It seems like…and tell me if I’m wrong about this…Oregon would be the perfect place to be sad for a while. For as long as you needed to.
There are lots of places I want to go–Christina’s inn on Block Island, Vermont and Maine, Montana, and of course the Golden Gate Bridge is like a thorn in my side.
But when I think of going west again, and the coastal highway through the mist, I feel this radiant acceptance of all the sadness that I daily have to shove aside in order to get out of bed or do anything productive.
It’s not depression; it’s sadness of a Dionysian kind, the kind that would like to howl like King Lear, the kind that never gets a chance to be satiated because it freaks people out.
Rightly so; it should freak people out; that’s what it wants to do. It wants to alienate the chill the whole world in the same way that its sense of right has been chilled.
It. Mine. Whatever.
Anyway, it could be because when we were nearing Oregon last September, I was dealing with a lot of scaredness about being on the trip at all, feeling alone and frightened to death and wondering why Vincent couldn’t fix it because isn’t that what company is for? Maybe the because of the canopy of rain that accompanied us the whole way. Maybe it’s the podcast we listened to, on the way, about the pimp who is now a circuit preacher. Maybe it was knowing that at the end of that drive, we’d be at my sister’s house in Portland, where I’d see my niece and there would be lights that were familiar even though I hadn’t seen them before, but becuase they came from family, so the sadness was less alienating to me, less terrifying to give into, because it only had a certain half life and then I’d be with, accepted, invited.