An essay about traveling, and death, and Pete Seeger . For Carol. =========== The Drifter =========== When my work is done, I will become a drifter. Apparently, there’s no better place to do it than in Jefferson City, Missouri . Jefferson City is as close to lifeless as a city can be. You can probably see dust on the sidewalks if you look closely enough. I’ve been there exactly twice, and both times, I was only passing through. It has an Amtrak station that runs to Chicago, its only valuable asset aside from the state capital. It’s sort of a sorry little station, painted with the essence of Charlie Brown’s wooden Christmas tree that wilts as soon as he places a red ornament on its body. One woman calls for tickets in that raspy voice that exists everywhere else where there are old people that hate their jobs. The wrinkled, peeling green paint is layered over itself so thick it cracks and mushes underfoot, two wicker chairs adorn the decrepit porch area outside of the ticket booth, a...
New paint, new furniture, new decorations. But nothing changes a space more than time away from it after years of its monotony. I returned to my parents house this week. Less than three months of college have gone by, and yet nothing is the same. Everything is where I left it, my clothes in my drawers, my belongings and trinkets on my desk or in my bedside table or in boxes on the floor. But I've changed. It's all smaller now. Every year we make pizzelles. Big waffle cookies with a hint of licorice. They're smaller this year. Tiny to how I remember them. The counters are low, the ceilings and walls claustrophobic. I never fit on my twin size mattress anyway, but now it shows. I feel it. Months ago, everything used to feel bigger at night. I'd cower under the safety of the sheets, pulling away as I surveilled the shadows in the corner, scanning my mind for scraps of courage I could bind together into enough guts to tiptoe across the hallway. The open door immediately to ...
Where are all the time travelers? Chances are you’ve seen or spoken to one at least once. They might even have told you. I know one well, actually. He doesn’t travel to watch the titanic sink, or see dinosaurs, or get to know his great great great great great grandmother when she was his age. He frequents libraries, roller rinks, places where time doesn’t pass. Places that haven’t changed in decades and won’t change for a few more. He doesn’t like being outside during the day, where you can watch the sun rise and set like a gargantuan hour hand reminding him of his felony. Chrononauts are fugitives, and Change isn’t a person you can run from. So they hide. Hide and hold their breath and hope that Change doesn’t reach between the couch cushions. The freshest air is warm July nights of new moons and the same seven pop hits on the radio. In, out, he breathes, repeating to himself that he feels alive. It’s a necessary lie. He knows who’s looking under tables and opening closets ready ...
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