Fear and loathing in Talkeetna, Alaska

I spend my nights in a bunk at the chilly end of the Talkeetna Hostel and my days looking for work and a more permanent place to live. The weather isn't warm by any stretch of the imagination, even if some of the people are; the thermometer hasn't climbed out of the fifties yet. There's been some sun, but it's a little gray every day. And the nights rarely get above freezing. I've been trying to keep my head in the game, as it were. Not to sweat things out of my control, which, at this point, is just about everything. Vacationers and the climbers who guide them come and go on a regular basis. The hostel is just up the street from the airfield and each day I hear the buzzing of small single-engine aircraft shuttling them back and forth from the mountain. Denali stands like a magician in the mist, never fully there, always part of the illusion.

So why have I evoked the good doctor? What does any of this have to do with the American Dream? Truthfully, not much at all. I punched my card on that lofty ideal the day I handed in my letter of resignation to the Mercer County Sheriff. The part of my brain that must constantly put the rest of me in my own way was certainly at work again bringing me here. Leaving New Jersey, for me, was a solution to that age old problem of trying to observe a thing without changing it. I could not legitimately observe my own existence, mostly because I was living it day to day in a terrifying circle of tedium that was getting smaller and smaller each year. I was working upwards of sixty hours a week and going exactly nowhere. I lost sight of who I was and was no closer to discovering what I wanted from this world. The creature comforts provided by my loving family were like an opiate at work on my passions. I had grown so complacent that it was almost beyond me to even recognize how low I had sunk. My shot at the mythical American Dream disappeared when I walked away from the last chance for a generous paycheck and a slow suburban euthanization.

And now I am here, to figure out…god only knows what. Who I am? What I want? Where I want to be? How I'm gonna get there? Why bother? Any and all of the above. Even the people I know who are established in a life they love didn't come by it easily, so I'm not whining about not knowing my place in the world. And it's a very different world than it used to be. Softer, really, on those of us who didn't find our way in our twenties. Socially it might be a bit stigmatizing, but really, it's not like the lost and wayward are roaming the streets, stealing bread and sleeping under bridges by the thousands. You'll find us here and there, working at some menial task, struggling to make sense of our own choices, and wondering why we couldn't just take the same roads as everyone else. 

Since I've spent the better part of the last week with nothing to fill my time, I have read quite a bit. Today I picked up Emerson's Self-reliance. It's a quick read, no more than as essay really, and I wouldn't say it really stirred anything within me. There were a few lines though that made me smile, considering my current situation, foremost of them all being: "Whoso would be a man must be a nonconformist." If being desperately unemployed, slowly running out of the meager savings I managed to put together for this trip, and going out of my head with wonder at what happens if things DON'T change is the path to manhood, than perhaps I was better for being written off as a child. The truth of the matter is I don't have the slightest fucking idea what I should be in this world. Still. 36 years old, and nothing has struck me as the "right" thing. If such a concept even exists. At this point it seems I should have just toed the line at any one of the hundred chances I was given at a normal, sensible life and just stuck with whatever I would have fallen into because finding your proper place in this world through trial and error is a long, miserable process that takes the best years of your life and pushes everyone who supports your foolishness to the breaking point. Trying to reveal the meaning within, if it is not obvious, and you're not stirred by passions great or small to point you in a direction is like 36 years under brain-cloud inducing fixtures of noxious gray light.

I have always had a demonstrative heart that steers me. I follow my instincts when I know that the other way is simpler. It is a stubbornness that I possess for making the decision that I believe in, even if it means things will be more difficult down the road. The problem is I'm not the only one who pays for these decisions, and the weight of that fact has been pushing down on me more and more. Being supported, in the most literal ways, by the ones I love and who obviously love me more than I have any right to claim I deserve, has left me soft and fed right into my directionless behavior. Everything they have done to help me, to keep me on my feet or put me back there when I've stumbled, has enabled me to stand perfectly still in life. I did not take advantage of a single leg up, I wasted every single break that came my way. And that is part of the reason I am in Alaska. Really, a big piece of the puzzle was just leaving the nest. Now I either get to see how magnificent my scramble back to the blanket is when things don't go my way, or I cowboy the fuck up and get on with my life. Time will tell.

Another facet of this little passionless play is finding some time to be by myself. I'm a fairly social person, I like hanging out with my friends, going to pub for some craic and a few pints, a nice meal and conversation, sitting around a fire pit after a nice BBQ, or maybe heading to a show or some other such thing. Point is, I am blessed with fantastic friends, and we're never at a loss for something to do. But just as often I am in the mood to withdraw, to stay in and keep to myself. Unfortunately I don't use this downtime to whittle away at my list of things to do. I'm not writing the great American novel or answering the deep imponderable questions of man. Usually I'm not doing anything at all. I don't know where these days and nights come from. Sometimes I've already got something planned and then without warning I want to ignore the world and just hide in my little cocoon. Well, let me tell you how Alaska puts that behavior to the test. I know exactly 1 person in this entire state. In fact, the closest other person that I know to hang out with is over 2000 miles away. I've already been invited here and there by some friendly types at the hostel, and the temptation to do that very thing, despite not having a leg to stand on financially, just reminds me how much I love the company and companionship of others. I am not half the misanthrope I sometimes act. So far, however, I have turned down every invitation. I have resisted every impulse to join and frolic, be it hula-hooping in the park with locals or taking in live music and a few drinks with my dear friend Natasha. I don't want to be out and about. I'm not ready to let loose and have some fun. There was a greater purpose here which I cannot even begin to cipher until I have set a stake in the ground. Circumstances being what they are, I have done just a little soul-searching. But I don't know what I'm looking for in there, so how will I know when I've found it?

I suppose the point, if there is one, is that I'm still alive and well, here in this place so far removed from everything I know. I haven't died from exposure to the elements, I haven't starved, I haven't thought of throwing in the towel or cursed the fates for my sour luck (though I was tempted the other day when I discovered that there is a hole in my radiator), I don't spend my nights weeping for the life I left in New Jersey. Existential ennui is never that dramatic anyway. I just look around corners for my muse, wondering at the same time if I'll ever fill that purpose for someone else. I ask the questions I feel need asking, and take in the world around me while I wait for the answers to appear in my shocked little brain. If at any point, I, or anyone else, thought of this summer as a vacation for me, let me dispel that notion here and now. This is a journey. A portion within the larger whole, but with a purpose I have more of a hand in. This is MY journey. My searching and my wandering and my wondering, and if the conclusions I come to are as simple as heading home with a heart comfortable in its mediocrity and a life without any great accomplishment, then I can at least say I went the distance in finding that out. Not everyone leads a life of greatness, maybe I will or maybe I won't, but I have to learn to be okay with the goodness that stands in its stead. 

My current housing, as seen through the crack in my windshield.