There are days when I would rather sit in the house. Paradise is my real life, an enigmatic expression of the everyday: clothes washing, grocery shopping, running on the treadmill . . . like you, I live real life - set before the backdrop of Es Trenc. My goodness Watson, I thought looking over at the clock, it's 3 am in Phoenix and your mother is sleeping! I typed a quick email and signed it less than 3, colon parenthesis, S.E.C. I was tired and all these weird multi-dimensional things start slowing appearing in my thoughts while I watched the reflection of my typing hands on the computer screen. I went back to center and saw that my so-called fierce independence was in fact only a prognosis of what others could not see. I sat alone on the 3rd floor looking over the tree-tops that shaded the living room, and you begin to wonder, what does this have to do with any of my travels. Well, my notepad was there next to me on the study desk and I, against the nature of my own wills, saw a familiar picture on some social networking site as Kurt Vonnegurt started resonanting in my head. I had planned to visit England in a month and Budapest strictly thereafter. Before I confirmed the payment I saw my eyes in the refelcting screen, much like the translucence of a wishing well. I saw his picture and my eyes, my nose, and my cheekbones: I saw my father.
I used to look in the mirror quietly and deliberately, understanding myself more with each study. Looking there at the computer screen, I smiled and two dimples surfaced then poked through those cheeks that concealed the white of my eyes. Everything about me was my father.
I had two more minutes to confirm.
It was a thrill, to chart some un-navigated travels and TS Eliot would be making notes on things along the way, picking up sense. I had began to save for the glory trip in December: the Trans-Siberian pass. But, in the dim of my own eyes I saw something more beautiful than the Mongolian landscape and I knew where the journey would find me.
As somber as the mood could have been as breeze that had now turned cold sifted its way through the window I smiled knowing what to do. As I walked over the Earth I had found everything I needed to be fearfully and wonderfully myself. Budapest and London would wait because the aforementioned was good and sufficient.
I backed a page and entered in my destination which would end, where it began, and rise up again to begin once more. this I confirmed.
There was a place more lasting than stone. It is in my heart and it is in Virginia, it is home and the place of amazing zeugma. I had forgone the rest of the universe for a small and insignificant 50 acres. I imagined holding my ambitions and passions and goodness up over the edge of one of the Tramuntana peaks and letting go of any idols and releasing the things that had once entrapped my own soul.
It was time—a legacy of weltschmerz as old as humanity had slowly peeled away and I, myself, was free.
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