Tuesday, May 24, 2005

Sure as hell

Coffee cups with plastic lids stride past casually worshipped by dedicated addicted hands. I'm odd here, not homeless and yet crouched in front of a closed cafe off of University Avenue, some of the cups glance me an amused smile, some also take in that I'm reading Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, reactions vary. That's a good book, one says. Yup, I say. He keeps walking and I keep reading and then get lost in the design on the back of a tiny bug. The design looks indigenous, or traditional, or tribal, or whatever word one uses these days. It has straight lines. See? Who says straight lines are human inventions?

The ideas I've met in my most recent sublifetime(s) merge and revisit with one another. Earlier this sublifetime I ambled the hills of Epuyen picking rosehips and thinking about post-scarcity, the little I grasped from the first section of Murray Bookchin's Post-Scarcity Anarchism. I've probably spilled more words about the book than I read. Now Robert M. Pirsig's bike maintaining protagonist and his former being too tell me we are in post-scarcity, though we sure as hell don't know it. Well, Bookchin and Pirsig tell me, but really I tell myself.

Pirsig says Sometimes it's a little better to travel than to arrive. So often I think this, and find it strange that I'm thinking it. But now I'd like to arrive. The problem is, I'm travelling to teach myself that I've already arrived, and apparently I still haven't fully learned that lesson.

That stuff in those boxes stuck in Maasi and Akhil's attic, I put almost all of it in the Columbae free store. Done. Llego. I've arrived. At that place that many steps closer to nothing. I'm still a packrat though, I've already started keeping the plastic cups from pearl milk tea and whatnot. For when I really arrive, bodily, in that place, that home I'm looking for, and can fill my home with systems of goodness and transformation of waste into not.

Yesterday Cherrie Moraga's Medea's lover said they were looking for a home so long that the looking became the home. So I suppose I'm always home, thought it sure as hell doesn't feel that way.

If hell is sure, maybe I'll make that my home.

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