Note: This will be the first post to have what I imagine should be called a "dark side". I know this Blog generally aims to play the heartstrings and caress the romantic side, but in the end, perspective is the first principle. What I saw today reminded me that even the simplest story may have many sides. Keeping that sentiment in mind, may lead us in a better direction when trying to chart a course.
It's understandable that being adjacent to natural tourist attractions would inevitably result in a crowd of streets and highways competing for the rights to be named in that landmark's recognition. Who wouldn't want to live on Hot Springs Ave, or Chain of Craters Road? It's all rather attractive.
Those of us on the West Coast of the U.S., having the great fortune to be the Pacific Ocean's neighbor, possess no shortage of "big blue" icons. Some cut through their terrain with the rigidity of a librarian's bookmark. Others wander around the map like the town drunk after Last Call: stumbling through the dark, inevitably taking the longer way home. One particular tribute to the enormous collection of salted waves and lobster beds, is known as Pacific Ave.
Not nearly as famous as some of its sisters, Pacific Ave nonetheless gets up for work every day and lays down in a north-south posture, accommodating commuters all along the city of Tacoma's interior. It's a simple, blue-collar street for most of the journey: a bit frayed at the asphalt edges, but honest. Not wishing to spark the attention of local law enforcement, I was keeping below the speed limit, which coincidentally allowed me to better survey the social landscape. The usual signs of civilization were present: parked cars, storefronts in need of a fresh coat of paint, the sidewalk squares cracked from underneath by the stubborn insistence of native roots. But I wasn't prepared for what I saw next.
A rehab center once opened their doors to this seaside town's community, and I can only guess that business has been growing in the years since. But today, everyone in that building halted their steps for a while, as paramedics swept in to tend to wounds too grievous for counseling and lithium. I can imagine the building's employees and temporary tenants, burdened with the collective quiet that neighbors share while watching a hillside brushfire; voices hushed with the nervous tension of sensing that tonight's newscast will list the victims, and those names could be yours. I could almost hear the muscle strain of necks behind barred windows, aching for answers.
I was immediately bitten with a melancholy that rodents must feel, realizing they have no hope of escaping a snake's coursing venom and the slowly tightening grip of their captor's innumerable ribs. For blocks and blocks, all I could think of was the tragedy of sobriety unmet, and the utter despair of seeing some sliver of a sunshine-future, washed away.
But what the hell did I know.
I've learned a few things in my time among the living: 1) Things can always get worse. 2) Things can always get better. 3) You rarely know how much of which will happen, or when. So if you don't want to beat your heart into submission with the Iron Shovel of Pessimism, I advise steering yourself in a different direction. Because sometimes we have to hit rock bottom (whatever we call that particular pit), in order to force ourselves to roll over and start climbing up.
It would be far better, if none of us had DNA wired this way; that the warning signs of looming cliffs and treacherous waters, were heeded sooner. And it does no good to dwell on the why's and how's of this human trait. But maybe, our complexity as creatures necessitates a life of risk; of pushing ourselves to limits both of greatness, and travesty.
As I continued my drive, I eventually made a different choice. I imagined a nameless patient: face newly adorned with an oxygen mask, eyes bloodshot from the ordeal, cheeks streaked with tears, like a windshield in the year's first rain. And while their heart slowly regains its footing, somewhere down past the trench mud and the howling anger, an inner voice says, "I still like you. Let's try again tomorrow".
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