Disclaimer: Free-write is a technique I learned from a good friend of mine, an excellent writer – far better than myself – and something he does often. You simply write as you think/feel and whatever happens, well, it happens. When I feel blocked, I let loose with all guns and see what happens. In the madness, there might be a nugget of wisdom. What follows is a free-write, full of vulgarities, slurs, and random thoughts throughout the entire wall of text. There is a thread throughout this entire mess, but you must take care to follow it, lest you end up at the Minotaur’s lair.
For whatever reason, I listened to this on repeat until I felt finished. Give it a listen: Elton John, Tiny Dancer.
I can’t write now. I have the material. It’s there. It’s all there. But nothing is flowing. It’s like a stopped drain. You can see things swirling, make out what’s what, but it’s still backed-up shit. And who wants to read that? No. I’m lacking clarity right now. It’s a moving day for me, and my mind wanders here and there; tomorrow I rejoin the Way. I never left, you understand, but physically I go back to what I’ve been doing for weeks. Am I ready for this? To once more become the Seeker on the Way, to give up what I’ve built in this past week? This place has become a home to me, and I’m – to what? – simply follow these fucking arrows again for another two weeks before building a home somewhere else? I suppose that’s the only option: Brunomad after all. It’s what I am. Am I ready to settle down? Have I found my calling? My soul posited that today. “Perhaps you have found your calling.” Yes, Soul, you’re probably correct. I follow my heart – always have – and here I am, happier than a clam, helping strangers settle in for a night, bidding them farewell in the morning, and making sure they don’t burn the place down. Is that my calling? To herd cats? Ah, but how fulfilling it is. Few things can compare to this experience – and I doubt many things in my future will. Who the hell wants to go back to tech writing? Selling tires? Fuck, no. A thousand times no. I wasn’t put on this Earth to write manuals no one reads, to sell tires in the oil patch, to live my Life behind a screen, a slave to money and time. Here, gods, here. This is a Life. No money is exchanged, no paperwork filled out, no questions asked. Here’s your bed. Here’s the kitchen. If you need help, just ask me. I’m always available to help. Help. That’s what I’m doing. I’ve become the Help so many people seek in their day-to-day; gods, addicting! I cannot walk away from this so suddenly; that’s why I accepted so readily the next position, no? To help, again, somewhere new, somewhere fresh. Free from the damage of a thousand people, free from the constraints of a society that doesn’t relish innovation and experience anymore. Where we are all equal: my Marxist utopia, ha! Karl Marx would love this place – poor sod – where people are simply people. No longer are we numbers, names, passports, jobs, or Go away. Go fucking away, pilgrims. I’m busy. Can’t you see I’m fucking busy? Typing away like a madman, not even hitting the fucking enter key, and you think it’s a good time to sit at my fucking table and badger me with useless banter? No, no, no. Not now. Not now, for whatever gods’ sake, bugger off. Stream of thought. Stream of conscience. This is free-write. This is soothing for me. It’s part of the process. Do you not understand the process to this writing bullshit? Fuck, who’s even read this far? Where was I? I don’t edit these – free-writes – what would Kerouac say? Probably scoff and go back to his copious amounts of mind-bending drugs. How many times have I listened to Tiny Dancer tonight? Elton John. Poetry, that faggot, ah such poetry. Much better than the shit upon the radio these days. Him and Warren – fucking piano masters. This experience, gods, this experience to be a volunteer hospitalero. The drain is still swirling, but things are coming into clarity – not enough to make a solid post (this will do). Post some photos. People love that shit. Oh look at what you did. Look at that photo. Wow. Wow fucking wow. Photos. I detest taking pictures, mostly, because there are few things that make a photo truly unique. Oh, you captured the sunset? Fucking grand. There will be another tomorrow. Oh, you took a photo of some famous artwork? Why? Never understood that. Shit’s already painted; what’s your bullshit photo going to do to improve that? Fuck. Fuck. Where am I going with this? Where am I going with anything, really? “I’m worried about the chaos that is your Life,” said my Soul. Right, of course (she’s never wrong), but I thrive upon Chaos. I am Chaos. I need something, somewhere, to say, “Shit’s on fire, yo,” and I laugh with glee and watch with jolly merriment. Why put out a fire? Fire is rejuvenation. Fire brings forth Life and renewal. If we snuff it out, if we snuff out Chaos, we prevent new Life from taking hold. No. I bring Life from Chaos. From the Chaos of the albergue, I bring forth renewed vigor in my charges. Every day is the same to them then suddenly – bam! – nice guy hospitalero with a funny accent and funnier hair. “You’re all welcome here; want some chocolate?” You are not as evil as you think you are. You’re a hospitalero. You’re hospitable. You’re nice.
God damn, you’re doing the right thing.