Yeah. So. New spot around here. Kinda barren, but I'll work on that. It's not like I've got a whole lot else to do these days.
You want the truth? There's something strangely liberating in nuking two years of writing. Hell, at this rate, I might cook off the collection on the hard drive, too, the last fifteen years or so. Realistically, I haven't written anything worth reading in about two and a half years anyway...mostly 'cause I haven't needed to. Writing's always my way out, my way of dealing with everything, and in the last couple of years, I haven't had a whole lot to deal with. It's been a semi-charmed kinda life, full of fun, great people, and wonderful experiences; put blunt, I've been blessed, and blessings blunt your edge.
Case in point: I'm running tonight through my folks' neighborhood at about ten at night, surrounded by SUV's and Beemers, the smell of fabric softener and grass clippings. The iRiver is cranked to 'fucking hurt me' and my lungs are doing their best Alien impression, and all I can think about is how I wish I was running somewhere else. Anywhere else. This isn't reality, here. Regina in general doesn't feel like reality. It's always felt like...well, someplace you go to wait until your parole comes up.
This is in marked difference to the Island.
The first time I drove across that bridge in August of 2004, the first moment Borden and Points East gently came into view, I felt like I was home...and that's not a feeling I'm all that familiar with, you want the pure and honest truth. When folks asked me where home was - and that seemed like every second fucking question on the Island, let me tell ya. This was crucial information, for a reason I'm still not privy to - I usually didn't know what to say. Sometimes I'd say Regina, 'cause, for two and a half years, that was, and there was still a shitload of my stuff in my folks' basement. Sometimes I'd say Calgary, 'cause that's what my birth certificate says. Sometimes I'd say Charlottetown, 'cause that's where I laid my head down. And sometimes, if I felt like telling the whole twisted tale, I'd grin and say Canada...
But the bottom line was that the Island in general, as small and as invasive and as boring as it could be...it felt right. Solid. Some place I could see myself putting down roots. Hell, I even started putting some down...the start of a career at one of the best courses on the Island, some extremely close and wonderful friends...even a wonderful girl who I still think about every single goddamn day. And then...and then.
It'd be a lot like me to say "and that's when I started to piss it all away". That's been me ever since I was small, man; get my ducks in a row and then fuck 'em all up, one by one. But actually, this...this isn't me, apparently. I'm going after the brass ring, here. I've got the job I've dreamed about ever since I started thinking about working in the golf industry. The only hitch is that I don't know when I'm gonna start, well, working.
Allow me to explain.
When you build a golf course, you need permits. You need all KINDS of permits. Some are easy to get, and some, well, aren't. The one we're waiting on - the only thing we're waiting on, apparently - is the archeological permit. And getting the folks to sign off on something that says "come build a golf course on our historical land" in the BC interior, in these days of Olympic-sized broken promises...well, near as I can tell, it's about as easy as fistfighting a hornet's nest. And until some ink hits the paper, I don't have a job, and, well, I'm just like everyone else. I got bills to pay.
Which means that I'm starting the job hunt in earnest. I always keep my eyes open, but now...now I need one. I can't decide whether to find a joe job that'll keep me in green fees while I wait, or look for something more permanent, with the kind of things I need to start thinking about - pensions, benefits, promotions, pagers and cell phones, seventy hour weeks, broken relationships, signing on for the life I swore I'd left behind. Because that's where I'll go, if I gotta do the foreseeable-future thing; the IT game is what I know.
There isn't a day that goes by that I don't remember the exact moment I couldn't see home in the rear-view mirror anymore; where I don't remember that last sliver of green nipping beneath the big, solid concrete barriers of the Fixed Link. At the time, I tried to calm the kneading in my gut with another gargantuan pinch of Skoal Straight and some thoughts of What's Next; this was before I knew there'd be this kind of delay, where my stay in Regina could be measured in single-digit days. And those two things, the dip and the anticipation, they helped me beat back what every instinct I own and a few more that hadn't been active for, oh, two and a half years or so, said:
Go back. It's not too late. Danger lies ahead. Go back.
Know this: I don't even pretend to understand my golf game, but I am cogent enough to understand that in many, many ways, it mirrors my life beautifully...and every single time I hit a bad shot - even if it's just a little bad or if it's catastrophic - it's because I didn't trust my instincts. My soul knows what club to hit, every time. I just need to pay attention.
When I left, I knew that this road was gonna be hard. I knew that there was gonna be sacrifice involved. I also knew that it was time to be bold, to strike out and do something most folks wouldn't, couldn't bring themselves to do. I knew that I was leaving behind everything I was comfortable with, and that this...this was gonna be a great adventure.
Wanna know what else I think about, every day, somewhere between the girl, the Meadow and my friends?
What if they wouldn't do it because it was a fucking mistake?
