The Life of a Nomad

I am the Horse with no name, the faceless cowboy, the gypsy breezing through town.  Not post-grad enough to hobnob with the young professional crowd, but post-grad enough that communicating with those still sufficiently embedded in undergrad life feels like how I could only imagine it would be to argue football soccer in a European bar full of drunken fans.  My best friend graduated in 2012 and moved back home to work, all my associations since then have come from work  or class (work) and have been either older or professionally more advanced than myself, meaning our friendships began with a dwindling time clock, most of which, save for a few, less than five, have struck zero.  My involvement in school was nonexistent unless otherwise administratively mandated (read as academically ordered community service) so I don’t have a litany of Organizational comrades to call upon when the walls start closing in.  My S.O. is in another city, my roommates were found for me randomly by my landlord, and he specifically sought older solitary grad student types because they are the least damaging to the house.  I infrequently attend Catholic Mass because I am unconfirmed, and my greatest hobbies, reading, running my Heeler Belle, and keeping up with this post, are all solitary and require no human interaction.

The point then?  That my life is in this weird Purgatory like limbo state where nothing is concrete, least of all my familial ties to any one particular location.  My romantic heart lies for the moment in Austin, though it is soon to be transported to Baton Rouge for the next three years.  Professionally, I am in College Station, but I haven’t been able to see myself embarking on a career here since graduation and every time I drive through Austin or Ft. Worth I find myself scrutinizing the job postings a little closer.  My oldest kinsmen are spread all over the state, resigning us to interactions through social mediums and our smartphones, and although we might be worthless lazy technology driven Millennials, we still grew up without phones attached to our ears for long enough that our natural methods for fostering relationships don’t involve cell phones.  My mom is the youngest of seven children,  all of whom for the past three years I have visited not through the traditional method of traveling back to Midland to see them, but rather through third party neutral sites for mass gathering events and reunions, as if we were High School football playoff teams.  I’m twenty-five years old suffering from the sort of existential crisis one might expect from a balding forty-seven year old divorcee, and I have no idea how I got here.  It’s like one minute I had roots in College Station as deep as a well, enough face to face relationships to fill my free time five times over, and educational aspirations sufficient to keep me here longer than I imagined I could stomach.  Now I’m neither here nor there, yet in both places simultaneously, because I’ve yet to find somewhere to totally satisfy the yearnings of my newly began life.  In this new existence I’m slave and master to mileage all at once.  Distance has no meaning as I’ve come to embrace daily trips to Austin or otherwise, yet more often than not I’m prevented from some impromptu hangout or event because as close as it is, an hour and a half drive is still an hour and a half drive and most morning my workday begins at 06:30am.  What’s worse is that until I finish my PGA certification (three years from now at the earliest,) I can’t plant seeds anywhere else.  I don’t know where I’m supposed to wind up, or even where I am certain I want to wind up.  My dream city is some sort of mixture of urban and rural, sustaining Austin’s night life while simultaneously maintaining traffic congestion no worse than Waco.  My house sits on property, of how much I’m not certain, but enough to allow me the liberty of the full spectrum of desired leisures, such as a pool, hammock, patio, trees, garden, and just enough livestock for tax purposes.  Of course such a homestead would certainly have to sit outside the city limits, but I’ve always found homes so far outside town they become their own existence to be a little too isolated for my liking.  Besides, if I’m going to continue this career path of golf instruction and not veer into something that would allow me to live in isolation (writing, farming, drug king-pinning) then I’ll need to live at least close enough to a course close enough to enough to sustain profitability.  In the meantime, I’ll keep my bags light, my tank full, and my associations virtually tied.



Posted in Me

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