imagined or manufactured for myself. Exposure is key. The world, poverty, ideas, love, people, exposure charges my gates and makes a bridge out of my defenses. If you unfold crossed arms, open up a tense chest, extend a downward gaze, you can move, breathe, and see more. The senses are invigorated. Goo, it leaves you vulnerable to icy breezes, awkward people will give you awkward hugs- or perhaps no hugs at all, bits of debris shooting in the air can lodge in your eyeballs. However according to my calculations exchanges made in this posture are invaluable. So off I go, to a new place, open for embrace, sure to cry and sure to live.