End of Journal
I feel obligated to say something profound at this, the end of another journal,
not just another but this one in particular.
Having more or less finished graduate school and established a career in theatre,
more or less.
Having reached the age of forty-two.
Having traveled abroad twice within the course of this journal. Once to Slovakia on the
coat tales of the university and then on my own accord as an artist, to Ireland.
Having traveled as far beyond financial and legal comfort as ever I have been
and traveling farther still.
And still alone
The prophetic meaning of this moment is this:
No experience is ever random.
It is the one that comes next.
And so, rather than ending with some moment of fruition this ending empties me into the Liminal, the moment before the next beginning, set against the back drop of the snowiest February in over twenty five years.
I feel as much at the start of things…my life…as ever.
Will I live the next journal as well as this, the last?
Will I even write another?
How would I begin?
It being winter,
and being thus disposed,
every moment seems so very precious.
Joel Mason, February 25, 2003
I feel obligated to say something profound at this, the end of another journal,
not just another but this one in particular.
Having more or less finished graduate school and established a career in theatre,
more or less.
Having reached the age of forty-two.
Having traveled abroad twice within the course of this journal. Once to Slovakia on the
coat tales of the university and then on my own accord as an artist, to Ireland.
Having traveled as far beyond financial and legal comfort as ever I have been
and traveling farther still.
And still alone
The prophetic meaning of this moment is this:
No experience is ever random.
It is the one that comes next.
And so, rather than ending with some moment of fruition this ending empties me into the Liminal, the moment before the next beginning, set against the back drop of the snowiest February in over twenty five years.
I feel as much at the start of things…my life…as ever.
Will I live the next journal as well as this, the last?
Will I even write another?
How would I begin?
It being winter,
and being thus disposed,
every moment seems so very precious.
Joel Mason, February 25, 2003