Soiled Meat and Sand

I am soiled meat and sand.

Bruised by my own clumsiness and the abuse of life, I will gain more bruises. I welcome them. They are a reminder of my mortality, my vessel, and the world as it is.

I am strong compacted sand from generations of marching forward in spite of tragedy, harshness, and confusion. I feel these generations pushing me forward. These tragedies tinge the sand with petroleum and grime if you dig deep enough, if you know where to look.

I am imported sand, like the kind I grew up with in Eagle Dock. The child of immigrants grows up with a tremendous back window.

I feel the traveler's heart within me. A heart with distaste for conformity and certainty. A heart that looks to adventure with a smile. My sand craves chaos.

Our meat was separated from the ancestral connections that warm my parent’s blood. I feel the distance. To be English-American is to wander a strange land hypnotized by the angles, by the scale, and by the madness.

This strange land is my land. Impossible to know-- her mystery entices. Her character is endless. America is change.

I follow my own Oregon trail and wonder if exploration is the natural state of man. 

I know for certain I am soiled meat and sand. That is enough for me.