What exactly am I doing again?

I’m inclined to believe that this is the true motto of our generation. A select few of us know exactly what they’re doing and feel a sort of superiority at being the last few responsible kids with real, live futures awaiting them just over the horizon. But I think that once they reach that cozy old Lazyboy-of-retirement at the top of career mountain, they’ll look out and see all those un-walked paths and die with a ‘well, damn’ on their lips. Meanwhile, the rest of us keep getting back in line for the Matterhorn just to get a quick glimpse of the layout before taking the downward spiral plunge with a resounding ‘wheeeeeee!’. We could all very well die in alleyways and under bridges, in the cold of winter and way too young, but we’ll do it laughing at an inside joke that we alone are privy to.

Just now my playlist randomizer pulled up Pink Floyd’s Wish You Were Here and a track from Pirates of the Caribbean titled “Hello Beastie”. Poignant perhaps. Or also maybe coincidence. You decide--because shit like this is wholly interpretable. Much like the meaning of life.

I applied at a tiny Café in SE this morning, once again pursuing that quarter’s mighty pull. After I potentially impressed my potential employers with my good looks and impeccable handwriting, I went to a little park to kill some time. I think I confounded all the children as I approached the swing set, in my green slacks and summer blazer, and kicked off. In the fifteen minutes I was there, I experienced two things--that small knot that forms at the base of your stomach when you let go of the chains, and an epiphany.

Ever since I escaped high school, with my Good Enough Degree in hand, all I ever really wanted was to live in a house with some good friends, and have some o’ them good times you hear about in songs and on TV.

Somehow though, this was never quite accomplished. Instead I shifted around from home to my Aunts attic, to a winter caretaker position at an Inn, and then back home again [this time to the couch and a depression-triggering lack of sleep and privacy]. Then it was off to the city to live with a series of crazy people. The Boyfriend thing was promising, since it was liken to living with a friend--and yet there was something that did not suffice. And now, in one last valiant effort to kick myself in the face, I’m trading labor for a dim attic room in the house of a slightly crazy woman, her two stupid dogs, and an ever-shifting sea of obnoxious houseguests. Clearly I aspire to die of a stress-related brain tumor.

Somewhere, sometime, I decided it would be ok to pursue everything except for what I wanted.

Anyway, back to epiphanies, and living with friends, and also; pie.

Earlier in the week I made pies for a couple of friends because it arose, not as a whim, but as a strange kind of need. Pie needed to be made, and pie needed to be given. This carved out a surprisingly large chunk of my finances, but the resulting financial hole was quickly filled by something closely resembling fulfillment.

And I realized that all I want to do is move to SE with my good friend Stephanie and invite people over for baked goods and good times.


The moral of the story is this--
Pie ingredients and related goods: $50
Catching a glimpse of a promising life-path while careening down the mountain side of life: Priceless.