The world is your oyster. I don’t even know what the fuck that means anymore, but I use to say it all the time all nonchalantly to whoever floated alongside me in stride down the sidewalk during a run or perhaps after a marginally satisfying burrito at Lucy’s.
I just got home. Pedaled four miles up a steady paved road that looks out above the town Hilo, Big Island of Hawaii. My head is dripping sweat and its steaming hot in my crotch. Too much friction. Shouldn’t have worn my corduroy shorts. One of two pairs of shorts I own. They need replacing. Worn out in the crotch.
I strip off my outer-layer clothes and am left with a smelly pair of running shorts around my waist I’d been wearing since yesterday after a 14 mile run. I sat through a two and half hour movie in them. I ushered in them at the local Vagina Monologues that night, a delightful performance of all women reciting fantastical interviews of other women talking about vaginas. I even tried to sleep in them but decided naked would probably be cleaner since I was crashing in my friends bed. The lesser of two evils. I wonder if she’d appreciate it if I told her my consideration. She was gone dancing all night at some zoo party or something exclusive like that.
And now I’m home. Finally. Alone in my little tent of a hut. Finally. Gone a day and half. Too long. Finally the running shorts come off, feels like some kind of ritual. I stand there naked for a while. Not out of freedom but out of a total lack of motivation. The day’s half over, tomorrow is Monday, and I’m still a broke, single, frail, jobless, prideful young man in his mid twenties who’s invincibility cloak, left over from the high chool days, is slowly degrading into a shallow pool of self-pity that I’ve been standing in for far too long. It’s all swampy. Stagnant. I’m all pruned, just a butt-naked pruned swampy kid living in a tent with a laptop and a work-trade lease on a mac-nut orchard on a tropical island hiding from my past and too depressed to put clothes on for my future.
This is my life. I eat soaked and boiled lentils with millet and avocado and taro. I eat the occasional satisfactory grande burrito from the Lucy’s; the sister taqueria of Gorditos in Seattle. I run. I run in sandals made in Seattle and sometimes I run in shoes made God knows where. I don’t ever run in a shirt because its too hot and god the whole point of running is to be minimal and pure and the feeling of a shirt rubbing across a large surface area of my body just makes my nipples turn all purple. Sometimes they bleed. I drink turmeric and ginger tea grown in our garden. I sometimes bike to town to convince my ego I’m doing something productive like applying for jobs. I’ve been applying for jobs for five months, kind of.
My life is simple and poor and pathetic. To many its an ideal situation… living on whole foods in a beautiful quiet getaway in Hawaii. And, you know, it is great, and I give my appreciation everyday when I wake up and watch the first sunlight hit my tent illuminating the new day. But if it wasn’t for running, I might just curl up and die in this safe-haven, this sanctuary this… idling life.
I’m still naked. I’m still standing here, wondering what the hell I’m doing with my life, wondering what direction I’m headed, wondering how many more days I can survive with only 150 bucks in my account, wondering if I should break down and cry or go plant some Comfrey. I blink. The bugs buzz, and I head to the garden, nearly forgetting to put any clothes on.