Tonight I am sad. I cry easily. I guess I’ve learned that about myself more recently. It’s interesting what brings desperation on… some sort of longing. I suppose that I’ve felt lonely since my return from San Francisco. I have friends in Chattanooga who are dear to me, but I so desperately miss those relationships in San Francisco. I have access to myself there. I am particularly awake, moved, thinking, open. I am, when I am in relationship. When I spend time with special friends from grad school I have a unique ability to access parts of myself that in other company is lost… or at least un-expressed. My heart and body are open in San Francisco because the communities that surround me are practicing the same life-styles, convictions, testimonies. And I miss this… I miss the body that I held just a week ago. I miss her. I miss my history there, the gifts there.
As I retired to bed this evening I heard my dad whistle. He is happy that his son has returned. My family held a lingering doubt that I might not return to Chattanooga having left for a short stay in San Francisco. I did not doubt I would return. I felt the most subtle sense of resentment course through my body when I heard my dad whistle. He is pleased with me. I have pleased my father. The life he is pleased with he understands. It’s a scripted life – the life of a teacher. It is known, understood, approved, celebrated within the networks of a bio-political order of normalcy.
I spent so many years in resistance to conformity. The very people, places, techniques, and cultures that I found intriguing, stimulating, exceptional where those not understood by the likes of my father but by those who held a deeply refined spirit of recognition, those who where committed to alternative legacies – my professors, my colleagues.
I have sought stability. I just wasn’t prepared for how difficult my heart would take it. Adulthood. Transitions. Even…sobriety. How beautiful it is…
Sooo… I prepare for school tomorrow. It’s late, my clothes are in the dryer, and I’ve been weeping on the stairs. I’m grateful to be writing. It is a practice I treasure that has been far from me of late.