On The Road

Goddamn.

So I just got back from a road trip halfway across the country in service of that little side-hustle called Art. Me and Trudie and The Cowboy had a gig at a contemporary art museum down south, so we took a couple of days to drive down, hung out in Athens for a couple of days, then curved up to our week-long residency before booking it back to Rust City in a straight 17-hour shot. With the three of us plus the whole show packed inside Sugar Magnolia, we were on the road for a while there.

When we crammed ourselves back in for the return trip, I realized I wanted to stay on the road.

I can't lie: it was a little rough going for a while, especially at the beginning. I mean, it was practically the first time in the last two months that I had been out of bed, let alone out of the house, for something other than work, and now I'm going on the road for almost two weeks? With other people? It was a little much to handle, especially since I was paranoid about Trudie and The Cowboy experiencing the full-on reality of my freakery since Mr. Badger passed away. All the random crying. The heart attack-y panic that rages with the slightest provocation. The difficulty looking people in the eye. I was self-conscious about how I don't fill out my jeans anymore, or my bra, and how if I move my hand too quickly, the Claddagh ring that I wear everyday will fly off because it's too big now.

Not that either of them would have noticed any of the stuff about my clothes, but it was still there for me. I mean, there ain' nothin' so sorry as a girl putting on her magical undies only to find that they kind of hang on her. It doesn't have to be rational to worry about it.

And I was...difficult. I was irritable and bossy and unpleasant sometimes. I got nervous and jumpy. And even when we were all sleeping in the same hotel room, which usually makes me feel as safe and comforted as a pile of fluffy puppies, I couldn't sleep without drugs...which, in turn, made me paranoid about the Chemical Snore I get with my doctor's prescription. It was a lot. Just a lot. It's one thing to have to try to manage your own upswelling of unpredictable freakery, but it's a whole other animal to try to swallow that sideshow back down in order to hide it from other people.

(P.S. It doesn't really work, anyways.)

But over all, you know...it was perfect. I was not perfect, but it was perfect. It's something about being on the road, you know? Being in the car. Being in between here and there, not really being anywhere because you're travelling too fast to register in any one place...it's liberating. It must have something to do with the physics of the car or something--it's like you have to let go because the wind resistance blows away anything you're holding on to.

Then the car is just this free space. You can sing along to the radio as much as you want, and it's not a big deal because that's what you do in the car.. You can try to harmonize, and if it doesn't work out, it's okay. You can admit that you unabashedly love the sincerity of Carole King's "So Far Away", and no one's going to give you any stick for it. And more than that--it's the only place I've found so far that allows for the integration of your human and SuperHuman identities. It's okay for your mild-mannered alter-ego to get a little shaky after getting stuck between semis in the rain because who wouldn't? But that doesn't keep your true SuperHero self from, say, putting 'em on the glass in every state you pass. And that's not a problem. Because you can be anything you want to be in the car. Or more specifically, you can be anything that you are in the car.

When you're in the car, it doesn't really matter that you don't have an anchor in your life. It doesn't really matter that you don't have a home. It doesn't matter that you cannot guarantee that the people you love will be in your life forever because what matters is the song on the radio and checking out this new town and making sure you don't run out of gas. And hey, your people are here right now.

And after a little bit of time on the road, I found myself relaxing. For the first time in a long time, I felt like I could breathe. There were these stretches of time where I remember thinking to myself, "Okay, it's going to be okay. If you let go for a little while, some one else will take the wheel." And even more amazing, there were these stretches of time where I didn't think about it being okay at all--it just was. We talked and laughed...we laughed a lot, which shouldn't have been surprising, but it was. During the first big laughing fit in the car, I remember hearing my own voice in there and thinking, "Hey, I remember that sound. I remember this feeling." And it was familiar and strange at the same time.

And there was tons of work and stress getting the show up while keeping up with my duties back in Rust City, but there was such company and play and physical contact through the whole thing that I almost felt like myself again. Almost. I mean, I still had some brilliant moments of weirdness and panic, but I felt so connected during the whole trip--to Trudie, to The Cowboy--after feeling so isolated for so long, like a single pink balloon stuck up in a tree, far too high for anyone to reach. It was so nice to feel connection again. I was starting to think it would never happen. And when it did, I think there was a part of me hoping we'd just stay like that forever.

On the way back, though...goddamn. The closer we got to Rust City, the more the overwhelming fear started to creep back into my system. I started to see time unfold in front of me--you know, when you start to see the expiration date on the people in your life, and knowing that that expiration date isn't your choice. Knowing that people aren't going to stay in your life forever, no matter how much they say so, and knowing that that impermanence isn't going to be your choice, either. It turned from a creeping fear to a punch in the gut as soon as Trudie and I passed the city limits for Rust City, and I berated myself for thinking I could just run away for a while and come home to find my troubles gone.

The Cowboy says that I wasn't actually running away and that it's probably just the Post-Trip Blues that I'm experiencing. And I really, really want him to be right. And he might be. I mean, from the Midwest to the West, we do hold this cultural belief that cowboys are so naturally taciturn that when they finally do speak, you best listen because they're going to hand you some wisdom. He says that some healing happened on the road, which is funny to me only because I had never considered it. "Healing" isn't really in my vocabulary, so I can't really tell when it is happening. In any case, I'd like to defer to his judgement on this one.

Now I'm back at the Gingerbread Cottage, alone, in my little magical cabin under the largest pine tree in Rust City, and three Strongbows into the wee hours of the morning, I wonder what happens now. While I was at work during her last day in town, Trudie made a huge pot of beans and rice so there would be something in the house for me to eat. She bought bread and brown eggs and snow peas and Strongbow and Wild Turkey so that she'd know I'd be able to eat for several days. She left gnocchi and egg rolls in my freezer. She cleaned my kitchen when I wasn't looking and washed the Mid-November Grief Dishes. She left me secret candy and secret video messages on my camera for me to find. She was setting me up to be on my own again.

And now I am, and I wonder what will happen. Am I going to return to my isolation? The abandoned pink balloon, too high for anyone to rescue? Or can I somehow hold on to the connection that happened on the road, despite the absence of physical presence?

There has to be a way.

There has to be a way.