Randomness

I love to travel. Actually, travel is the only thing that I know I love. I might even go so far as to say that it’s the only thing I know. I’ve traveled all over North America in the past year or so. What have I seen? I have seen the ice and blue of the Alberta Rockies; the endless, unfriendly corn of Iowa, the godless towers in New York; the soulless expanse of the nation’s hostile, sneering capital. I have seen the devastation of poverty, legacy of the genocide of the American west, and the urban poverty I have scanned from the elevated train; I have seen the glory of millions of lighting fireflies rising from a sterile plot; I have been lonely in Toronto and angry in Calgary. I also had a breakdown in NYC, assuaged with a long nap in Washington Square Park. Aimless and nervous wandering ensued, followed by a terrible and expensive meal and overpriced Greenwich bars. I called a friend while waiting for a subway. I was a great comfort to hear a voice knowing, a voice directed at me, after the burdensome crush of city banter. I was disappointed in myself; I felt that I did myself in, in that great city. I didn’t buy their drugs in Harlem. Did you know, I drove through Times Square? It’s an empty city for a lonely soul…

Write about what you know. I know the subway in Harlem, at three o’clock Sunday morning. I know the stars and the Northern lights on a chilly July night in Blackfeet country, and the luminescence of a waterfall just after dusk; what do I know? I know the brilliance of a thousand magical fireflies alighting for the corn. I do know strange taste of the glacier and the icy milk flowing from within. I know the hangover, the hike (only 8km?) the exhaustion, exhilaration, relief, wonder/bewilderment disbelief that I had carried myself through life, to this literal point before miles of rock and ice, a desert in BC. And I remember that I still want to share that with someone I love. Know my dad, slogging through the marsh, marveling at my marvel, showing me the wilderness. I know that still, simmering buzz of the pond enforested at dusk. I know how I feel when I’m in the Wichita Mountains, and the bison roam in the December mist, the red grass knee-high. I know the beargrass, and I know when the northern lights are about to burst above the mountains in a display of white pulsation. I know the spray from the blast, after climbing the goat trail, the eaten carcass, the scramble, the perfect rocks.

Chicago is hot today, and the Loop is humid. I’m walking up State Street, toward the river, I pass Sears. Cross the street, it’s 4.30, the commuters are showing themselves, thousands, in smart suits and well-coordinated pantsuits, everyone, with caps or ascots, wingtips or hightops, engaging in idle chatter on their silver mobile phones. Always the homeless, selling Red Eye or the other one by the Trib. The station, it’s the underground part of the red line, it has that grey neutralized smell that nonetheless manages to be quite pungent. Down the stair, to the right, to the Howard platform. Young businessman, cheap suit, looks awkward; casually dressed man with a suitcase; woman in stylish garb. Impatient man looks down the track; it’s at the next station. The air, first sucking back, then surging forward, the doors open, and it smells like air conditioned air always smells. The seats are brown, the color of weak coffee the train is not nearly as crowded as I anticipated, and the seats facing forward on the left. What’s the next stop? No importance, I’m reading the Red Eye; it’ll be a while. Moving always slower than I hope but the car never gets too crowded despite the time. Always the same voice: “This is Granville…Doors closing. This is a red line train to Howard. The next stop is Loyola.” God, he has it turned up loud; it’s practically yelling at us. Most of the wealthier looking people get off at Belmont for the Brown line. The car gets lower in economic status as we get closer, and less white. I’m finished with the paper, if you can call it that. Tabloid, quick summation of a bit of events that may have happened somewhere. The sky looks welcoming; it has a pleasant reality to it: an urban sky, less blue. I can see everyone’s back porch, but never do I see anyone sitting out there, though there are chairs and there’s sufficient room. The seat, after 45 minutes, cramps, and I’m relieved when that slightly cheerful voice proclaims the imminent arrival of Morse. Desembarcking is quick; I practically run down the stairs, which are damp but don’t smell of urine right now. The trees are still, people are about, many looking harried, and the Purple line blows by. Still, the sidewalks are clean, there are a few people already at the café. I push open the gate and the courtyard is still damp; slightly earthy, because someone has been watering. I buzz before I open the door myself, just to let them know, and ascend the couple of flights, seeing no one, as usual. It’s a relatively new door, about the age of the carpet, and not totally befitting a structure that surely once had more character. “Hi Bryan, how was work…..

I know the el. I know the thrill, electric, of the sand dunes after dark. I know the hangover can be cured with the Flaming Lips, the friend, and the drive back to Montana. Down and out, downright lonely in Toronto, I defeated myself with anxiety. I know the sound of the silence, of the rocks above Swiftcurrent, at Gunsight Pass, in Yoho, near Anadarko. I know the surreal sensation of the pink sun, orange sky as the forest burns nearby; the air rich with acrid smell; the razor fibers of the corn plant, the bloody hands after a day of work; how still, autumnally-crisp and graceful Santa Fe can be at sunset, surrounded by the Sangre de Cristo.

I know that I can look at my photographs, and suddenly I remember what I know. I know that feeling is a great relief. I also know I don’t like to stand still. I know what happens when life can come back.

I know I’ll never have that bumpersticker, “Not all those that wander are lost,” and I want to become comfortable with being lost, because what I don’t know is how else to be.


Finally, to myself, I admit: I know something.

(And I hate Times New Roman font, I know that for damn sure.)