The Therapy of Thinking

I define luxury as; Long periods of uninterrupted thought.

With a week to myself, I went on vacation, at home.  I was giddy with the waterfall of options.  I could ride my motorcycle into the mountains and photograph the sunrise over Malibu or tuck myself in a secluded corner of a small coffee shop and write for days.  Instead, I ate leftover fried chicken for breakfast and rested.  I walked along the beach.  I watched the sunrise over Corona Del Mar, walked along the back bay in Newport at dawn.  I did what one should do when one goes on vacation, vacate.  I avoided the phone, the office, social events and something that surprised me, creativity.  I took a vacation from creativity.

I spend so much of my time thinking about how to compose a picture, what to take a picture of, how this logo should look, how that magazine ad should layout, this design and that design.  I am constantly in a mode of creativity, I thought that a week to myself would be a grand journey of wild imagination and highly productive creative inspiration.  In the end, I rested.  I did take pictures and created some designs for a client, I wrote, but nothing grand.

I was frustrated with myself after the first couple of days, I had to accomplish something and it had to be big.  I began to realize that I needed to simply think, without interruption, about nothing in particular.  I thought about why I was frustrated.  I thought about why I had to create something grand.  I thought about who I am, who I was and what I hoped I'd be.  I wandered along ancient memories without apology or boundary.  Broaching subjects that ranged from suicide to euphoria, silly nonsense to deep wounds and whether the Raiders preseason play, justified optimism for this season.  I smoked a cigar, sat in the backyard and smoked a cigar, long and slow.

Toward the end of the week I realized that I didn't need to create something big, capture the perfect picture or write a profound work, I needed to think.  It was a perfect vacation, I didn't have laundry or jet lag, I wasn't exhausted or broke - I rested.  I emerged satisfied with who I am, flaws, disappointments and all.

April's September

This is the beginning of a new work, I would appreciate feedback on what it makes you feel - not worried about rules, merely what you think is happening and what it makes you think, if it makes you think at all.

September 10, 2001

Sargent was out.  She had escaped her dim life.  The midnight asphalt appeared in the headlights, then raced under the better part of three Cameros, as fast as her heart was beating.

She looked in the side mirror, then back over her shoulder into the black.  The two-lane road vanished in the amber glow of the taillights.  No one was behind them, but she couldn't shake the feeling that he was out there, running through the sagebrush like a ghost.

She looked at Tristan, the mechanic she'd met at the Busted Knuckle garage a month before, his slender calloused fingers gripped the wheel.  His skinny arms poked out of a sleeveless Metalica tee-shirt and the lights from the dash cast shadows across his face.  There was a cigarette pinched between his slight lips and smoke hung under the bill of his cap before being pulled out through a crack in the back window.  

The Camero was mostly blue, but one door was faded yellow, one was primer gray and the hood was black, he salvaged three Cameros and was proud to have turned them into one decent car.  She didn't know much about him, but she was eighteen and didn't have many options, Tristan was her best hope, tonight he was saving her.

Sargent guessed Tristan was twenty-two or twenty-three, he graduated from high school the year before she started and in their small Idaho town people were often identified by their graduating class.  She knew one of the waitress at Lilly's Diner was in Tristan's class and she was twenty-two.

Tristan had a reputation for doing crazy things, it was rumored that he once stole a pig and let it go in the new gymnasium.  He claimed he didn't know the janitor was on vacation, the pig died and ruined part of the gym floor.  He had been arrested for petty theft and had a laundry list of driving violations.  He knew all thirteen of the towns patrol officers by name and they knew him.

The 50th revolution

I didn't turn 50, it turned me.

I stand in at doorway, looking back.

I remember 16, gliding through the sagebrush on a dirt-bike, a twist of the throttle and the world changed.  The intense focus.  The athleticism.  The creativity.  The edge.  Sixth gear and a huge grin, flying over an old wash, unafraid.  The pleasure was sublime.

I see a teenager in a small radio station, spinning 45's and talking into a mic.  I experienced the curious sensation of people I've never met, feeling as if they knew me.  A store clerk recognized my voice and gushed on about the songs I played.  A girl often called me at the radio station, late Friday's, and make special requests to help her go to sleep.  Ultimately, I was in a room by myself, drifting through speakers within a 50 mile radius.  Entertaining people, but only imagining the smiles and tapping fingers.  It was a lonely thrill.

The locker room is a bastion of testosterone, an obnoxious soup of muscle and slicing sarcasm.  There are few secrets, you dish out the insults and you take them in a cloud of laughter.  Then you step onto the field, one team, one person.  The boys, together, one cause.  What I wouldn't give to do it again.

The first time I stepped onto a stage with a part in a high school play was the first time I'd ever experienced a play of any type.  (Funny, I remember in college seeing a play for the first time and thinking, it's fun from this side of the curtain too).  The thrill of an audience responding to your timing, knowing they're with you, is magnificent.

I didn't think I'd be this melancholy about a birthday, but it feels as if I need to turn around and reacquaint myself with myself.  I want to race through the desert, drift through speakers, slam into a diving receiver and watch the ball tumble to the ground.  I want to step onto the stage again.  I need to walk through the pieces of my youth, scoop them up and breech the threshold of 50 with fresh optimism.  I can't do the things I used to, but I think I threw away the mindset with the ability.

I hope to live from 50 on, with the optimistic hope I had when I was young.

I didn't turn 50, it turned me...