It's been a while since I last blogged; my birthday's come and gone, I am now 25 years young.
Yet even in my prime, even now with only promise before me, I find a lurking sense of reckoning. I've been that way since childhood, I think, a yearning for futures which will one day be past, a kind of solemn echo as if my ancestor's and descendent's thoughts carried through Time's all but linear corridors to the place I stand.
I spoke with Mom and Dad tonight. Their voices came across the phone lines, sleepy yet content to hear me. Now I take their illnesses so much more seriously; it's funny how that happens. After a certain point, the young begin to ask the older whether they are okay, the older try to convince the younger that they are completely alright, a reversal of sorts. I don't like being all the land and ocean miles away from them, wish I could be in two places at once. I build my life here halfway around the world with a slight reluctance. But all will be well, I'm sure.
I finished reading Whistling in the Dark by Frederick Buechner today sitting at the Boba Loca over on Beach and Malvern. It was kind of a funny feeling. I've never finished a book while chewing on tapioca balls. The substance of life, though, is on some level familiar, just like David Gray reminds me of a song I once heard but cannot remember. Just like Buechner feels like an old friend, a road companion with whom I've been for a while. I like his writing. He feels like a friend not because I agree with all he says, but more because I feel like he acknowledges my humanity. One more empathetic voice to the confusion, love, thrills and chaos that are life itself.
And as for you, my friend, I hope you know that you are thought of and cared for by at least one this evening.