Friday, September 21, 2007
I'm at my frontier. There's nothing to do. I end up moving. I pray it is prayer. I take a dim view of opinions. I am conflicted. I am drinking whiskey, alone, waiting because I can't figure out anything else I want to do. I'm just here.
I feel indistinct, unextreme, cautious, quiet, shallow. I smile at this. Deeper in, I am wild, heartful, heart-wrenched. Peering behind bookshelves, record stacks, hugging CD cases, spending time performing for all-eyed cats. Not doing my part. Not living up to my potential. Disappointing myself. Being behind. Not leading. Not following. Just marking off my own time. Wasting time, spending time, looking forward to empty time. A good, fruitful place to be.
My step great-grandfather was John Sites Ankeney, an artist who spent summers in Estes Park, Colorado, still wild in the early part of the 20th century. This is his painting.