It is a fire & brimstone desire; a naked Idol that stands in the forefront of my beleaguered cognition casting a ballooning shadow across the field of obsession. Half Acre,5.12a, perhaps to most, is not the most aesthetic line, the most difficult in the area – easy, perhaps, to most even, but to me it has been a tick burrowed deeply into my skin which itches furiously, & in my constant scratching, I see something most beautiful in it; there is something about this particular line that has been yodeling to me ever since the completion of my 'list' to give it a go, to hop on the thing & find something unknown - about it, about myself. Perhaps I will find nothing at all, but somewhere in that finding of nothing is a treasure of knowledge to be had, uncovering possibly everything. If one doesn't follow that undefined feeling which grows like lamenting demons inexplicably w/in, then what itinerary do we know to follow? How then, does one know the compass is correctly pointing... in any direction? It is early in the mourning, again, for much trouble I have sleeping in on the weekends even if the days' weather is the climbable sort or the reverse, which today, is the latter; nothing revs the mind's engine like early mourning dusk-light, a cup of coffee to combat a basement-chill, & pathetic self examination. W/ Half Acre marathoning thru my mind in large sweeping strides, the mourning's oppressive nature blanketing the plane of my existence, I lean back in my chair, tilting it on two legs, resting the back of it against the wall, unable to write that which I feel needs written. I stare at the screen & wonder what the real point of all of this is. That who would possibly want to read the thought-meanderings of a philosophical Drunk gone sober? That who would possibly be able to stay excited whilst belaying for hours someone struggling up routes week after week, legs burning & numb by the harness' dulling bite, in the name of pushing personal limits? Failure is nothing new to me. It has been a constant companion, a constant foe. A presence. But hitherto fore, failure has been mine solely to deal w/, to construct, deconstruct, & mold. But now it is somehow, different. Changed. Evolved into a Karmic Cocoon, even if such an evolution has taken place only w/in my imagination. I take a sip of tepid coffee, remove the glasses from off my face, & guide the heels of my palms across my eyes, back & forth... light begins to filter thru the window; a shadowed, subdued light, like crystal eyes casting furtive glances here & there. I let go the thoughts of Rehab snaking up my person & clamp down onto my lack of training this past week. It has been a long, slow one for me, filled to capacity w/ paralyzing lethargy & doubt. I decline the chair, toss my glasses aside, & think of what Churchill had said. “If you're going through hell, keep going.” Hell is a self imposed destination; a destination easily taken from place to place, point to point, eternity to & thru eternity, if you let it. Whether I am ready or not for Hell, I am ready for it. No one can truly be ready for anything, really. I am no different. The only thing you can do, is keep on going, & be ready for not being ready.
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