So, hanging out in Canmore listening to Robbie Robertson’s Somewhere Down this Crazy River. I am nestled into mountains and the warmth of friends. Friends that supply you with yummy wine and great stories and sporadic guitar riffs and love. Listening twice to Robbie Robertson because it was that good and grateful to the brilliant friend that gifted it to me on Facebook and unwittingly became the giver of a weekend theme song. Much obliged.
I have had a hell of a time getting on to this blog to write. I try and try and erase and erase because it all seems so boring, drab, and gluttonous. But tonight I write. I will tell all that I wish I had backpacked though Europe and that I wish I weren’t getting older. About how the words of a stranger years ago encouraged me to “travel while I can” but I didn’t get very far and I didn’t appreciate what he meant until it was too late. About how Pink Floyd nailed it with “No one told you when to run, you missed the starting gun” and how it sucks that I didn’t grasp that as a kid or that I didn’t listen to Pink Floyd early enough or with enough ability.
Sometimes I look at myself in this life stage and think “What the HELL am I doing here? I am still a kid. How can I be responsible for raising kids?” I wonder if this is some kind of weird Peter Pan syndrome or do you other adult parents wonder the same thing. Do you also feel like children raising children?
And you run and you run to catch up with the sun but it’s sinking.
Shorter of breath and one day closer to death.
Screw you Pink Flyod.