The most surprising thing about what I miss most on this road trip is how little I miss. There is longing, condensing from my every pore, but that is not site-specific. What do I miss about having a home? What do I miss about doing art? What do I miss about friends and our running rituals? And what part of any of that don't I have? Couldn't I very well live out of this car and camp and scrimp money together and sponge off friends? Haven't I done art with others and alone on this trip? And I am often enough surrounded by loved ones, punctuated by periods in the great secular churches of America, the National Parks, where I dip my head in the waters and feel comforted and small.
It’s hard to know exactly what to write from the road. Just like it’s hard to know exactly how to be on the road. There is no one to buoy your moods, your talking, your whims and obsessions. You are out in the wilderness with the birds and the pronghorns, and yet you have everything at your fingertips. When I am upset by a thought. I have to live with that thought. There are 50 miles that will be made up mostly by untoward jealousy. And then 30 miles of hunger. And then a grab bag of happy/sad/anxious/havetopee/distracted/tired/inspired for a solid, schizophrenic 10. Let’s just say all the years of talking to myself have finally paid off.
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