Took Sean to the airport last hour, as he embarks on Australia and five straight months of away games and stunning the kids. Jackie and I head to the airport in an hour to embark on our trips. Jackie's off to Argentina, for a glorius early 20's cultural bailout. I head home to a freezing Chicago apartment and my still-new cat, which, by all accounting, is in fact, feral and undomesticatable.
I came to Minneapolis a month ago, thinking I would stay a week. Going home does not feel like going home now, it feels like I am some space pod being discharged from the mothership, birthed into foriegn orbit. The funny thing about touring, which, in fact is not funny, is that it sets in motion, this option or desire for weightlessness, the always-go blots out the at-home compassing. Since touring much of last year, and even though I am not built for it so much, spiritually or physically, it bit at me, and jumped me in, Dracula-style. Now it's like a sonambulent tide of it's own, viral. There is, yes, in fact, something in me that desires "home" and waking up looking at my bookshelf with my books, but there is something with much more of a bloodroot that makes me much more swiftly inclined to, once I hit the ground at Midway's ATA terminal at 5:59, head home only to charge the ipod and pick up my road atlas, and pilgrimage slow to Hot Coffee, Mississippi and look at shade trees. The purpose in no-purpose has a narcotic romance, always.
I do not know where you are, but just might be there soon.Posted by Jessica at January 17, 2005 01:19 PM | TrackBack