I screamed my first semi loud roar to the world inside a linolium tiled building, with a scrub encased nurse to take me to another table, another pair of hands, to cut my ties to the wild.
I was raised in a brick house, with cheerios and central heating.
I was moved to a stucco house, with blazing summers and dry winters.
I have been loved and praised, I have graduated, I have handed in nights of miserable, breached thought and meaningless, hopeless prose.
I have rested inside of big airy rooms, with slow turning fans and heavy breathing partners.
I have never killed for my own survival, I have never foraged for a solitary meal.
I have never sustained another individual, I have never changed my own tire.
I have never bled for myself, I have never hurt for another.
I am not sure excatly what is the most meanigful way go about writing stories,talking to people, or (for the larger perspective, mm) LIVE. I hear myself speak on my digital recorder; the sound of my own, slowly articulating voice makes me cringe with hestitation. Hesitation over my own deliberate process; Am I a hack, Or am I really trying?
Prettily enough, I have met the fomer sayers who believe, albeit ungraciously, I am a hack. I sometimes believe it myself. It is only in brief, fleeting moments of mature and diligent reflection that I am thankful such voices exist. Without the loud, tulmutuos roar of accusation (self and non self)I would be stagnant in my principles. I would be too stationary. I am uninvested in the "simple life." Buying organic is about as close as I will get to Into the Wild. However I believe I've found such wilderness in the consistent, blinding self reflections, or the richochets of others'. What is the wilderness if not a check and balance for this life? I find solace in the shade of a tree, but i am challanged to grow while walking concrete groves and diving reluctantly into converstation with individuals smarter and quicker, who have louder voices and longer hair. My wilderness is not a comfort, and its not organic. It is constructed; but it humbles me always.
Nature may provide you with one truth, but my wild forces me to acknowledge there is small truth but my own, and that is faulty. I think i may prefer the ambiguious existence over one as a prolific mountaineer. Perhaps it stems from an obsession with leather, red soled shoes and pillows. Or perhaps i would rather be humbled and loved by rather than lonely and omnisicent.
And here, i defer to those far more brilliant than I.
I know Whitman finds whats good in das hood in nature, but i always thought the infamous first stanza of Song of Myself applied directly to me. I guess thats the point.
"I celebrate myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you. "
--Walt Whitman, Song of Myself