I had something of a breakthrough the other day. Yes, I have a lot of those, a consequence of having handicapped myself initially to bring more excitement to my later years. (Think of it as exercise in search of work.) So I feel pretty good. It really is different not being angry and depressed, and I’ve been kind of lost at sea—but I have lots to do now! Who knew?
Oh, right.
That must be why someone mentioned Port Townsend, Washington, one of my occasional log-cabin-home-in-the-sky fantasy relocations of the last few years, and got me rolling again. It is strange, though. The place came up twice in the same conversation today about different people in Taos. Even our local buyer’s agent, a long-time resident and desert rat, visited the place recently and liked it.
Every time this happens I get jacked up in a certain way. The thrill (?) of starting over, maybe, or busting out of jail. Meet new people, learn new things, have new adventures. One envisions opportunity. The water flows where it will go and Gabriel blows his horn. There are many different prisons though, some of which we carry in our heads.
The truth is, there’s nothing in my present life configuration that clouds, more people, and ten grand down the drain for moving would settle for the better. (Put me on the water in a wooden boat, and maybe then we’ll see.) I’d certainly like to go there, though, and a thousand other places in between.
John Hamilton Farr lives at 7,000 feet in Ranchos de Taos, New Mexico, U.S.A. As New York Times best-selling author James C. Moore tells it, John is “a man attuned to the world who sees it differently than you and I and writes about it with a language and a vision of life that is impossible to ignore.” This JHFARR.COM site is the master writing archive. To email John, please see CONTACT INFO on .png)
I’m a firm believer in having a dream (fantasy, goal, whatever) to escape to. I escape to Taos, or at least New Mexico, to satisfy my urge to break out of Denver’s madness. Driving the 74 miles round trip every day between home and work, smack-dab through the middle of town, just so I can afford to live in a place I want to leave gives me plenty of time to dream.
Oh, how I’d love to spend my evenings with the smell of rain soaked sage wafting through the windows, or taking a leisurely stroll down Paseo Del Pueblo Norte, stopping by Geraint Smiths and then maybe go to find a burger or some enchiladas.
What I’ve found though, is that dreams are always perfect in my head and in reality, not so much. And that you can never go back
That’s quite a commute, señor. I can only imagine. I agree with everything except “the smell of rain soaked sage.” It’s been a long time since water fell out of the sky. Good thing the sagebrush doesn’t need that much. 🙂
Your comment reminded me of when I rode a bike to junior high in Abilene, TX. No one else did at the time, and I used to hide mine in the bushes. It was a lonely brutal young existence. My only solace was that time each month when Hot Rod Magazine came out. I’d buy one at the drugstore newsstand on the way home and start to read it with a five-cent cherry coke while I was sitting at the counter. Escaping into that world took me away from rednecks, bullies, and the religious pressures of the time and place.
I remember those cherry cokes.
Take note of Carlsbad tonight.
God bless.
Carlsbad? What, the radiation leak?
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