Ain’t it strange how things change? I think so.
It’s Memorial Day weekend—how ironic. Or coincidental, it doesn’t matter. And we all know my memories and I are no stranger to each other.
The places are the same—the neighborhoods, the streets, the fields, the tracks, the houses—but the people have changed. The places aren’t the same either, just their locations in longitude and latitude. The graveyard, well nothing’s new there, same old show, save for some fresh dirt and granite. The ghosts ride past me as I ride forth.
They’re all gone, gone their separate ways—grew up, moved out, passed on. I thought maybe I’d run into some friends on this adventure—I should have known better. The only people that talked to me without me initiating conversation were two black women—one asked for directions, one asked for a ride. Maybe if they crossed paths they could have helped each other. Maybe they’d’ve become lifelong friends. Who knows?
Don’t get tossed though, I’m not losing my faith in humanity. Not as long as I’m alive. This is nothing new. I’m the only one I can depend on anyway. You’re the only one you can ever always depend on. Those that remain are only shells of what they once were.
Well not me, goddammit! I’m just blossoming and I’m never gonna quit! I thrive from this dead soil, these depleted grounds void of nutrition, and I’m always in season, baby! I will do what I am meant to do, and until this world is properly prepared, I will do this, which is really one and the same.
My dreams have been wild lately.
This city is a fucking conundrum at its finest. It’s pulchritudinous, yet it’s hideous. It’s creation, yet it’s destruction. It’s life; it’s death. This river, this gorge, this waterfall—the true definition of remarkable! Not to mention the history here—geologically, ecologically, historically. And no one who lives here seems to care! I’ve been guilty of it too. I guess that’s what happens when you live near something super-saturated in greatness for too long—the Grand Canyon, the Rocky Mountains, the Mississippi River—you begin to take it for granted. And quickly. If that’s true, it gives little hope for the small things in life. Maybe the small things are actually the big things—I think I read that somewhere once.
I am surrounded by people from foreign countries who speak foreign tongues—talk about being alone in a horde, in your own hometown nonetheless. At least they appreciate this natural wonder for what it is. Or maybe the parents are just glad they have something to do with the kids for the day, maybe they just want their cheap photos on their smart phones. “Smile, Achmed! This is the time we went to Niagara Falls!” I had a better view two miles away where the crowds failed to congregate—I wish I could tell them this, though it’s probably better I can’t. Even if I spoke their language, they probably wouldn’t listen. That’s ok—some things are better kept secret.
But I digress. There’s something nice about being alone in a horde, too. I never fit in anyway, and here, as busy and loud and cluttered as it is, I am not distracted; I am comfortably in my zone.
Everyone my age wants to get out. Is that something that happens when you hit your twenties, or is it just something that happens here? It feels like the end of SLC Punk, when everything falls apart in the desolate wasteland. I just want them to know that whatever it is they’re running from, you can’t run away from yourself. Ya gotta bring that with ya, if nothing else. Life is the same everywhere when you boil it all down. And I wish you the best on your journey, I hope you find whatever it is you’re looking for. You may find it was right in front of you the whole time. I can at least guarantee it’s inside of you, and always has been, not outside. You can’t find what you’re looking for if you’re looking in the wrong place.
The possibilities are countless: there are so many people, there are so many choices; it’s all infinite and endless, and time only goes forward, you don’t get that back. You get one path. These are the things that eat my organs from the inside out from time to time. Time that must be spent wisely. And this is as wise as I can spend mine, this is exactly what we both need, you and I—this is for us.
I’m thinking about going straight-edge, folks and folkettes! How exciting! Thank you, thank you, please hold the applause. Because the mist on my face is much too crisp, the wind on my skin is much too fresh, the air in my lungs reminds me I’m alive!
Yet at the same time, I am only an anachronism.
Nothing is real.
I am just another ghost.
Ghost Town Theatre 