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Born in Missoula, MT: A Rise To Fame In Las Vegas, NV

December 26th, 2010 Leave a comment Go to comments

I don’t know what it is about Missoula, Montana and Las Vegas, Nevada, but these 2 places seem to send chills up my spine when I think about them. I’ve never actually been to Missoula, Montana, so it is strange that such a place would stir strong internal feelings when I have only seen footage of it.

Las Vegas, Nevada, on the other hand, I’ve been to on several occasion. The very first time I ever went was on my 23rd birthday and I remember feeling electricity flow through my body as we approached the glowing city from high up in the air, late in the night (I felt like such a kid). And that is something I do not wish to lose, the feeling that there is something powerful surging within my being; the feeling that there is an torrid inferno burning inside; and that that intense feeling is connected to the thought of a person, a place, a memory, or a culmination of all.  

For all those skeptics out there, for all of those can knots, and for all of those doubting Thomas’s, I am well aware that powerful existential surges and the feeling that electricity is flowing through one’s body is an indication of a whimsical dreamer – an individual caught up and swept away in a swell of grandiosity, delusion, and intense emotion. Is it not just ideal to feel in such an intense way? Is it not misguided and lucky to feel in such an intense way? Is it not just the intellectual hatchings of a bratty adolescent to feel in such an intense way? Is it not just that I am a fool stuck inside of my own mind?

I don’t have the answers to these questions and I can’t discount the foolishness of it all. 

But when I really open up my imagination to it, I see an innocent child born to the flows and ripples of a river somewhere in the ruggedness of Missoula, Montana. A simple childhood far removed from anything that resembles the bustle of a metropolis. Developmental years nurtured by nature, untainted by the hustle; untwisted by the sanguine. I see a child that is contented by the color of leaves.

And over time, the color of those magnificent leaves is infused into the night lights of Las Vegas, Nevada. An innocent child wandering the bright streets of a city swallowed up by the magic act of a mirage. Gigantic faces on posters, plastered across the walls. Promises of entertainment, extravagant, exorbitantly priced malls. It is all a show; the huge personalities, the inflated identities. You can’t help but want to reach out, fall forward, and hug nothing at all. And that reality right there, in of itself, is why you keep coming back. The idea that you want to hug something that is not there. The idea that you want to wrap your arms around an empty space of air. To hear the flow of air particles and stare.

The memory of a flowing river. A rise to fame. Take a look in the mirror, we’ll never be the same.  

Water skimming down, dripping off the oar. Dreams for sale, find them at the local store.

Matthew Polkinghorne

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