Monday, October 06, 2008

I live in the west and out here we build things. Out here we drill things. Out here we mine things. Or rather they do. All the tall men with broad shoulders and big hats, made by the mountains. I remember feeling something different when I returned a while ago. I couldn't put a thought to the feeling much less words to that thought but over time I started to see the invisible lines that had separated me for so long. This is a land of engineers and oilmen. An economy that churns on the output of material and the use of those materials and thinking up new uses for the material that someone put out. Maybe it's the reason I left in the first place. All the blank stares. All the rolling eyes. All the emotions sent out but never received.

I always privyed myself a builder. My structures were built on the blocks of abstracts, milled by the deeper desires and supported by words that might never be spoken. I must have learned at an early age that no one else saw it that way. saw the emotions and read between those lines. I must have tried to lock it away. It's a tough and lonely existence when you see the world in a way that can't be shared. It's the everpresent irony of that someone who can read people so well must lock his own traits away lest someone else translate him.

But today I know there are places where that all makes sense. It's where words make the mountains and, just like back home, the mountains still make the man. Here. Right here. You don't have to travel to the cities of arts and thought and emotions anymore. They will travel to you. But that's not to say I wouldn't mind a few days in New Amsterdam right about now.

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