Traveling has an American-ness to me. In the way I’m picturing it, I see it stemming from our innate human hunger for something more. In particular, I think the desire for something more manifests itself in the form of a quest for Americans. We wish to discover an adventure in an uncharted land, or take a road that leads to nowhere, just for the sake of enjoying the drive there, letting the landscape or cityscape soak into our memory. It’s sort of sublime, in the way that staring up into the stars and thinking about how little we know about what is out there is sublime.
I’ve been a bit of a vagabond this past
week year. I never seem to stay in one place for more than a few weeks. This year, I’ve found that there is something novel about carting around only a bag or two and being completely independent of everything else; something exhilarating about beating time at its own game. I move quickly, oscillating between crimson leaves and palm trees and gliding over seasons and back again before I see a full cycle of change pass me by. Time catches up to me only when I stop. And I love that. Traveling constantly does not allow for much nostalgia.
Yet, when it stops…
We all know that time is only death in disguise.
Eventually the playing has to stop.
Or does it? I don’t know. Sometimes I feel manic, traveling to San Jose then Los Angeles and New York and San Francisco and Davis and Boston and Arizona and upstate New York and Pennsylvania and D.C. and all in-between, going and back again. Even in my own apartment, I am a stranger, and my bed covers gather dust while my back grows rigid on the airplane. Airplane seats were really not meant for anyone over the height of 5’8″ (now you know how tall I am).
Usually I am hungry for a change of scenery, but tonight, after soon to be two 3:50 a.m. wake-up-calls, I long for stasis and peace and quiet. I want to cozy up in my room for a week and finish the FINAL EDIT of my book and edit my queries, and type the lovely (at least I find it is) short story that wound up being thirty pages long, that I believe is GOOD, maybe the best one I’ve written yet. I just want to write. Then I suppose I will crave a new journey.
Good night. Here’s to a few short hours of sleep.