To My Friend Who Asked Of My Future

Erin,

Thank you for your letter asking me if I was well and where I imagine my life going. I can not sincerely thank you enough for this question; I find genuine inquiries into my well-being rare. And most importantly, thank you for all the times we've talked where you expressed interest without ego. Of those genuine inquiries into my life, the vast majority do indeed try to impose their own perspective and life onto me. And this I understand, for they simply are looking out for me. But in those moments, I find myself talking to someone who sees merely a painting of me with their own applied colors.

If there is anything to take away from this letter, let it be my gratitude for your friendship without possession.

Before I explain where I find myself, let me apologize for how often I will use the word "I". When interacting with friends I scarcely care for talks of myself, for I believe most people are in desperate need of witness. I do not believe I can offer witness with the "I" intact.

I am here, 24 years old, somewhere in a somewhat small Oregon town. I see beautiful mountain ranges on my drive into town, and the Oregon night has a special type of silence. I often walk around my apartment complex at night, and somehow this stillness in Oregon implies something tangible. Like something forever out of reach, but I often feel its tangential graze when I cease reaching. I can only say one thing for certain regarding this: if God exists then He is in Oregon.

I have met so many wonderful people here in Oregon. Strangers are, usually, quite friendly. I have a solid, small friend group now. Could you imagine how huge that is for me? I am not in Oregon by choice: the person I once dated for three years showed me evil, and I had to find somewhere nearby to rent so that I could escape safely. In this, I had nightmares of my own apartment broken into multiple times, and the obsessive phone calls from many unknown and strange numbers did not help. I withdrew from the world, even more than I naturally do, for about 6 months. After slowly walking back into humanity, I find myself with good friends in just three months. After 8 months since that dark weekend, a newly-made friend hugged me. That was my first body contact since the start of the year.

I despise my job, although I doubt I will ever like any job. It pays well, and I am able to comfortably save money and afford rent.

By all accounts, I am doing fine.

You ask me of where I imagine life going. To answer truthfully, I don't know.

I recently read Ion by Plato. Below is a beautiful excerpt:

For all good poets, epic as well as lyric, compose their beautiful poems not by art, but because they are inspired and possessed.

And as the Corybantic revellers when they dance are not in their right mind, so the lyric poets are not in their right mind when they are composing their beautiful strains: but when falling under the power of music and metre they are inspired and possessed; like Bacchic maidens who draw milk and honey from the rivers when they are under the influence of Dionysus but not when they are in their right mind.

Isn't it beautiful to imagine a poet, or any artist, who is comfortable being not of the right mind when they create? I can't imagine a greater renunciation of the "I". For what they produce is not of them, but it is from them. A surrender to something unspeakable, the electric capabilities of both spirit and mind.

I know that when I write I am not of the right mind either. I find myself sometimes reading my past writings, and being disturbed at what I produced:

The world does not feel real, but I also do not feel real. That is strange. Imagine a person dying and becoming a ghost, inhabiting his own world only to find out that the world itself is fake. I wonder how he would feel.

What a beautiful fractal.

And I love that horror. It means that I am doing something right. I find this life itself to be aimless when I believe from the depth of my spirit that actions are above outcomes, so moments like these are like gentle beams from a lighthouse, showing me I am on the right path.

As I walk forward towards that light, I believe that I must abandon Oregon and its stillness.

I find myself becoming more comfortable not being of my right mind, of living a life different from what is expected of me. Considering my background, I have subverted every expectation on how my life would look now. To who or what do I have to prove to anyone?

I used to be enchanted by the idea of living in downtown Portland, but I believe this would be premature. After my past, I need years of silence and solitude. I need the space, both physically and metaphysically, to read, reflect, and write. On accident, I discovered my vocation, and I must listen to it.

I likely will move at the end of my lease to a state with no income tax and cheap rent. Using this move, I forecast I can save $160k in about 2 years. This would enable me to own my own small, ratty property in the most absolute middle of nowhere, where property taxes are often $100 or $200 a month. I could easily dedicate 4 to 5 years of my life on my vocation without worrying of expenses.

In this I hope to discover what it means for a man to horrifically peel his own fractures apart to be filled with grace.

Once I move at the end of the year, I would love for you to visit. Maybe we can watch some horrible movies and go hiking again?

Many thanks again for holding my whole humanity in your essence, and not merely a snapshot. That requires supernatural character, something few possess in this abstracted realm.

M.V