post one (pre-travelogue).

February 4h. 8:15 a.m. Departure….

Glorious, excited, terrified departure.

I spent so much time plotting and dreaming and twisting the idea of a magical escape over in my mind that now that it’s on the doorstep I somehow feel… fearful. But that seems about right. The thing with realizing that you’re not living the life your supposed to and feeling compelled (in the deepest sense) to change it, is that there’s hardly time to absorb the change as it’s happening. And then one morning you wake up, and all the biggest steps have been taken and all that’s left is the leap… and you wonder how you actually managed to execute the plan. How you got… here.

I’m sure I came here by way of a dozen beginnings. A foot in front of the other... and blisters for ages. I came here on the venom of dissatisfaction, the sweetness of happiness found, a sadness levied, a broken heart for ones lost, the sear of so many goodbyes, appertaining tears, disappointment, chance encounters in underground malls, and of course, belief.

(But not in that order.)

To be true to the feeling, I came here by way of a dozen ends. The sensation of dismantling a life built. One by one the books went, and the CD’s, furniture. Then the appliances, the coffee maker, popcorn popper, and then the plants- all to perfect homes in hopes of being perfectly returned one day…off in the unknown future.

Last it was that beloved apartment.

Oh, that sweet corner apartment with the beautiful arches and the windows that allowed for a cross-breeze in every room and the sunken tub with the chipped porcelain and the windowsill that was a dream for soaps of all kinds and the rooftop deck with its lush couches and so much red wine and the musical boiler room and all those artists, everywhere…

(Swoon. Sigh.) Gone.

I’ve had dreams since the great dismantling where I am running through wheat fields and that apartment is chasing me, in all it’s concrete arched majesty. I’m running and it’s trying to swallow me. Whole. So it turns out that I am glad to be rid of it, which surprises me more than anyone. The objects that anchor always end up being the most frightening.

So now I’m nomad. Unburdened by a job that was killing me in the slowest way, free of all the anchors, untethered. I might be too old to be a nomad (if nomadic behavior has an age-limit) but this seems to be exactly what I’m supposed to be right now… someone who’s plotting a new course.

So....

February 4h. 8:15 a.m. Departure…. Destination: South America.