Wednesday, May 20, 2009

"If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer."

I don't have a mortgage. I don't have car payments or even new clothes. I don't have any children and I don't have any pets. I spend my days working with my hands, bleeding, building, sweating and framing. I get whispers in my ears from friends about all those things, though. The "just married", "just babied", "just housed" and the newly old.
I love them but I can't buy into that plan.

Many of them I have seen puking their guts out on mushrooms and whiskey, while I crammed speed up their noses and love into their hearts; love as I know it, mind you. We would listen to Hoyt Axton and cry, talk about the things that gave us passion and zest and all the while we remained maddened by our flames. We lived, day-to-day, without fear of banks and incomes.
Like a thousand Siddharthas, sitting upon a thousand lotuses, living a thousand lives.
But some choose one, one path. But don't you know that it is only all paths that lead in?

I, too, am having slow death, like all of them, but I don't want to sit and wait for it in my new house or driving my new car; all on my new line of credit. I don't want to be that kind of man.
I want to live without those ties. This is not a judgement on them, but rather a proclamation for me. True; as true as I see you and you see me.

The lineage of this route, following the paths so well trod, before. The hole waiting for filling; our fates set. Why? Because our parents did/didn't do it?

My lovers, my friends, I hear a different drummer.

I want it all. I want to barter for hash in Morroco, fight Maori on the South Island, fuck whores in Thailand, teach English in Japan, frame houses in Vancouver and try new, terribly unstable things. The day I feel comfort and solace should be the day I have satori.

Until then, I will always be the awkward friend. The one who pulls his pants down at the worst/best moments. The one who makes you take MDMA eventhough you have to work in 5 hours, the one who dares you to max your visa on porno and whiskey, the one who loves you the most.

But please, understand that I will never come sober to jr.'s 2nd birthday party; I won't bring a gift, too. I won't care about your new bungalow with cable.

We are all dying, and while I respect your financial/biological success, I will never join you and will probably die long before you. I hope you are happy with your commitments, as I never am.

Like Kerouac said, though, "Live your life out? Nah, LOVE your life out!".

I love you, forgive me for quitting your club. It has just gotten too sane, too same.

-Love Sid

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