Restlessness hits me like a smoldering brick, square in the stomach. Pins & needles shoot through me like wildfire and following them, the question.
How the fuck can I get out of here faster.
Restlessness surges stronger than any other emotion. Than love, than jealousy, than anger and that trembling fear that overcomes you when you know something’s wrong but you can’t get a straight answer. It surges like seasickness on a 12 foot wave in a 20 foot sailboat. It surges like the first shot out of a brand new revolver. Like a tongue in a kiss that just gained momentum, like gravel flying out from runaway tires and that glance across a crowded room that you’ll think of every night for the rest of your life. It can’t be stopped, changed or forgotten. It can only be survived.
To do so, I find myself at 30,000 feet- somewhere over Texas. At least, that’s when i always recognize I’m in the process of another change. Leaving. It’s at least 40 minutes heading south over the state and longer going across. It’s the only part of any flight I remember: to Paris, to London, to Guatemala City, to Albuquerque. It’s when those pins and needles numb out. I’ve thought about staying, every time I lay over in Dallas. Marry a cowboy with a slow drawl and a simple set of values, become a ranch Queen. But how do I know the restlessness wouldn’t take hold again? Even Cowgirls Get The Blues. I catch the connector.
Sucker punch. Sharp pains running up the side of my spine. White noise. Shallow breaths. He shook me out of it for three whole years, night after night. “We can go. We can go anywhere you want to go.” But we never did. So I did.
& somewhere over Texas it all came together. I can do this whenever I want.
Granted, I have to battle myself through it too often. Responsibility weighs me down like boulders on witches in East Coast rivers. Dad’s voice. You’d be a fool to leave. The economy is in fucking crisis. Mom’s voice. You’re lucky here, you’d be stupid to throw it away.
2012 brings transition and action. So tired of sitting still. Take small steps and call them “vacation”. Two weeks in New York City. A spring break in Florida. Returning to Central America. I concoct the means. Anything is possible. One day. Setting out, broke down Firebird on the side of Route 66, outstretched thumb chaneling Kerouac, cell phone out of service, toothless truckers and dirty fingers in sacred places, prices to pay for good stories and active living. I can take my excuses with me & we’ll most likely end up in Texas whether I like it or not. Even Cowgirls Get The Blues.
