I’m really no good at blogging. Everything I’ve tried to write tonight has come out stunted and forced. I keep breaking the number one rule of writing – show, don’t tell.
Good poetry doesn’t speak, it illustrates. Good movies don’t document events, they connect people to ideas to history. I’m having difficulty writing about myself. Because writing, to me, means constructing some sort of meaning from my experiences. And I worry that if I chase new experiences only so I can write about them later, I’ll wind up taking myself out of the true experience part of the things I do, just so I can write about them and make them seem grandiose on paper. I worry that I’ll succumb to my tendency to over analyse very literally everything that happens to me. I’m doing it now.
But I will say this: I recently spent over twenty four hours in a car over a period of two days, just so that I could see a place called Cape Disappointment. I learned about this place approximately sixteen hours before I set off for it. From all that driving, I learned that no place, no landscape, is too far away to drive to.
I thought being so far from home would be harder, which is not to say that is has not been hard; it is only to say that things I thought would never come naturally to me turn out to be as natural as waves on a beach. It turns out that if you want to be one of those people who packs their life up into their car and takes off early one morning, and lives a new life full of adventure, all you have to do is do it. There’s no secret, no trick to it, there’s no part of it that you haven’t been let in on. The best things in life aren’t complicated. You just do them.
Not that I in any way have everything figured out, or am in any way done with evolving, but I have learned this: there ain’t nothing like seeing the real thing.