Bitter Blue

Coming down out of the hills west of Weed yesterday, a hundred horses grazed in a tawny field, massive Shasta and the autumn sky in the background. Azure with a hint of indigo is, for me, the color of nostalgia made manifest. That soulful, bitter blue sends a shiver of pleasure and pain deep into the root of my being. Why am I so enamored by the end of things? The alpha and the omega, the high and the low; I'm a sucker for a dichotomy, always seeking balance in the chaos.

For many years, I had two small Maxfield Parrish reproductions on either side of my door: "Ecstasy" on one side, "Contentment" on the other. I guess that was my idea of balance; clearly, I don't much relate to enlightenment, I only know what I feel. Age has cooled those passions somewhat, but not much.

Do any of us ever really know one another? Admittedly, that question came out of left field, but it has been much on my mind lately. The secrets we keep from each other, the truths we cannot tell ourselves - do we ever know ourselves? And, if we don't know ourselves, how can we know others? How can anyone know us?

I am constantly rewriting the story of my identity, continually improvising a new sense of self. I have no idea when or where or how the climax of the story will come, much less the dénouement. I have no idea what the morale of the story is; I make it up as I go along, negotiating the border between ideal and reality. The angel on my shoulder has to live in this world just like everybody else.

But, the hag of the hedges rides alone.

We think we know someone and then they do something that we consider to be so completely out of character it makes us question whether we ever knew them at all. I guess I'm glad to know that I'm still capable of surprise. I wonder though, am I capable of surprising others? Could I, would I, take a hard left turn out of the deep groove that I've dug for myself? Unhitch the traces, open the gates and run free?