Dear Friends -
It’s been a month since I last wrote, and I’ve had a few inquiries as to where I am, and yes, that's me on the right, standing on a much different beach. I spent November in Seattle with my sons, enjoying them, waiting for my art to arrive from Kauai, and in search of the right vehicle in order to continue my travels. Oh, I also grew a beard for the first time in around thirty years.
Finding the “right vehicle” was an interesting exercise. I traveled the US last summer in my son Alan’s stallion Toyota 4Runner. I could and did sleep in my traveling home; a choice other than someone’s couch. While in Seattle I looked at conversion vans and flirted with station wagons and pick-ups with canopies - only vehicles I could sleep in, if necessary. My car budget was $5000. When I sat in and drove the car I ended up buying, it “spoke to me.” It told me that I didn’t want to be a 64 year-old homeless man living in his car. The voice was very profound - it said I deserved to drive the country in a luxury sedan, even though I normally couldn’t afford one. And this car was a gift. I was surprised at how it was almost perfect, like new, inside and out. An independent mechanic verified this to be true. A $45,000 Volvo when new, with a current bluebook value of $7300, for $4500? I almost couldn’t not buy it. Here’s my new car.
So, once I had my car, I accepted the invitation of my dear friend Suzie, and her husband Jim, to stay at their second home, a block from the Oregon coast beach, in Manzanita, northwest Oregon. I’m blessed to be cozy out of the rain in this wonderful house. Here I continue writing my novel Shambala. It’s beautiful here in a wind swept rugged Oregon coast winter weather way. And it’s true . . . I do have fits of loneliness, wanting to share this all with a special women . . . cozy by the fire . . . snuggle in bed at night, falling asleep to the pitter patter of rain on the tin roof in the arms of the one I love.
I often wonder why there are people like me who feel so much love, and have so much to give to another, a lover, and no matter what . . . they end up alone. I don’t wish to be an old bachelor, but it seems as though the universe wishes that for me, though I never have, and probably never will, resigned myself to that conclusion.
Yesterday I corresponded with a friend who also feels this aloneness. Later I realized that our lives are always a reflection of how we “respond” to the situation we’re in. I sat down and made a list of ten responses that I make to my life situation that aren’t true, or are at least self-pity exaggerations. The number one non-sensical response, for instance, was victimizing my aloneness, when in fact I chose to be alone so I could write my novel, when in fact I have many invitations to stay with friends and family.
Last night I had a dream. (I fell asleep reading Sherlock Holmes) I was a detective and had a woman detective partner. The woman had a junior partner. She needed to go somewhere and asked me to watch this man and not let him leave. But the man did leave. He went down to the subway. In a subway car he pulled out his machine gun and opened fire on line of seated German-American men, killing the first ten. So . . . analyzing dreams - we are ALL the characters. I am both the man and woman detective. (self- inquiring) The female (me) was controlling a male part of me - keeping it from getting out of control, and now was willing to surrender him to me, the male (me). The usually in-control junior me goes into the underground, (my personal unexposed subconscious) My mother was originally German-American. So what (I am) “killing” are subconscious root beliefs that most likely come from my mother, and her heritage. I was killing (transforming) the ten lies that I listed earlier that day.
Talking about being alone . . . (I am writing this from a Starbucks in Tillamook, and wish I had a picture of my mother, who was quite beautiful back then - so I sillily substitute cheese)
In 1937, (ten years before my birth) my mother Clara left the blip-in-the-road town of Colyer, Kansas (so small it won't come up on Google), took a bus across the United States, and ended up right here in Tillamook, Oregon. She arrived with no money, no job, no home, no family or friends. 1937! She was 16 years old! Alone in the world. Makes me ashamed that I dare whimper about being alone (and love my dear departed mother all the more.)
Now that I'm back on the road (so to speak) I hope to write more often. As always - I would love to hear from you . . . read to your stories, as you read to mine.
With love and season's blessings,
David Dakan Allison
