Today is Friday & the sky through the library window is exploding. Pink and orange blankets–quilts–laid across the baby blue backdrop. Santa Fe, can I take you with me? I need the sky, its eternal canopy of color.
Time, once again, has played with my head. The weeks are moving very slowly now that I can count the ones remaining in Santa Fe on half of my hand. Next: holding time in places (geographic locations) that I am a stranger to, which I do not belong (wholly) to because so much change has happened during my time away from them. And a seven month sojourn from the city I have come to call home, base, normal, routine. But this is all introspection.
On Saturday my mind turned inward, and only after turning did I realize that recently, I have lived an outward existence. I am no longer floating (as alluded to so many times in earlier letters and notes). A clearer picture of myself has been drawn for my eyes to see when I interact with the world. Then I remember that change is inevitable and I am susceptible to all of it.
And that’s okay. Because life only passes by day by day and there is nothing we can do to stop it. Time continues to move.
Found note from the road. July 24, 2010. 1-25. Just outside of Las Vegas, New Mexico
How do you measure time on the road? Through the things you find to pass it with? Music, coffee, cigarettes, conversations? Or is it better to sit with yourself and not give worry to the time. It doesn’t really exist be because we beat it with cars. Make better time, push the pedal harder, accelerate through a space. The space being measured with time. Do you measure miles on a map with time?
Sky’s been overcast in this city in which I am situated for four days. The temperature has dropped. The air and the wind are chilly, the mountain tops snow capped. There is no hiding it, winter is on its way. My arm’s in a sling and all I can do is “take it easy” though, I don’t know the definition of the phrase and wouldn’t know where to start. But, here’s an attempt.
Personal Days, by Ed Park. Fantastically dark humor, filled with characters who are full of life and a setting which all Americans can be all too familiar with…offices. The book is set in an unnamed New York City office and centers around the firings happening within the company. It is a must read if you are interested in fiction, especially contemporary authors. Dig awn it!
Generally (&specifically) speaking, what are your thoughts on eye contact? Or, better yet, staring. Are you cool with that? If I were sitting near you, starring, writing down everything you did and you noticed, would you say anything? Would you stare back? Or would you let me look. Better yet, would you let me see you?
where did the goddamn fifth wine glass go?
where did the meaning go?
where did my marbles go?
hah, I threw them into the Hudson River.
at a time.
Jacksonville, Florida. I have settled at my final destination on this trip that I started three weeks ago. Air travel sucked me into a whirlwind of people and movement. Airports are a strange thing. All these buildings strung together and categorized by terminal, each a portal opens and closes doors to separate and different parts of the worlds, people floating to and from each one, all on their own path. But where is the enchantment in air travel? How can you know where you’ve been if you don’t experience each texture?
Florida is humid and sticky. I sat on the back porch of my house last night listening to the rain fall and a storm begin to eat up the inter-coastal waterway. Every surface it hit gave way to a different sound and a symphony was born from water—the hollow tick of drops on the metal house drains and garbage cans, water drops meeting the perfectly circular lake behind the house, the swell of liquid meeting more liquid, each little fleck of moisture on the grass and steel black fence encasing the backyard. The sky was black and blue, veins of lightning running through the clouds, illuminating them purple and gray and the thunder seemed to roll onto the land from the ocean. There is a stillness of nature here that can only be listened to and I sat in the middle of all of it, wondering how I got here. How did any of us get here?
I crossed through eight states and have arrived at my new home, the house with my family and comfort beating against all the walls. And, the only thing I can think after all the sun I absorbed on the road and the asphalt we covered is that, everywhere you go, there you are. It is up to YOU, the traveller to make the most of each place you carry yourself.
Chicago. Tuesday. Listening to James Brown, People Get up and Drive Your Funk! while the group digests their hot dogs and french fries. Deep dish pizza was for lunch and my oh my, what a beautiful thing those pies are to behold—red sauce sunken into a pie of peppers and pepperoni and cheese. I woke up this morning to a quiet house, a full pot of fresh coffee and the company of Andrea and time to pass. It was humid and hot, stepping outside was like walking into a vat of vaseline, all that moisture pressing against my skin. We hung around the house, eating and napping and being okay with doing absolutely nothing. I think that hard earned time off from your own reality, time to create rest physically and mentally, time to travel and take in everything—the sidewalks of a city, the backyards lined one next to another like files in a cabinet, the heat at street corners from clusters of cars and buses stopped to drop off and pick up, the company of new acquaintances, feeling the energy of mixed company but being reassured that it is good company—is time worth spending. Alone with yourself, amerced in new experiences, waiting for each moment that passes to change you. It is 10:02pm. We are all recharged and ready to go out for the night, having spent the day napping, rethinking our position in this adventure, recuperating and metabolizing everything we’ve already seen and what’s next.
Tunes from the road. Can’t stop listening to this whole album
I-8o East. 8 o’clock pm. We have entered Iowa. I have lost track of time. The sun is still shining, beating on my left side and sunburn has set into my right shoulder. I drove a tank of gas–mostly through Nebraska–which was not all too thrilling–a flat expanse of green earth and farms with empty streets and skies and a quiet that could make a person go wild and deaf. But, in the back of the convertible, time does not exist. Day continues to encompass us, clear and bright and I am awed and enthralled by all this corn. Something so simple as corn–commonplace to my perspective (and I’ll admit, the state of Iowa to feel the same) has taken my by surprise. We are diving at 75 mph. The top is down, this wind has been dancing with my hair all day. It’s knotted at the root and even as I’m writing this am looking through brown locks. But the corn..the corn is entrancing. Endless golden lines, bristling in the wind, stretching from the side of the road to the horizon, wrapping with the curves of the hills into labyrinths. This is the stuff this country is physically made of, just as I have brown hair and the imprint of the sun and time and travel on my skin. Corn.