Tuesday, June 05, 2007

We're still playing Fantasy Destination.

I've got to be honest, I just want to go home. I've loved this time abroad. I could just live out of a pack, wander the world free and easy and open, and say the hell with all expectations. Maybe I will again, someday.

Wait.. I think I said the hell with all expectations long ago. No, not going to be the way you expect. Don't know how. Don't want to. Can't either fit or understand the box. Don't want to. Why should I, when I can make my own way?

My mate is a real gypsy with no roots whatsoever. That's not me. Roots have to dig deep, in Central Texas, to live. We can't just blow around like tumbleweeds (imports from China to the SW, BTW).
Roots have to dig deep in the limestone, in the blackland prairies, in the alluvial sands of the Ouachita Mountains, the great-grandmothers of the Appalachians, roots have to dig deep to survive long dry spells and crazy rain. Don't dry up, and don't get washed away. You can reach as far as you want, travel as long and as wide as you wish, just never forget where your toe-roots find home.

It's hard for him to understand who I am to my family. I've somehow managed to be the lost hero child.
Those who know the 12-step lingo, will understand me.. that this is Abraham's lamb and the black sheep all wrapped into one. They put me there, I just try to recognise it. If they need me, and increasingly, they do, I can't just wander off. Certainly, I need room, I always do, but I don't want to not be there for my parents when they need me. It's just not something I can do and remain happy. We'll see how I do it, and remain happy!!

In any case, this sheep is no lamb, and no ovid herd animal for that matter. My father, shockingly spiritually aware redneck that he is (our Shibumi Bubba) gave me a copy of Women who Run with the Wolves.

Woodswoman, hunter, martial artist that I am, I found some message in it, but the "with" part did not apply. I learned from this book that I simply AM a wolf. Not a fighter, rather a conciler, not a killer, rather a shepherd. It's easy to see the fangs and the shaggy coat, not easy to see the complex social system, care, and strategy of wolf life.

Wolves don't play Fantasy Destination unless they are out exploring. I am in this phase. I have brought down more valuable things than I could possibly imagine. The structural integration certification is like a woolly mammoth out of season. It's something I never could have done in the States. I devoted my entire income to it, I warped the bureaucracy and swayed the community to do it. I ran constantly round the herd, finding the right buffalo to nip, to get what I needed. My focus becomes ever sharper, and I see more of what I need to do. Now I'm seeing the end of the Army tunnel and it's hard not to just explode with frustration at the system I have been whaling on and subverting all this time.

That's it. I'm a tired, ragged wolf. My pads are sore but nimble, my teeth still sharp, my tail still high. I've done things here that others thought impossible. I'd like to go somewhere welcoming, somewhere I can make a living on my own.

So would my mate.

So take me home already.

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