Five Year Plan

A few months after I separated from my partner of seven years, embarking on a new life on my own terms, I was stumped by a question I posed to myself: Where do you want to be in five years?

I couldn't figure it out. I had no answer. Where did I want to be? I knew where I didn't want to be. I didn't want to be at the job I then had. I didn't want to be still entangled with my Ex. But these were all negatives. Easily accomplished. It's so much easier to say 'no' than to commit to something positive.

This came to mind just now when I was cleaning out my PDA of all the various and sundry memos I've written. Mostly notes to myself. I came across my attempt at a '12 week plan,' written not long after I left the house in Brooklyn. The 12 week plan went:

• Go to the gym and gain fifteen pounds
  
• Come to closure with The Ex
  
• Write a book
  
• Figure out where you want to be in five years
  

Well, I never did any of that. Except coming to closure with The Ex. That alone was quite an accomplishment.

But here's the thing. Now, when I think, "Where do I want to be in five years?" I am flooded with ideas. I guess the thing to do would be to free associate, and then look over what I've written, and try to identify a handful of crucial elements. These will be goals, and short term activities will be assessed as to whether or not they further those goals. (This is all derived (sp?) from the book "What Color Is Your Parachute?".)

Okay. Here goes.

It's rural. There are trees and fields of wild flowers. But it's about 90 minutes from a significant airport. There are dogs. There is a garden. There are several cords of firewood. The trees and wildflowers can be scrapped for desert or grasslands. There is a house. It's made of concrete. Sturdy and minimally furnished. There is ample room for guests. The house is usually filled with people. Perhaps some sort of a retreat center, for people involved in S/M and interested in the spiritual aspects thereof. Out behind the house is a large building that serves as a dungeon. Cross, cage, cells. Again, minimally furnished. Spacious and filled with natural light. There's water. A pond or a hot tub or something. Not a pool. I have a slave. A good slave. A happy slave. (basanos comes to mind... ) I write. I read. I chop wood. I carry water. I cook. I run the dogs. I ride my cycle. I sit on the porch smoking a cigar and watch the sun go down behind the hills. I watch storms blow up. I travel. Mostly in North America. Mostly by driving to where I'm going. People seek me out. But I'm am just far enough away so as to be somewhat inaccessible. So I can be found, or not. I live by my own rules, on my own terms. I share my life not with one man, but with many men. Although my slave is special. He is mine. I'm in charge of him. In addition to writing, I make something... I'm not sure what. Not something artsy, but something practical and utilitarian. Something functional, yet beautiful. In addition to the dungeon, there's a workshop. There's also a chapel of sorts. Nothing elaborate. More of a pustina, as it's called in Russian Orthodox spirituality. A small place for sitting quietly and listening for the voice of God, with something simple... a crucifix, perhaps, to focus the attention. There is also--possibly in the dungeon--a weight bench. There is no excess. One of the differences between 'now' and 'then' is shedding things. Getting rid of. Paring down. With exceptions. Books are an exception. There is a room in the house lined with shelves of books, and in the middle of the room is a table, and on the table is a laptop, or whatever technology will give us to replace laptops in five years. There are goats. Goats that need to be milked, and their milk turned into cheese and icecream and such. And some chickens for eggs. The dining room has a big long table. Capable of seating twenty. The house... my house... is filled with music and food and laughter and conversation and learning and teaching. I wear leather all the time. Every day. The possibilities for play are endless, the only limits being my imagination. Maybe horses. Although horses can be expensive, and I want to keep expenses at an absolute minimum.

That's where I want to be in five years.

Is five years enough time? Maybe. Maybe not.

I've got to get away from The City. The City is distraction. And allure. Perhaps a place to visit and exhaust myself, but to return home to refresh and recharge.

That's where I want to be in five years.

Thinking about it, I'm filled with peace. It all seems so sane. Why would I not want that? Why would anything else be nothing more or less than a prison of sorts? A fools paradise, like the Island of Lost Boys in Pinocchio.

Yes.

Oh, yes.

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