The Walking Dead
It's somewhat funny. My current Netflix series is The Walking Dead. A program whose premise is that a disease has turned most humans into flesh eating zombies, also called, in the show, walkers or geeks. A group of non-infested people attempting to find a safe place to be is the story we follow. As I sit here, outside New York's JFK airport in the midst of my four hour layover, eating my Cornerstone Pie pulled pork grinder, I see that I too am in that very same predicament. I too am seeking safe passage through and away from the zombie hordes and towards some sunlit meadow where I can lay my head down in peace.
A night in Seattle with Karen was what I was doing some short hours go. A night spent mainly at The Five Point, a true Seattle joint, having dinner and drinks. A mostly fun time out, sprinkled with deep sadness, with elation, with communion with new friends and even a bit of near violence. The latter being an interaction I had with a homeless gent who wouldn't take 'not tonight, friend,' for an answer. Got in my face until his baseball cap was touching my forehead, pushed him slowly away, only to get his drunken ass more agitated. He spit at me, getting damn close to hitting me, I flicked my cigarette hard as I could at his face, missing, unfortunately, by an inch or two. Too cognizant of being right in front of the bar we were attempting to enter and that when I put the wretch on his ass that the SPD would prolly be involved. Not needing any of that I escorted my girl in and, turning around, informed the fella hat if he was still outside and wanting some when I finished my beers that I'd happily whip his ass. Called him a 'Bitch!' walked in as one of the employees rushed out with concerns. Fucking walkers trying to spoil my last supper.
Met some fun Canadians, did some shooters, Jagerbombs to be exact, and drank Boneyard pints. Had a fairly shitty meal. Got to the cellphone waiting parking lot by Seatac at around 1:30. Slept in the bus, got up at 4:30 freaked out, desperately sad. My girl and I are in a bad way. The love is there but there are serious issues that don't allow for the necessary trust to build and so we now try to make it work despite all that and it pretty much does, but the cap has bern placed on the highest place we'll reach together and for most looks that lack of any higher ground to reach is a death sentence. So we cling and cry and make brave smiles for one another as we work towards some other space in which we may be able to keep trying to make it work. Funny enough, the lime of the night was our smoking a cigarette with a tall fellow named Mike, in town for some medical conference or other, who asks us if we two know each other, meaning K and I, and I say, "Well we're still legally married!" As he's cracking up hard, I say,'That's the line of the night!.' To which he exclaims, "That's the line of the YEAR!!"
Yet here I sit on a bench, in the afternoon sun, moving away from the things that I know and, at the risk of sounding corny, towards the unknown. My son awaits me at the tail end of my next flight, the one to Madrid. He, as a twenty year old now, is, perhaps more than he ever has been, somewhat unknown to me as well. What's the adage, 'To discover new lands one must lose sight of shore for a long time.'
I have great hope in my ability to get to these new lands, and I believe I'm on the correct path. But it feels often like a big, empty sack of air. Inside me. Lie I constantly deflate, hissing down, eroding, only to find new energies, new ideas about how to move forward. Much of the germination of these seeds occur while in communion with the love of my life, and therein, dear reader, lies one of the great crossroads that I have brought myself to. My pilgrimage, my walk, the Camino, is the perfect opportunity, I'm hoping, through which I hope to find some resolution, to find some peace.
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