Sunday, April 22, 2007

A new myth for the darling existentialist nomad, because the truth is, real stick children prefer to be alone.

Today I read a bumper sticker that read, I'd rather be lost in the woods than found in the city!, on the back of a rusty white pick-up truck. I drove behind that truck for some time before my left hand turn parted our ways. For about 10 minutes of my life I could do absolutely nothing to pry my eyes from the saintly adage adhered to the back of a particularly charming vehicle.

This is the second time in my life someone's bumper sticker has left an effect on me. Or rather, left me quite affected. What is the first, you ask? Have patience, I'll get to that later. Perhaps it was just ripe with timing, what with me moving to New York soon. Perhaps it has to do with a recent barrage of a wash of relationships that has come my way, that I have found. Regardless of the cause, my mind imbued a meaning into that little black and white sticker, fully equipped with a horrific type face on a plethora of rust.

I had to turn left eventually, to get home.

To my little house in the midwest. With the women I have lived with for the past three years. My cat and dog as well, my bed my things my thing my things. My smells and dirt. Et cetera. But really, why do I have to turn left right now? Why go back? I'm leaving eventually. And even more eventually I won't be returning. That is to say, someday, I won't be returning. I went home. But I should have kept driving east. Turn left, yes, on Franklin perhaps, but drive past Oakland Ave, and the city of St. Paul. Drive east not to NYC, but to an eastern woods. An undiscovered woods. Leaving the native homeland/heartland myth in the dust. It is time to explore a new woods with a new myth. A myth of witches at the stake, of civil war ghosts, revolutionary ghosts, of cracked bells, and misinterpreted tea parties. The dutch, the Pennsylvania dutch, mysterious creatures they are. I will go alone and get lost in these woods because it is not particularly worth bringing an accomplice. An accomplice only complicates various situations. To go alone into a new wooded wasteland will offer many more fruits.

No doubt, I will miss the midwest. The midwest might very well miss me.

As promised, I will now divulge the first and most complex of philosophies whispered in my ears by yet another saintly bumper sticker. I forewarn that although seemingly ironic, this in fact, shredded the synapses of my mind to only be gathered up again to make a semblance of a whole.

What if the hokey pokey is what it's all about?

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