December 19, 2005

Slouching Towards California

Air travel, which once was dreamed of by humans confined to land, which was a fantasy of the future - clean lines, perfect compact berths, the powerful whirring of jets, which has revolutionized the way we live and work, is only a dreaded inevitability of travel. The long lines, the crowds, the security checks, the exhaustion of toting bags across terminals and concourses, (bags full of things I need, such as: running shoes, socks, running pants, jog-bra, two pairs of slacks, a pair of pyjama bottoms, three tank-tops, a pair of dance pants, two long-sleeved sweatshirts, one button-down shirt, a paper application to an Ivy League College, two t-shirts, a small bag of toiletries, eye-brow pencils, one tube of lipstick, tweezers, hairbrush, wallet and check-book, journal, two books (one on writing, one about Hemingway), a pen which seems to be running out of ink, a laptop, ipod and digital camera with attendant cables, batteries and cords), the irksome task of choosing a seat next to the least annoying looking individual, being told for the thousandth time how to put on a seatbelt, where the oxygen masks are, how to debark in an emergency landing, and that cocktails can be purchased for $4 (which I’m seriously considering, though the thought of ordering the cheap white wine makes me feel cheaper yet). Finally there is the girl in front of me who insists on kicking her seat for entertainment which resonates to the cheap fold-out table I’m attempting to write on. There is the old woman across the aisle who, while reading The National Enquirer keeps glancing over, her curiosity about my computer unsatisfied, the baby that wakes periodically behind me to scream, and of course the tension building in my trapezius caused by the odd curvature of these seats, which requires that I sit in a geriatric curve - an instrument of the facist regime, designed to make me old before my time, sapping me of my youthful energy, my upright posture, imbuing me with abdominal weakness, incontinence and the slouch of the oppressed.

I’m returning to California for two and a half weeks with three intentions:
1) to get some things from storage that I expect will make life in Chicago easier, such as coats, boots, wool pants, a few books I’ve missed, a pair of ice-skates, long-underwear.
2) to stay with a few close friends, to visit the more distant friends and to see family members.
3) to be reminded of why I left, and to experience renewed joy at the prospect of continuing my winter in Chicago.

California… where I spent 19 years, and where I really wish to no longer live… because I was so spoiled. Because in spite of the bustling arts community around me, I never managed to fit in, to make a name for myself, never managed to accomplish more than a job at the local coop, a nice apartment, a laundry-list of lovers and friends, a few half-completed projects, but nothing of particular note. Nothing which warrants mention in a journal other than my own. California, which makes life so easy- one networks on Craigslist, rides a bicycle without gloves, or in my case IN platform sandals, wears a thin shirt and light coat on the darkest night of the year. One wanders down the street to one’s favorite bar, the Italian deli around the corner, the shi-shi vietnamese restaurant at the other end of the neighborhood, the yoga studio. Even the olympic sized ice-rink (which is largely unappreciated by the average Californian) is just a 19 minute bike-ride down-town, or a few stops away on the BART. Why did I leave this idyllic life-style? To have cheap rent while I write. Because in California, even though there is more sun, there is less time in the day when one is chasing an exorbitant rent - the cost incurred for all these conveniences.

I alternate between anticipation and dread as I hurdle towards my former home. Anticipation because I’ll be seeing old friends, experiencing a slightly less frozen environment and getting to dance at my old lindy-hop haunts. Dread because after being away for six months, I’ll be obliged to report on my summer journey- like an eighth grader on the first day of school. I will have to recite my essay, “What I did on my Summer Vacation.” Can’t I just wave them to my blog and say, “Read up and get back to me. Meanwhile let’s just dance in peace.” No- I can’t, because I haven’t brought myself to fully report in writing what the hell I did this summer. My hibernating self does not wish to come out quite yet, but I suppose its inevitable. And perhaps it will make my return to Chicago all that much better… to be alone and in peace once again.