Put on my Riot Gear

Heaven help the ones who know
What makes the world, go slow

I prepare for the arrival of a dear, dear friend, whom I have not seen since I, weak and pallid from a weekend of stomach flu last winter, leaned against my kitchen door and wished her a good escape to the ends of the Earth. By the time she returned from her exodus, I had embarked on mine, and while we never saw each other, many electronic hours were filled with words of separation, of how ungratifying it is to run away, and yet how impossible to resist.

Yesterday, as she tried to pack amid the recent rubble of her life, she said There is no geographical solution, and I shuddered to think she was right.

Because today, as I try to clean my room, that there may actually be space for another person to fit in my tiny Manhattan existance, I fondly remember my last move from Sweden, of throwing out years and years of stuff and of how clear my mind became, how light my heart. I longed, shortly, for another move, to be able to get rid of so much buildup, just six months in the making, to be able to start fresh.

Dark days, I dream of packing up and moving on. I think of organic farms in Australia that need somebody to come pick their macadamia nuts. I think of sunshine and oceans and owning no more than fits in a suitcase. I remember fondly last summer's excursion to Andalucia and living in tents with an outdoor kitchen and a shower that hung from the nearest oak tree, and of how wonderful my heart felt in this skin. I dream of selling all that I own (which is not much, I realize) and simply taking off, into the American night, and seeing whatever dawn greets me on the other end. On those days, even Manhattan doesn't have a firm grasp on me, cannot draw me in and hold me back properly. On those days, I see deep into my own soul, and I am entirely alone.

There is no geographical solution. It doesn't keep me from looking, for the answer.