Today, I’m running away in my own town. I love days like this. I can already feel it.
I wake up and I know nobody here. I don’t think. Who I will see, what I will do, I don’t know I don’t care and it doesn’t matter. I have to hurry, I don’t want to wake up too much before I leave because I might start to think.
I throw on the first clothes I see. Pretty unremarkable outfit, black black and more black. Color may be flattering, but black is easy. Color is inside me anyway. I don’t think, I don’t see. Slide the hair tie from my hair, unravel the night’s braid. Don’t put it up, don’t even brush it. Don’t need makeup.
There isn’t anyone around in the apartment in this moment and the moment spreads joyfully. This place is empty, the rest of the world is empty. The world forgets its weather report today. Anything can happen this morning, in this beginning. Everything’s undefined, unnamed.
Water. Don’t wake up, don’t see, don’t think. Don’t make coffee, get it later. Just leave, get out, run. Hurry up. I throw everything into a bag which isn’t much today, just enough and down the dark stairs.
Slam the door behind me and pause in the warm light, in open possibility. The sun gleaming off the plants, the fence, all the windows, all the vehicles.
I’m free here, just as I would be if I were somewhere else. In Mexico. In Italy. India. I can’t bring everything with me. I have hardly any money. There’s only so much you can take, so you must make a choice. I don’t have much of anything really, anyway. What’s inside me. That’s all.
I may as well be away right now this minute. Watching out the train window, the trees float by on the vast landscape. I lower my pen and write. I am so free. One letter to a friend I’ll forget to send, one journal entry on the type of music this outstretched uninhabited lonely plain calls out to me, one letter to a lover that’s better left unsent, several notes to my teachers. I write for me. I won’t be spinning some yarn in those words about what I’m doing next. I’m not going to do. I don’t know how to do, anymore.
Then I find myself here in the crowded cafe a half-block from my house, a seven-year residence. Finally, I take a sip of my coffee. I know nobody here. Nobody sees me.
The last few hours of winter. My black tea’s getting cold but I feel so content, so happy. It’s a day off, but I was happy yesterday also on my biggest workday of the week. Work was even enjoyable, that’s a really good place to be.
I walked around the neighborhood today under the dark cloud cover. Tired, but delighted by the bluish glow in the air everywhere, by the clean smell after months of heavy rain, by the kitty that runs up to be pet by each and every passerby, nearly every day.
I find myself inside last winter’s moments. Effort interminable. I wrote but found myself trying to explain things. To begin and to end. To write from scenario to scenario, event to event. Open idea, close idea. A sense of completion.
Maybe it didn’t work out because that’s not the way I’m really thinking. Not the way I’m seeing or experiencing life either. I’ve always preferred pictures, deep inside, to story. I’m seeing moment to moment. Seeing snapshots. Seeing feelings.
“Knowing you, we’re going to start in the middle,” I was once told. Yes. It’s too hard otherwise, too much struggle. I like John Cage’s approach. Just “begin anywhere.” Anywhere is perfect. Nothing to explain, no reason that needs to be given.
I can’t say where I started. I can’t say where I’m going. I’m just here.