thirty-two
I wake up the morning of my birthday inside a small trailer. Natural light filters in from the west-facing windows, sills lined with crystals and knick-knacks. A retro teal mini fridge, red counter tap, and matching teal sink fill out the other side. The A/C window unit makes the place feel crisp as a hotel room. I hear the low purring of chickens nearby.
The trailer sits in the backyard of a highly venerated lesbian known for her whacky fitness instruction, performance art, and film stardom. She is one of those people that has never met a stranger and effortlessly fans the flame of Austin’s weird soul.
The one thing I wanted for my birthday is dedicated time to write, hence the weekend trailer retreat.
Rather than bursting with creative productivity, the solitude of the trailer brought to light just how insecure I feel these days. I foresee myself in five years looking back at this time with amusement and gratitude that it is over. For years I have mistakenly bound confidence with certainty, so without the illusion of control working its magic, I am unmoored. Rattled. Doubtful. I am billowing with doubt, which feels entirely un-sexy. Un-cool. Undesirable. The more I push myself towards my desires, the more the uncertainty intensifies.
This precarity rolled in like fog on Friday evening and relented temporarily around noon the next day as I make the excursion to Pease Park for Eeyore’s Birthday. I attend an extravagant party nearby before diving into the core of the celebration. I spend time with friends and strangers all adorned in whimsy and scantily clad outfits, enjoying the impromptu open air drug market amidst the Renaissance Faire-Cirque du Soleil-Burning Man atmosphere. Surrounding myself with frivolity cools my nerves for a few hours, but the doubt inevitably creeps back in.
I am frustrated by the fact I cannot simply bypass my fears; I have no choice but to proceed with them fully in tact. To move towards what I desperately want in life requires me to surrender to the unknown. This is uncomfortable. I crave the bird’s eye view of my situation but I am forced to navigate the thick forest brush on the ground, one terrified step at a time.
Until next time,
Cowboy Rocky
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