Leaving Los Angeles: The Road Part I
I haven’t showered in four days.
I’ve always been the sort to think in lists. “Things to tell my son”, “Best Names for My Future Dog”, “Excitable Rhymes to Remember” are some of my ongoing mental tallies. Lately though, my lists are in neglect as recently I’ve found myself speaking to myself in blog posts:
Saturday, August 15th, 2009 11:29 pm
Saw the Flaming Lips in concert. Why is it that concerts are immediately nostalgic? Why do we reminisce on the night before it’s over, looking back on the present through a haze of foggy memories and the fog machine….
Monday, August 10th, 2009 6:15 am
Dear Readers: Who are these people? I know they’ve harvested more money than I ever will. Does that mean I will never understand them? Cold hard cash stacks its bricks between us, as graffitied and beloved as the Berlin Wall…
I ache for the internet to validate my thoughts, but alas. Their limited transmission is my own electric impulses. Inadequate.
We’ve split the atom. Since Fallopia has left Los Angles, it’s Em and Vy launched off on opposite trajectories. We’ve kept low to the ground, choosing to travel on black waves of rubber and asphalt, navigating the limitless opportunities of America’s Interstate freeways. Asleep, askew, between the seats of my car, I keep dreaming about Los Angeles. I’m sure there I’ll find my lost parts, but now is the time to keep moving.
The less you shower, the harder it is to do so. It seems less appropriate to stop in a public restroom and wash your face when the rest of your body is slick with the sweat of your car seat. People might notice you. I crossed the desert. My feet and teeth are dusty. I wash my hands every chance I get, but it makes me feel worse.
What is it we learn on the road? Anyone who has tried it knows you’re supposed to be acquiring something. There’s a heavy romantic obligation of the wanderer to be emboldened or inspired, but what can we afford to take with us if we can leave nothing behind? At at the end of every day is the beginning of a longer day than the last.
I want to stop at an old friends house in an approaching city, but I’m losing track of days. Is it Thursday? Shouldn’t they have a job? Do I smell? Should I call first? I pass the exit. Just keep driving.
If I can quote a dear sweet man quoting a dead old man,
|“Still here I carry my old delicious burdens;|
|I carry them, men and women—I carry them with me wherever I go;|
|I swear it is impossible for me to get rid of them;|
|I am fill’d with them, and I will fill them in return.”|
We’ll be together again.