All in

There is a line in an early Bob Dylan song, I think from a song called One To Many Mornings from his Freewheelin album, that goes, "There's a restless hungry feeling that don't mean noone no good...". That's what I feel in my life now, and that is what I have felt for some time, for some number of years maybe. I didn't feel it as much in Peace Corps until the end, but I have felt it fairly constantly otherwise. I don't know what it is, and I don't know how to get rid of it. To be quite honest, I'm not even sure it's bad. It's just not what I want to feel.

I'm moving to san francisco, that's where that came from. I'm moving in about 1 month. It just feels like it's time for me to try something else. I'm all in, no plan B on this one. Hopefully my job improves with new projects and I begin to see some sort of meaning in this little shared adventure we all live. I don't know what happens if I don't though. It's like one of my coworkers told another coworker, who of course told me, "he's never happy so it doesn't matter if he likes it or not" or something like that. He's right in a way too, and I don't know what to do about it. Keep running, maybe, even if you don't know from what. Most likely it's myself, and you can't ever run to far from that, and you can't really change who you are either. Not without a lot of effort, anyway, and not things that are you at the core. I don't think I really want to change those any how, which makes this all a bit stranger, perhaps a bit more existential or some other term, and ultimately, maybe I'm just bi-polar. Who knows.

I was taking a walk a bit ago to calm myself down after watching one heckuva good golf match and I got to thinking about some of my other travels. There was a situation down in Mexico that pops in my head from time to time, then flutters away, but always comes back at times like this. I was about 8 weeks into a 10 week trip, just backpacking around and taking some buses, hit the beach, etc. I was in a town called Zacatecas for a few days, an old silver town where they still make silver and sell it to wanderers and tourists and anyone else who will pay. The town is in the mountains, as all silver towns are I suppose, and I was staying in a hostel about 4 blocks up from the church. It was a nice town, where I met an old vietnam vet who kept getting me drunk on rum as he smoked something or other and told me stories. His wife used to be a squatter in seattle before that was trendy, and they were just winding through mexico themselves before heading back to their cottage in the oregan woods. He was probably crazy, and she was quiet and went to bed early so we could go out.

Anyway, he's not the guy I was talking about. The guy I met, the one who bobs and weaves into and out of my memory, was another man. We ended up in the same room in the hostel and had spoken a few times but nothing significant. One day, I'm reading what I think was a more or less true story by Hemingway where he is on an african safari. I was in the lounge in a chair, and he comes by drinking a beer and says, "Hemingway! I didn't think anyone read Hemingway anymore." I said I didn't know if other people did much, and I didn't a lot but I liked what I had read.

He gave me one of those weird looks and said it was his birthday. I wished him a happy birthday and asked if we were going out later to celebrate. He looked at his beer and said, "I used to be an alcoholic. I haven't had a drink in over 13 years. I think it's time for me to head back out." And he packed up and got ready to leave. As he was preparing to leave, I finished the book and offered it to him. He took it gladly and thanked me, and we sort of shared a moment. It was one of those moments when you wonder if it means anything, and think it has too at least for me, and then he disappears forever and you wonder about things. I don't know about him, but it must have meant something to me because I remember all these years later and I can still the look in his eyes as he walked out. I can't describe it, but I can still see it. Even more, I can still feel sometimes, mostly when I feel like this

When he said it was time for him to head out again, I pictured him just walking out of town and living in the mountains of mexico, walking in the desert, running from whatever it was made him that way. I still picture him there in Mexico, wandering and running, maybe reading here and there. It probably wasn't anything, but I felt like he had that restless feeling too. I feel like that's how he coped, he just took off and when he started to come back in, he took off again.

Coincidentally, this month marks the 50th anniversary of the publication of On the Road, which is arguably the greatest book for capturing that feeling and how the author dealt with it. Say what you want about that book creating an entire subculture of annoying hipsters reading poetry to jazz music, it does have some monumental writing in it. It's a little hit and miss sure, but so is life right and don't you think that is what Kerouac was trying to grab in that book anyway?

So to get back to the point at hand - I'm moving. I either won't be blogging much or i'll be blogging a lot, depending on how I feel. All in baby, all in.