I am in a basement in Denver.
Two floors above me, there is a man sleeping. This is his house. His wife left him the day I arrived to stay. He is not doing well. But I suspect he wasn't doing well before.
Denver itself is a mess. It no longer feels like my own city. I don't know what I was expecting to find here.
A hero's welcome, maybe. People gathering around me to hear stories. Women vying to get some alone time. Opportunities to make money. Drunken bacchanals until dawn.
And there has been a little bit of some of that. But it just doesn't feel right. Like trying on your favorite jacket from high school. Or having dinner with your ex.
I have spent a lot of my Colorado time at my brother's homestead out in the country. I have slept in a tent outside his house and helped feed the goats and chickens and llamas and taken care of his weed plants. It was peaceful and beautiful and made me dream of having something like that myself someday.
But my parents were there and there sadness is infectious and disorienting.
The sadness that fills the house where I am staying now feels the same.
I feel sad and disoriented.
But I don't think it's my sadness I'm feeling.
I am rifling through memories of the immediate past.
Wishing I could have stayed in any of the places I have stayed.
That I could have stayed with her.
The past is a dangerous place to linger. I know that. But the present right now is just plain uncomfortable.
Things feel lonely.
I feel like an arrogant asshole.
It's a feeling I only have in this city.
Perhaps there is too much history here of me posturing and desperately trying to position myself into some sort of spotlight. Wanting to be seen as a writer and artist and whatever else.
Perhaps I am only fooling myself in believing that I am no longer famished for love and deeply needing companionship and partnership and someone to look after me. Perhaps my independence is just cold indifference. Like when you know you don't have the money to eat, so you try to pretend you aren't hungry.
I am hungry for love. But there is only change in my pocket. There is nothing to be done but wait.
I am leaving Denver soon. Touring with three other writers in my Subaru.
That will be a new and different kind of adventure.
I have to trust that I am still transforming. This isn't the end.
Just another beginning.
Everything is always just another beginning.
8:10 a.m. - 2018-08-23
Recent entries:
Back in Philly - 2018-09-20
Still in Florida - 2018-09-17
I guess we will walk then. - 2018-09-12
High in Iowa - 2018-09-03
Hello, Bri - 2018-08-30
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