There is a man on television, some archive footage on Al Jazeera, with a well groomed beard and soft brown eyes under a furrowed brow. He is very young. I imagine he is at an age I hope to be at soon - old enough to be humble, but young enough still to retain large portions of unadulterated hope. The trick is to gain one without losing too much of the other... I imagine that is easier said than done.
Behind the man is a wall of flame, unexplained, billowing smoke into what appears to be an already polluted sky. The story, I learn, is about this man's death at the hands of a suicide bomber. There are other important details, but I get lost quickly. The video switches between the footage of the man speaking in front of flames and the building in which his life was taken, now just a charred frame with debris scattered out into streets. Men stand around, scratching heads, wringing hands, and then a quick shot to some pools of blood on otherwise clear concrete. And then the story ends and there is news about football.
Behind the man is a wall of flame, unexplained, billowing smoke into what appears to be an already polluted sky. The story, I learn, is about this man's death at the hands of a suicide bomber. There are other important details, but I get lost quickly. The video switches between the footage of the man speaking in front of flames and the building in which his life was taken, now just a charred frame with debris scattered out into streets. Men stand around, scratching heads, wringing hands, and then a quick shot to some pools of blood on otherwise clear concrete. And then the story ends and there is news about football.
We rely on myths to overcome, to ignore, or to explain these types of things. Some rely on God, or a lack of God, and others rely on distractions. I have my own versions of both, but one of the more compelling and foolproof is the tracking of the sun, from East to West, every day--that heliotropic myth, the tired notion that new days always rise again, and we all will move, whether or not we are ready for it. Life is. Perhaps it is painful, frightening, and overwhelming, but it remains, against weird odds and with a struggling glory that I can't help but admire and want to talk about...
...and perhaps I share a desire, as so many authors before me (from whom many I steal, consciously or otherwise), to share that admiration in some way. So this begins. Part narcissistic outlet, part genuine scratchboard for half-formed ideas, this space is an attempt to capture and retain my thoughts on the tracking of life across that sky.
I begin with this myth, heliotropism, because it frames so much of who I am as an American and makes sense of our history and collective conscious. But I also start here because this particular myth distinctly resonates with me, a born wanderer, yet bound by the irrationality of maturity and responsibility. My whole being is drawn to following that large orb across the planet, but the wonders of an emerging middle age, the constructed responsibilities and expectations and...oh, my six year old, does he get enough sleep? and am I saving enough for college? and...so...well, we all need to walk the tight rope to the other side of the building, and I find my balance is much better with a place to store my words now and again.
That man, on television (the story is replaying again, and this time I see other details: Afghanistan, some leading role in the police force, the West's last hope...), there is something to the way he died that invites thought. Something to the way people end up in the explosions that they do, the small choices we make as we chase orbs and the large consequences we could not foresee at the time. It is hard to not feel completely helpless.
Ah, but the sun will rise again. It always does.
I begin with this myth, heliotropism, because it frames so much of who I am as an American and makes sense of our history and collective conscious. But I also start here because this particular myth distinctly resonates with me, a born wanderer, yet bound by the irrationality of maturity and responsibility. My whole being is drawn to following that large orb across the planet, but the wonders of an emerging middle age, the constructed responsibilities and expectations and...oh, my six year old, does he get enough sleep? and am I saving enough for college? and...so...well, we all need to walk the tight rope to the other side of the building, and I find my balance is much better with a place to store my words now and again.
That man, on television (the story is replaying again, and this time I see other details: Afghanistan, some leading role in the police force, the West's last hope...), there is something to the way he died that invites thought. Something to the way people end up in the explosions that they do, the small choices we make as we chase orbs and the large consequences we could not foresee at the time. It is hard to not feel completely helpless.
Ah, but the sun will rise again. It always does.
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