Curse you Barrie & Bach
~~cue the Disney music~~
What do you say to a friend who is leaving a place with mixed feelings? One who has longed to go for so long that she's felt her wings had been clipped, and she's wondered if she can still fly? And why is it that dramatic change generally produces such wide-flung highs and lows within us?
Helluva season for anyone to be uprooted with no place to go other than a direction, at least until they find a place to live, but that's my friend. She's Peter Pan, pointing to the third star on the right and nudging her husband to move in that direction, with nothing but hope in her heart and an ice-chest packed with salad and sandwich stuff. In a way I envy her, but with a closeted push-pull, tug-of-war with my own emotions, I crave the stability of where I live. Am freezing my arse off, and my traveling shoes are packed beneath mountains of leather coats, sweat pants, snow boots, and sweaters, while she's facing blue skies, beaches, and surf and wearing her sandals.
Gad. In a way I guess that makes me a Wendy, and Wendy was not my favorite character in that story. I wanted to fly, I wanted to fight pirates and snuggle beneath blankets while someone told me a scary tale. I wanted to talk to fairies, play pranks, disregard my own safety, and feel invincible.
~~~adult segue in progress
~~~to Jonathan Livingston Seagull
Wait a minute. That bird hit the proverbial brick wall. He fucking died. One adventurer never lived, but then I suppose that means that he also never died. The other...
Well, hell, isn't there a safe place on this planet to have a reverie any more? WTF? Can't a writer daydream in peace, send out good wishes for a dear friend without getting sappy and maudlin or without being bitch-slapped with a reality check the size of God's left nut?
HAVE A FRIGGIN' BLAST, ALEX! CALL ME! SEND POSTCARDS! DO ANYTHING YOU WANT AS LONG AS YOU DON'T MAKE BEDS OR WAIT TABLES.