Right now the mountain blue birds are fluttering around in the rain. Hopping about on the fence posts outside my vanagon. I can, if nothing else, get some joy from the birds. I read recently that libra’s can’t make a decision to save their lives, and wholly own the statement. Until now, the very last possible chance to get a building up before winter, I have not been able to commit to pouring money into the project. Partly this is due to my deep yearning need to play and travel, and the typical way in which I’ve lived prior. Save money, go climbing.
I feel isolated here. I have one climbing partner, who is probably the most unreliable climbing partner I have ever had (as far as bailing out last minute). All my climber friends are far away. I’m here. Broke.
I think about moving to Bozeman for the winter. For the ice climbing of course. Maybe in January. I’m sure I can find some great new friends with there. Those dirtbag climbers that I adore so much. Who despise most of what society offers and relish in squandering days in the mountains, with cold fingers and aching backs.
The wonderful people that I met in Rockport, TX are in shambles. I could go there. Carry tree limbs to the street to be removed. Repair shingles. Wayne and Diane would put me up in an instant so that I could help. It would be an escape from the cold. But in Texas there are no hills to hike; no mountains; no climbing. I feel deeply for them. It is a great upheaval of communities bestowed by hurricanes.
I think about going back to Boulder, but it is expensive. The climbing and friends that are close by there are my main attractors. Yet I detest the idea of paying somebody else’s mortgage with my eight hundred dollars a month rent.
The roaring fork valley is another option. I have at least one really good friend there. No shortage of good wages either. Actually, that’s why I left. Money was the center of the universe there. It felt all consuming.
I don’t really like money, except that it buys groceries, climbing shoes, gas generators, and two-by-fours. I’d like to make some with writing, which is probably my only chance of ever staying here on this property. It was my vision for the property. A place to write. A place to be alone. Both of those things it is.
For now, I guess I’ll just putter along with what I can. Make ten dollars an hour helping my pot growing neighbors try to maintain their plants through November, with firewood and propane (Highly unsustainable). Write, and read, and write some more. Juggle my emotions. Wonder why I’ve yet to find a lasting partner in crime, lover; someone whom to be alone together. Think of those lovers that I pushed away, and those that pushed me. Wish that humanity could be different, but know it to be fruitless.
I risk becoming a disgruntled miser of an old man here. I’m just rounding my thirty third lap around the sun middle of next week. Oh joy.