Wish I had my camera for the first cup ever of Daz Bog coffee …
… the full round mug and matching saucer in the bold black, white and red and yellow (of the former Soviet Union flag) in homage to the Motherland and the two immigrants, Leonid and Anatoly Yuff, who birthed their coffee dream on a bitter chilly night in Leningrad and realized it by fleeing Russia and coming to America.
I feel like I’ve just run a 26-mile marathon yet haven’t accomplished much tangibly for the efforts, an event of stamina occasionally exhilarating, oftentimes exhausting — as in made exhausting by first the ubiquitous lack of craigslist (room-share) responses and then the enormity of Denver!
The city map should bear a disclaimer: Objects may appear closer than they are.
The amount of gas consumed just in traveling from the east to west side of the Denver area is considerable! Add travels within those parameters and you have a gas tank pushin’ E faster than you could say: “Think green. As in collars. Use the light rail.”
Housing. I’m glad I’ve tentatively secured a room — or closet, truthfully; my wallet is ecstatic. I do not foresee this situation (if it happens) enduring but a few months. I’m not over the moon about it (for reasons cited prior).
It’ll do for a short time, leaving this much clear: I have NOT found a home (more than half my life gone and still looking! — haha) AND the Denver experience will continue to be simultaneously topsy-turvy, unpredictable, unreliable in a sense, exhausting and exciting for a while.
Reckon that stability, grounding and anchoring in these rough rapids will occur in autumn or early winter — hopefully before the first big snowstorm, which I’m assured could happen any moment!
In Tacoma, I suffered from stagnation, lack and depression that stultified and endangered my primal life force and survival.
The entire landscape’s been turned upside down, on its head, in an uprooting of phenomenal scale and proportion — a process that dumped all the clutter and crap and things unnecessary (psychological/emotional baggage and issues key among them) so to renew and begin life again.
One day, I’d like to, and can envision, speaking to others interested in how to completely and single-handedly transform one’s life and self (particularly at midlife, which brings with it its own unique challenges and burdens) and, more importantly, raise one’s self up from the very darkest valley where there is no hope, no promise, no light and no future.
Of these I have come to learn. I have walked that path, nakedly and without but a thin strip of fur to protect from the blasting Siberian freeze and isolation (speaking of the Soviet Union …)
I want to speak on that to people who will and want to listen when I myself have figured out how I did it!!
Fortunately, journals are bursting with the pain and the darkness that were Washington and Tacoma. Fortunately I did not stop writing altogether, though always was the time that I thought my writing and recordings were as worthless as my self.
Gotta love the mother who wishes you dead and into oblivion, eh?
I’m a terrible procrastinator (not an uncommon affliction amongst writers, if I dare call myself one, n’est pas?). If only the blockage (in creativity) ended there!!
I tried valiantly to get back on the (writing) horse in Tacoma, yet the dark forces (be they internal and/or external) and vortices won out, gnawing away first at my tissues and muscles, then ligaments and joints before making fine cattle grain of my bones.
I recognized that I was done for — unless I got out.
And get out I did.
And now Denver’s staring at me, one of the volumes flocking here, asking point-blank: Who are you? Who do you wish to become?
The million-dollar question …