A few years from now I’ll be middle aged, in my mind’s eye I see Millennial grandmothers power-walking to Yield in a field of brown grass. I long passed through the requisite crossroads where normal life and the strange one diverge, saw a large group going the other way, taking up work, marrying friends, waiting for the sale. A handful of us came along this way then, an unlikely ensemble of one-offs, the only thing that unites any two of us is that one-time, unregretted, choice.
I must admit I often seek advice, and I’m sought after for such things more often. Personal setbacks make my sharp tips soften, and when I win, no one has much counsel for me. When those who went the other way come to me, at first I’m unsure what they think I could say: I fled their towns after all, their schools, ranks, and gardens (though, it turns out, not all of their problems!), the honest response to any query would be a suggestion they flee. But one seeks to personalise these things, take into account who’s asking and why.
When those that I travelled with ask for my insight, I wonder, sitting in this circus, if they’re like me, would they even hear it? A life so jagged or beastly shaped, how could my one-flame take even near it, so many liars, so many outliers, curious votes and vows abound, where’s the homology, the one-size-fits-all-ogy on which for me to rely?
And so in my generation we’ve come to revisit that old fork in the road from time to time, we form a strange squarish circle of life advice together, whisper from ear to ear or shout loudly into the never, and laugh at how none of us knows.
Strange, sensuous and staggeringly beautiful. Thanks for this.