luctor et emergo

Young Portland. Sitting in the back of Breaking New Grounds and watching the high school kids filtering in and out. I remember a distinct time in my life where a place like this was a sanctuary for people like me. Driving in after school and wandering through the streets of the Old Port till the last coffee shops closed. Clinging fervently to the idea of a city life. Emulating the metamorphosis from student-and-kid to city-adult that I sought so fiercely those last two years of high school. Wishing so desperately to be mistaken for someone living in the city, thinking perhaps that somehow that would make me the person I wanted to be.

And now here I am, and the fat times wane thin. Fifteen cents short of a coffee and getting embarrassed at the counter, though it’s not a big deal the guy behind the counter assures me. Big haul on groceries today $180 bucks worth of groceries bought between Dr. Anderson and I, so the money runs thin and the need for a job rises like a red sun in the east. Fifteen cents short is the worst amount, there’s no hope of crossing that gap. The guy behind the counter plunges his long-fingered hand into the “Take-A-Penny” jar.

Across the street is the hookah bar. The worst hookah bar on the East Coast if you can take my opinion on those things, but still that had a place once in my travels. Occasionally I’ll hear the young folks in the Department talk about going there. Late nights in Portland, living in Gorham, the same childish emulation. There’s a place for it though, and maybe a bit of honesty. The word childish needs a reclamation, everything we do is childish. I hope that when I’m 40, I can look back upon being 33 and say the same thing for myself.

I keep entertaining these thoughts of showing up, spontaneously, to one of their gatherings. To see if they’d let me in, strip myself of all these pretensions that have built up and engage in a bit of reckless fun, a bit of talk, a bit of craic with those more fortunate in age than I.

I dreamed today of Connemara. Talk with David and Maureen, who owned a house on Ballynakill Bay in Tully’s Cross. Letterfrack was right next door, the Old Monastery Hostel and the Twelve Bens. Hiking is different in Ireland and most of it is bushwhacking, no trails, just walk through a field, over a stone wall and head for the top of the mountain. No trails, just make your own way. I didn’t spend enough time there and I want to go back.

So many thoughts of exile, happiness, putting myself in one place for a week, feeling time slow as each event spaces itself out. Time’s measurement is in the passing of events and things move quickly in the city. I woke today with another week gone, measuring things in Fridays, the one day I can sleep in past 8am.

So the fat times are gone and I must grow more careful with my money, or seek a way to increase it. Rent looms like a red dragon on the horizon, May approaches quickly and each time I turn around another week is gone. Fifteen cents short and I need a plan of revision. A goal to set myself towards. London in July and it’s raining outside. I’ll walk home tonight along the Galway Wall with the old umbrella Corey found in Switzerland covering my head and a song on my headphones. It’s a gorgeous night. I’m thankful.

Sustainability is the key, how to make this all work. Connemara, here I come.