Musing in the morning on beginnings

If I were to connect today, this moment, with another in time, I would call back to song-filled days in our commune of the creative, belligerent, undone, brilliant, cast of musing few. We sat singing, playing, writing furiously; passionate to transcend just that moment to get to the next resonant enlightenment. Questioning the social, philosophical, humanist, neoconservative/liberal state(s) we found ourselves in, we strove to push through the cloud of textbook misdirection and parroting petrification. Late in high school life changed. Trying to do Plato and his wall proud, before we knew his name, we asked questions we couldn't answer knowing something was not right with the world we knew.

It was a small place, on a main street, in a small town. Central, yet never so. We went the world over, never leaving a few rooms. No phone, a payphone around the corner was were I would call home, a sometimes distraught mother answering with numerous questions I couldn't answer in all truth. My heart now breaks for all those small deceptions. But, it was our time to make way for histories of the future. 

And here we are. So, for clarity's sake, who is "our" and "we" anyway?  We were a small band of bonded high school despots, on the fringes and in the middle all at once, we worked at being the fringe, working the margins into and out of line with the so-called "mainstream" stream of right(wrong)-wing currents that threatened our marginal shores. KRC, JB, HC, KE, and me, and of course the roving few who entered the fray with us for our very brief time in those rooms. It was love, laughter, anger, angst: a struggling becoming that yearned for substantiation. 

That time, made histories in this future: a re-membering of activated notes, harmonies that register shocks and resonate as KRC plays guitar in the morning. And, is the muse again. Twelve years (give-or-take) separates those days from these, yet I feel them through the years and their accretions of memory, composed of loving happiness and frustrated despair, as though they were a moment ago.   

I now think I found a trace of where I wanted to go with life in those rooms with our chosen few. I didn't know it then. Nearing a decade in post-secondary school has occasioned some time for reflection and attribution. I can re-member those those days as an aspect of the montage of moments that made my eyes anthropological, before disciplinging gave them legitimacy.  

Anthropology, for me anyway, is poised as the arbiter of subtle revolutions, the modest catalyst seeking to open up ways of seeing, exposing the accretion of sedimented knowledge, the striated space, allowing for the lines of flight that follow from chance paths taken when the uncanny rocks our worlds.

This is a blog about my journey in and through anthropology. Welcome.