Wednesday, October 7, 2015

There's No Race

There's no race, there's only a runner.

- Lucius, "Two of Us On the Run"

* * *

You never know where this shit comes from - out of the blue, out of step, out of order - but arrive it surely does: the serendipity of a chance encounter, a dropped bit of conversation, an overheard promise, what Whitman called letters dropped in the street waiting for the person they were meant for to find them. Part of this is passing by the scores and volumes of messages you could pick up, but somehow don't. Instead you are left with the messages you do receive: the shit that finds you. It can come from any corner - even a hipster band from Brooklyn.

* * * 

The work of our days are the days themselves.  There is nothing to do other than experience those days to fullest extent we are capable of. This has nothing to do with any extreme actions, but with extreme awareness: the fullest you are capable of. There is no objective standard for this, no benchmark that indicates achievement. Each of us will experience our days with the capacities, limits and desire baked into our DNA, baked into our will, baked into our willingness to hit the road. No one expression is better than another. No one expression is more complete than another. You have your work, your road and I have mine. We can encourage each other, but cannot trade places. And what works for me does not and cannot ever mean it is to be yours as well. You have to cobble it together on your own. Take from me, borrow, steal, bend, but re-imagine it for your own purposes.

There's no race, there's only a runner: you, my love. You.

The falling leaves, the skins we shed as we move through, the artifacts of our run fall from us as we discover we need less and less to keep us on the road, but those letters dropped in the street by others are the very sinew of serendipity, the timely arrival of a message you needed to hear to keep you on the road, another bit you can use to fashion what you need to make it through the experience of being you.

And there will come a time, I promise you, when that too, will fall from you, altered by you and will be left for another to find to keep them going until they, in their turn, leave it behind.

* * *

Forgive me here, but it must be said: life is the process of letting go. What you hold onto, what you cling to is always the engine of your fuckedness. Do not confuse love with holding on. If your love has degraded to the point of grasping, friend, it is already gone. The only way to hold onto this love is with an open hand, so sings Glen Hansard: and he's right. What you can pocket is the least useful thing to you.

But we don't believe this. We reject this idea because of beauty and memory and longing and the sense that what is evanescent really doesn't work for us. We want things to stay. As they are. For good.

It doesn't work, does it? 

This need is the locus of our pain, the source of our lostness where we birth fear and feral longing.

Aurelius: The universe is transformation: life is opinion.

* * *

Allow yourself to be changed and then change again. Leave behind what is now part of you - no need to cling. It is there. Grow mighty in spirit from your experience. Let go of those things you've found and leave it for another to find that it may do them some good. 

And turn off the lights when you leave.
You have everything you're going to need.

* * *



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