Work in Progress

(This is the opening, and is as far as I've gotten, on a new non-fiction piece. It's still untitled)

Last year, I surprised Friend Two when I sent him an email that said something to the effect of “Let’s drive to Crawford, Texas and spend a few days at the protest.” He responded first laughingly, then with confusion, and then incredulity. Over the course of several days I tried, lamely, to explain why I wanted to drive for 36 hours, sit in the baking sun of Texas at a protest that was about to close shop anyway, and then drive 36 hours home.

I could tell that he thought I had been suddenly moved by Cindy Sheehan’s story and her protest, the way much of left-America had. In truth, she had only given me a place to go, made it specific. In my mind, I saw Crawford, though I knew better, as the archetypal Texas small-town, layered in a fine patina of dust, and littered with bars filled by all those men who have made an existence out of waiting—waiting for a season of soft-puddled rain, a cool winter, a football team that makes it to State.

Friend Two didn't understand that what I wanted was a place to go, to travel to. Someplace that was not here, where I had to face the wreck of my marriage, a life I had not truly wanted, but had clung to all the same.

And beyond that, what I wanted was to see the transformation of land and place before my eyes, to see the highways of Oregon, flanked with fir and pine, quilted with grass, melt into the low-hilled arteries running through California, then into the painted Arizona desert. I wanted to watch the way that, when you drive, land seems to unfold before you, as though solely at your command, like fabric unrolling from a spool.

This is what I imagined would happen on our trip to Whidbey Island, and in a way, it did. The kids and I drove five hours to the island. We stopped at little towns in Washington, ate hamburgers at diners, played in unfamiliar parks. The landscape between Oregon and Washington is so similar that it takes a careful eye to notice the differences. In Washington, the hills are softer, thicker with grass, and they rise more gently than in Oregon. Along the freeways, there are signs for the ferries that carry you across the bays and sounds, to the islands that dot the west side of the state. In Washington, the road unfurls against the terrain almost tenderly, like the way Highway 20 kisses the shore of Penn Cove on Whidbey.

I told myself I didn’t want to go on vacation without Jon, but had to because everything was set: reservations made and paid for, the kids excited, bags literally packed. This was only partially true. I also wanted to go, wanted to get in the car and drive, windows down, hair tangled from wind and sweat, forearms burning, because I thought that this would save me. I thought that the difference between home and Whidbey, home and foreign, would buoy me from the break-up. Part of me believes, has always believed, in the act of traveling, of moving from one landscape to another. Not just in escape, but in escape as an act of transformation.

When I was 17, I dreamt of driving to Boston. I imagined how the lushness of California would give way to the plain-gold austerity of the Midwest, then to the greyed cities of the East, then finally to Boston. I imagined walking in crowds downtown, absorbing the city. What a relief to be hemmed in by red brick and brown stone and concrete. What a relief to be swallowed by the city. In the low, dirt hills of California, my father would be dying. But in Boston I would let myself be lulled by the bitter winter, charmed by the unfamiliar lift of tongue, the consonants subtracted from words. I would be comforted by the foreign.

I never drove to Boston—only got as far as San Francisco. Which was, as it turned out, foreign enough.

*tm

Comments

[Friend One]

Excellent. I've email comments.

[Friend Omega]

pretty.

i've made a habit not only of traveling - of clinging desperately to the desire to be anywhere but wherever i happen to be at the time - but have uprooted my life again and again, moving across the country, often on little more than a whim.

new york. ohio. texas. michigan. london. california. new hampshire. they say that "moving" is one of the most emotionally traumatic things a human being can go through, but for me, it's always been staying still that's been trying.

[Terrible Mother]

I feel similar in some ways, Omega. There is a comfort in moving sometimes. I think this is a big part of why I want to do the insane road trip with the kids.

thank you for your emailed comments, Friend One. They are very helpful.

[Friend Omega]

when this silliness came about regarding odessa, texas, my roommates sat me down. "why do you want to go to odessa, texas?"

"because it's there. the offer's there."

"is it what you want to do?"

"it's moving. it's going somewhere. it's a direction."

"is it the right direction?"

i'd only rarely, in the past, stopped to consider whether a direction was right or wrong. motion felt good. getting somewhere was better than getting nowhere. and it made for better stories. few people are as well-versed as i on alpena, michigan; butte, montana; clinton, iowa; manhattan; dayton, ohio; and north conway, new hampshire.

but i also long to have roots. i do have an end destination... it's just that i hate being anywhere else but there for an extended period of time. it feels like wasted time; like wasted energy. i'd rather be on the move.

because when my professional life is stagnant, sometimes i like to pretend that geography is a worthy substitute. can't get locked down anywhere if you're constantly on the go.