I live near an airport. There is a tall chain link fence at the bottom of the hill near my home, I think I could probably climb it but I never do. On the other side are concrete runways protracting toward the horizon where all my fondest memories like to plot their funerals. Huge airliners come in very low, right over my head and their throaty roars make my ribs vibrate. I watch those airplanes land, and take off without me in them.
Much of my life has been a struggle between two needs:
the need to explore the world, and the need to have the world explore me.
I have been all over this globe
from Chiang Mai to Huinan Province,
from Morocco to Cape Town,
from Chicago to Nova Scotia
from Bucharest to Rome
and right back to this line in the dirt where I stand and bleed cuz I am so eagerly trying to become a verb; Motion with a meaning. Searching for a source.
I miss the courage that I found in my summer sweat where I exhibited my nude body, wheat colored skin to the Dalmatian sun.
I am an 18 hour flight from the place my birth.
My grief is European.
I don’t have the means to describe what my accent sounds like to other people who don’t know me yet. Maybe, of ‘r’s, rolled thick; the right side of smooth.
I sometimes fear that I don’t know this town that I call home. All my loves are gone, and many of my friends, all chasing their youth. I am not young, I am not old, I may very well be disenchanted with age tho.
Don’t over-rationalize everything!
Be kind to yourself for once…)
I think it is time again to sail for new places and new encounters, mayhaps a spiritual quest or something like that even though I am torn apart in two directions
one closer to home
the other further east.
Directions have never been my strong suit. Really.
I rarely use the rear view- hard to drive looking backwards, ya know? So there isn’t much choice but to move forward even as I am falling. Luckily I understand equilibrium and inertia; objects at rest and objects in motion.