It feels like somebody has glued my eyelids shut. I’ve barely been able to stay awake today. This week has certainly had it’s ups and downs, it seems to me more downs. I just don’t have the oomph to do anything lately as I struggle with feeling absolutely pointless. It just seems that my creativity has died with my motivation. Nothing has been the same since July and it never seems to get any better. Some days, I just can’t fight it- this week has definitely been one of those weeks. With that, I wrote in my journal on the ferry last night so I could update this blog and stave off family pestering.
“I’m on my way to Seattle, trying to write a straight sentence while the ferry bounces on calm seas. So I haven’t posted in awhile, shame on me, I know. This weekend was awesome. On Saturday, it was confirmed that if a man is given a stick shift and winding mountain roads he will pretend he is racing the Audubon. Pot holes become a very dangerous game of hide and seek and long stretches of straight road beg acceleration. All motion sickness aside, the drive was absolutely beautiful.
Our destination was the ancient rainforests of the Olympic Park. AS we pulled closer, we stumbled upon a wasteland of half submerged tree trunks and abandoned boulders- the last evidence of man’s hand in the making of Lake Cushman. The site had a strange attractiveness of its own, much like an industrial park, but was tragic. When you look upon a ravaged landscape that has yet to heal, something inside of you withers with it, as if you too were a partaker and receiver of the destruction. It was nothing short of a jeweled necklace on a decomposed corpse- empty, gray, lifeless. Josh commented that it is not often can a person see the sins of fellow men, but here the nature of man was bitingly apparent.
We found refuge behind the park gates no less than a mile from the ancient boneyard. The ambience of the wood was a bracing breeze and trickling water over worn river-rocks. The ancient beasts slept, their needles impervious to the wind. Three of me couldn’t have wrapped themselves around their roots. To be in the midst of those who have seen years of forgotten history and written it within themselves is an experience that can only be fully appreciated first hand. Each jaunt into the woods is different for each man; each has something different to learn from his ancient homes. Now I know why Thoreau left civilization to commune with nature, searching for himself in the unforgiving truth of the wilderness. There is something there that no amount of “civility” can reproduce.
The hike was freezing, but ignoring the raw air was simple. Until you have seen a herd of wild elk less than 100 feet from were you stand, or listened to the gurgling of winter mountain water, or felt the brush of wild lichens against your skin as you duck under the dead trees can you really feel a sense of peace and wild abandon. I was happy there. You cannot physically or mentally worry about anything when civilization itself is so far away. The ancient trees filter that before it can reach you. I want to go back. I want to climb, and climb, and climb until I can’t climb anymore. Sometimes, running away can be the best thing you can do.
On Sunday, we took a spontaneous drive to Port Townsend- an old Victorian port not worn by the ages. We played (more like explored) the dingy concrete barricades of the Kinzie embattlement and walked along the coastal trails, not bothered by the fine blanket of rain. Josh explored the sailboat haven and dreamed up the idea to live on one. I admit, at first I was skeptical. I don’t find boats all that interesting and walking through a boat yard brought back memories of me dragging my feet out of insufferable boredom as dad would take all of us to the Harley Davidson store. Yes, it was horribly boring, and my stomach was turning itself in knots from the gluten I stupidly ate. So, boredom and crankiness. I was ready to go home. The next day brought excitement. I’d much rather live on a boat than have a house.
I want to sail the world, I want to do something different. I don’t want a family, I don’t want an expensive car, I don’t want anything that standard, expected American life has to offer me. It all bores me and I bore so easily anyway that it’s a sure recipe for disaster. Maybe that’s my biggest problem, fighting extreme episodes of intense boredom, which makes me question the whole purpose of my existence. It’s not something I like to do, but I find myself doing it more and more often.
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