Recently I found Foolish Oats on YouTube randomly. It was her black and white video montage paired with delicately read insights that let me get lost in the words and images and the false nostalgia for a different, quieter, more intelligent life. I find myself transfixed, and usually end up having to watch episode twice or three times before I can internalize it.
There was something in particular about this one, I was surrounded by others in the company break room, and utter enthralled. And so I wrote.
Don’t feel pressured to read it- it’s just a little pen to paper, but here it is, just in case you are interested.
It’s easy to pretend to live, in this quiet city life, when hustle and bustle surround you and you can exist alone. It is east to live that way. No friends, no family, just an eclectic gathering of acquaintances and regular strangers- co-workers, baristas, the fluffy dog that walked at the same time she ran.
It is easy to pretend in the city.
But then it is different here, in the borrowed mother’s mini-van where childhood overwhelms the sense of familiarity. This place, a place no longer belonged to- where from I embarked on the road trudging away from these people in these areas.
But I am here, returning here, for duty, and truth, and the lost nostalgia which has plowed the road for me. He- here with me, old friend, old man now, everything we though he’d be, driving the future we knew he’d have. Two sons, names I don’t know, hockey playing growers like we used to be. And this map I’ve wrestled a thousand times, find our way to a place we once knew. This city of past of presents. Fear, loathing, and home.
Here to bring one more son.