Wednesday, October 3, 2012

Another Lost Generation

There are days when reincarnation seems so completely possible.  I am standing outside of myself, watching to whom I seem the most drawn.  Those people who are creative, intelligent, witty. And tortured.  The people who have a dark tragedy that dominates their psyche and soul. I recently was told by a friend that she was leaving on a "trip" because she needed to pay bills, she had no "real job", and in times like this resorted to being a "high end" prostitute.  I firmly believe that the world's oldest profession should be legal and regulated on some levels, yet I still walked away stunned. I had no judgement, and in theory, I really should not have had any surprise at this news, and yet I found myself feeling a bit surreal upon hearing her tell me this.   This morsel of information, given to me as a test, as a confession, as a possible cry for help as she looked into this sea she was getting ready to surf.  I had stepped into a Henry Miller book.   To process or perhaps even understand, I took another mental step back and started thinking about how I had met her, and how the social circles are always so small.  I found myself realizing that there is this darkness that runs in many of the people I know.  Some are great at hiding it.  Others wear it like a badge.  Many don't know how to deal with this dark lake they own and dive into a life of substance abuse and allow that even darker and murky water to warm them and carry them to places only they know exist.  I also see the people who do not possess that excruciating malignancy. The ones who are just living. Existing in the moment. They too are drawn into the darkness and abuse, simply by the nature of being at the right place at the right time and the charisma that can come from these individuals.  I, on the other hand, interpret my roll in this mini society as the watcher.  I can be self destructive and can have a level of darkness, but I never live there  long. I can always see the other side of the lake with it's beautiful and majestic trees I want to climb and the moonlight reflecting on it's surface.  So I watch. I remember.  The geniuses, the talented,  the beautiful, the tortured, the drunk.  When I do participate, nay swim in their morose lagoon, in retrospect, I realize that I could be picked up in space and time and be carousing in Paris in 1921 with the same people, the same souls. Playing out their sadness and love; I sit on their foreboding beach,  documenting it in a frail and elusive moment of inspiration.

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