It is important to bond with family. It is said that when you die, the entire family, all creatures before you, greet you in the Purgatorial state of the unknown.
I would to like to see all of my ancestors reincarnated, on the other hand. I would like to cherish my familial history as pets. A little caravan of dog-aunts and parrot-uncles, good-for-nothings, marching behind me, a smiling menagerie. I would like that.
I write this because I have time to think on 17 hour train-rides from the District of Colombia to Chicago. I have much time.
Leaving Philly was easier done that said. Grandma would have been angry if I didn’t make eye contact with her and yell my goodbyes and Aunt could not Stand (right?) my contentions, but she waved me off lovingly, just the same.
We had seats this time. We have many seats. We have a whole train to ourselves when we get to Chicago, Alas, that is tomorrow.
It’s odd that through years of mutual verbal abuse, my dad and I have hardly quarreled during our trip. I can’t call it maturity or growth, though it most definitely is, because I have a pride and a narcissism that doesn’t trust silence more than I can throw it.
Who is this imposter that can have civil conversation? My friends will be surprised and saddened, lest I fall into old habits.
And of course, I will.
In the dining booth we ate with a Boston-grown, tough-as-nails truck driver with silly, flippant mannerisms and his geeky French traveler that was severely misinformed about American landmarks (“You’re from Oregon? He’s going that way to see Mount Rushmore.”). The two just met.
My dad somehow mustered over an hour of truck-driving knowledge with the Bostonian. It was impressive. I was stuck out of the conversation because "the young folk" don't know much. My dad patted me on the back and used my ignorance as an example. I stamped my feet, cried about how much of an adult I was, and realized my place.
I tried to make conversation with the tall Frenchman but I relapsed into Spanish several times. He laughed, Frenchie, but our exchange suffered. And I want to be a diplomat with these chops?
Better line up for fast food work, Joel.
The lights went out in the Midwest. I’m passing major attractions, but I can’t tell.
Oh, right. I’m writing in the present tense now. I forgot to clarify that. No mistake. I’m in the present right now.
Instead of wandering amazed in Sandusky Ohio’s amusement parks, I can see metal rods from afar between pages of Salman Rushdie’s The Satanic Verses.
It’s getting late, wherever I am. I wasn’t sure if time flew in the Midwest.
1 comment:
In a way, this is similar to a patient who hated art. I told him "you don't have to worry about it", because in the middle of it all, you could see the situation running the same way that a downward spiral would. It makes you yearn for coffee which makes you both happy and excited. How many of you would prefer that to tea? I think it's just like when the middle of all this information, there's hidden meaning. You don't have to be an engineer to see that you need data- on the quality of our lives. I'll give you a couple of things to ponder regarding this choice to say something. And then all of a sudden, it reveals itself that happiness is a continuous journey. (Applause.) Thank you very much. We truly have a choice to celebrate. You don't have to be superoutrageous while doing it. You can't just get your brain to always think straight. I'll give you an illustration of this: In the middle of the world lies all the knowledge and wisdom we need.
Post a Comment