Raleigh, synecdoches and self-plagiarism

last week my yin and i spent the weekend in Raleigh, visiting a friend of mine from high school. we had a fantastic time, and i was not only able to learn more about our government:

i, too, support the arson of memory

but also how to rock out like a superhero:

I Was Totally Destroying It

but this is beside the point.

the point is that it's been an odd sensation sense our return to the mountains, with our impending departure weighing on us as invisible and undeniable as time itself. when we drove back home last Sunday afternoon under overcast skies, my yin and i talked about the sadness of leaving. it was as if our weekend getaway served as synecdoche for our entire summer away, and now the inevitable preparations for the next leg of our journey have begun to bubble beneath the surface. i find my mind drifting to trivial things, like packing up the yogurt maker, or consolidating the spent newspapers strewn across our room, rather than offering my full attention to the present moment. it's odd because i feel no sense of dread about returning to Florida, only the cramping anticipation of having to say goodbye to another summer.

(and this, as one can read, brings out the melodrama).

it's not just the pain of leaving, but the uncertainty of what lie ahead. it seems that everything is either up in the air (work, school, etc.) or so far ahead as to make stable planning nearly impossible (wedding, leaving Florida, etc.). in spite of all this lugubriosity, things are moving right along (as they always do), and we're looking forward to next week's trip north.

i've been told by unnamed sources that our reinsertion into subtropical life will bring with it a clash of grooves, an overlap between the salted habits of beach life and the memory of the mountain air. this is undoubtedly true, but this morning it occurred to me that these overlaps (and disjunctions) can be a source of inspiration as well as stress. all art is born at the boundaries between experience and the things we think we know, between prediction and manifestation, between planning and inspiration. the rough edges between thought and life give rise to new forms, new manners of expression, new ways of seeing the world around us. John Berger knew this:

a temporary thank-you card

and this brings me round full circle, back to the high school friend to whom this missive was originally intended and subsequently expanded. we had not seen one another in fifteen years, and even when our contact was almost daily, it was invariably conducted under the veil of adolescent anxiety and depressions. as this trip has already taught me, reconnecting with old friends is better than expected, but last weekend was even more profound than those first few days in Atlanta.

maybe it was the company:

maybe it was the music:

or maybe it was the giant butterflies painted on brick walls:

the answer, as one might expect, is beside the point.

whatever the reason, my high school friend dwells in those places where all art is born, and the memory of our time together continues to be a source of inspiration.