My Intense Longing
You call to me in the whispers of fall, in the changing of the two atmospheres, screaming to me to come home, asking me why I stay centered in the chaos of this fast paced day to day life.
The cars continue to race out of place down my quiet street, which was my third attempt out of “inner city,” the sirens are still echoing through the city of Schenectady no matter which corner or side you move to, and the sounds of screeching voices, street slang, and F bombs never seem to go one full day without being heard or stumbled upon.
Though I would find some form of comfort and contentment any place I resided with the company of my husband and my son, I can’t help but think I want better, for me, for them, for all of us together.
I think of Pharaoh Mountain in November, the leaves crunching beneath my Teva’s as I race myself to the first peak, the sun, closer to me now than before, raining shine on every step up projecting a moment of warmth just long enough to be thankful for, but even still the goose bump rising breezes spike a source of rejuvenation from deep down within saying push just a little harder, a breath of mother nature’s fresh air wrapping around me, whispering, “all here is as it should be.”
The streams are running side by side begging for someone or something to stop and quench from them. There is something to be said about the air in the Adirondacks, I don’t care who you are, you feel it when you’re there. The emerald world that lies beneath, settling dormant in life but only for a short period of time, calls to me in my dreams some nights.
From shades of crimson unfold the tantalizing burnt orange shapes projectilely spewing the love of caution and slow down, breathe deep, and take it all in, if for nothing but a moment it is here, forever placed, right here. And when I make that first plunge into the darkness of the wilderness I hold my breath longer then I should and imagine what it would be like to never come back up, to live isolated by man in something else’s source of life, inching love from side to side, like a boat ride through the final channel wondering what it would be like if you could just keep going.
Walking out to the deserted school bus two miles back from today’s civilization, half way down River Rd. off 74, and I remember my first walk through those woods. A mushroom induced exploration of the life that silently lives around us, you and me.
The August morning fresh birth of a six foot sunflower has toned down quite a bit, continual beating son has forced the 1960’s metal into the whitish color of the ash that rest unsettled on the floor inside the bus, and etched atop the wood that screwed to where four windows once asked to be peered out of is a dated letter, 8/11/89, “I bid you all farewell, by the time you find me I will be consumed by an afterlife of love and enchantment, do not cry for me, for I could never once cry for you!” signed MK.
If I could put into words what the first hour I spent in that deserted space of someone else’s epiphany, cry for help, or whatever it was did for me , well let’s just say it changed my life, that very morning.
I reflect on the nights spent with my head or hands resting on that solid oak bar, the drunken stumbles up the back stairs being carried by the spirits of the misguided that wouldn’t enter the light when they saw it, instead they just flickered mine on and off, back and forth, hoping someday the entrance to subliminal peace would reappear and devour their lost souls to a realm of freedom and salvation. Flannigan’s Irish Pub, “where the whiskey is watered, the company is shitty, the lights have burned out but the barmaids are pretty, so grab a set, we’ll help you spend all that you’ve got, your days lookin like mine, lemme buy you a shot.” That quote reminds me of the poetry that was written in the one hundred twenty five pound Philippine mahogany rocking chair that moved to the wind despite its weight, that has sat on the upstairs porch of that bar since the beginning of someone else’s time, the countless hours spent eloquently firing words onto paper like a butterfly falling from life, catching itself in the gusts of wind over and over, the never ending death of love. Maybe someday, after I die, I’ll be famous for it.
The memories are countless; I could truthfully go on for hours. I can’t express the overwhelming urge to go back there to spend my life, to grow old with the one’s I love, to make new memories, and to leave this place of chaos and confusion for a feeling of comfort and purpose, I believe I’ll get there someday too whether it be in this life or another, God will one day take me home, to where the best part of my life began.