Unplug and Grab a Beer
A lifetime ago I was running against the wind, and almost 10 years later, not too much has changed.
The photo above was taken shortly after I signed a lease for a room in a friend’s house after two years living on the road. Everything I owned in the world at the time fit into a 5-foot truck bed. So, a shower, toilet, and refrigerator more than generous accommodations.
As fate would have it, I’d have another “suburban” dirtbag run around 2018. While more “domesticated” by then, I’d still run away to the mountains, with a case of beer in tow, fore safety, to “figure some shit out.” I was looking to quiet the mind-monsters, for answers, even though I knew I’d only find more questions — but at least the view would be as unobstructed as the air and the hangover would be worth the smell of campfire smoke and pine trees.
I found myself in a similar position to that 2017 photo on a random Wednesday in 2024. I needed a dog-and-beer night. At least, that’s what I told my self. I didn’t want to lift. I didn’t want to roll. I didn’t want to run anywhere. Sometimes work sucks and life is heavy.
I picked up a case of beer on the way home from work today and popped one out of the box and into the cup holder in my truck while at a red light. As I dug my fingernail under the tab I looked up and saw a police officer waiting, facing the other direction. I came back to my senses and let the tension off before the can cracked. I could at least wait until I got home.
I pounded a couple back to back before settling in to watch the sunset. A couple more went pretty quick, so I decided to start writing. I realized that life was simple when all that mattered in those “wild and wounded” days (2015 - 2017) was hard sends and if I had another American Spirit in my pocket.
But the problem, the motive, remains the same… searching… wandering… you can take the dirtbag out of the mountains, but you can’t take the call of the wild out of the dirtbag.
You’ll trade your 6-string for a family and a desk.
Yeah, I don’t blame you for giving up.
I recently told my internet provider to piss off, so there’s no WiFi. My phone’s unlimited data plan doesn’t start for a couple days, so I’m in purgatory… or maybe heaven… The alarm clock will ring at 6:30 tomorrow morning regardless of what transpires tonight.
The silence is awkward, mostly because it’s comforting. I was in a similar position last summer and texted a colleague a photo of empty beer cans and a scrawled on notebook with the caption “This is cheaper than therapy #defendanalog.”
Trying to connect some salient and meaningful thoughts in my mind, I reflected on the clients I had seen today. I thought about how much I told them what I needed to hear. I talked to a bodybuilder about “going harder or doing more not being their problem” and “where is the love in their life?”
A suicidal client and I walked through “where do you let yourself fall to pieces? Where can you melt into a puddle of tears and still feel safe?” Another client and I explored “why (we) rationalize (our) way out of good ides?” and “why do (we) work so hard to justify continuing (our) own misery?”
I miss the clarity of the old days. But, if you’re lucky, and I am, sooner or later you wake up and realize you’ve got something to lose. It turns out, living for something is a lot harder than dying for it.