Vintage: Back in the States (January 2009)

Dulles in late December was like the first day waking up after a long illness. My head was just coming back to earth after my sinuses teetered on the brink of seeming implosion during the six hour transatlantic flight. American flags in the sunset were familiar and foreign, like childhood memories of places and smells I don't remember remembering.

Three days on the edge of Amish country with my best friend from 6th grade, at least four lifetimes ago. Anathello sounds and Mrs. Goebbels murdering her children. The world is falling apart with such pained beauty. But not here, there is redemption; Wal-Mart has a buggy barn.

The Philly airport security line is a security nightmare. Huge glass window overlooked by the parking garage, lines stretched along the length of it. Someone should change that. Monotone cheery voices explaining how you could make a shoe-sole out of plastic explosives. I spent New Year's in a hotel run by Indian college students in Sacramento by myself. I woke up at 4am and skyped, showered, returned to the airport and headed south, where San Diego seemed out of context. Point Loma's beautiful scope and scape, I was trying to capture the sound of the waves in caverns, the spray as it flew into the air. Dutch Blitz with Megan and family. Pelicans, massive Sea Lions, bottle-nosed windsock modern art dolphins. I was trying to capture the pulse of change, the person in the mirror and my family. My mother saw the first whale spout and told me I should move on and settle down. This seems impossible. Later, wearing paths in the grass in Live Oak Park like old friends falling apart with collected voices and broken hearts. A hug for closure at the harbor. 

Yosemite was an echo of Prague cathedrals, tourism and tangible space, sacred juxtaposed with the flash of digital cameras and foreign languages. Half dome helped pine columns hold up a quiet blue sky fading to veils of mist and twilight. I could see God there but I couldn't hear him. Hushed pines and snow, potraits through ice, and quiet water falls.

Skipping stones on the Bear with Liz. The gang told 12-year old Dania they were gonna take her out of that Guatamala home dead or alive. She fell asleep on my sister's shoulder, still holding her hand, Christmas eve facing who knows what future. Liz said she would've stayed there if she didn't have us back here. Stayed in community, in a place where two languages would be needed to be understood. I understood that. Dropping stepping stones across the river in front of us. Futures are changing. Everything will change. My brother says he's staying here. Black bean soup and crazy music, August Rush, and at 2am lights out my dad's in the living room singing silence. I try to join him on guitar but he's in a different key, and then we sing songs that no one here in Norcal remembers, because they weren't there in the youth group in Pensacola. My mom asks for Overwhelmed. Yeah, that's about right. We're still waiting on foreclosure.

Jen in Pensacola wanted that song too. Mikey and I stayed up studying Hebrews and I was at home for the fourth time since last semester, with another one of my families, this one debt-free. I forgot that he speaks my family's language. "And you know what else, I've never liked your spinach puffs!" Bedtime conversations on the politics of Med School and marriage. This is still home but everyone has changed, perhaps me most of all. High school faces out of context, people I recognize but didn't talk to then and don't talk to now in other lives, other worlds. JK in the living room, Carnival of the Animals on youtube and some banjo. 12 miles on rollerblades, fried green tomatoes, Vietnamese Salty Plum drink, and finally a Starbucks on the third try. Two long walks with brothers, Old Catholic and "I'm not really sure but I'm open." Broken and damaged people still live. We're all broken. Mom with a husband in prison for a second time, pressing charges. Or chopped blond hair and a divorce at 21. And yet we are still so much more. Jacob with his bum hip and bag of tricks. And God's still leading Him. 21 years working for a manipulative uncle and a skull of stone. I complete my ensayo on La memoria, la identidad, y la metaficción for Spanish Historical Memory at Aberdeen in the Atlanta airport on five hours sleep. Last bit of work for the term. Closure.

I started this trip by missing an Amtrak in DC and they put me on a bus instead. Fitting that I should be 10 minutes late in Fort Worth, so I can see another friend. Public trans, rice and weenies, and the Dallas Greyhound station til 5am. This is the only place homeless people have asked me for food instead of money. Man trying to get back to New Orleans to find some closure I reckon. Worldviews, philosophies, hurt. Soldier on his way to see an old friend and escape the memories. Kissed a young Mexican girl he'd never seen before: "Not sure why I did that." "I can't let this go."

It was halfway through my first class when I arrived in Norman. Lady from the Pink Elephant picked me up from the bus stop and gave me a ride to campus. "Wonder if the inauguration's still going on." She pops on the radio and "I, Barack Obama, do solemnly swear..." I put on my headphones and sit on the south oval and wait, the First Single "you know me." 

The next day I accidently got a job instead of my room keys. Walked into the wrong office. Cool beans. Broke Nathan's bike pedal with a backpack full of beans. Classes. German, Russian, English. Seguiendo Ché through South America at Audrey's. I feel alienated and yet so excited, so at home, especially at my church, the Stone. Friday night my life is compartmentalized into three minute pizza timer intervals punctuated by thoughtful walks in the cold and my customer service voice on the phone. Mops. Skype talks, emotions, and attempts at closure. Reopening old friendships, dropping and adding classes. Pained silence.

Ice storm interrupted transition. Sliding snow frisbee. Dutch Blitz in Herrick. Am I gonna graduate? The world is falling apart, but not here. Economic hitmen and white terrorism make sure that happens elsewhere, like Panama. The train rolling down from OKC spewed a haze of snow into the air as Hoppípola played, and I swayed to New Soul as my hands froze. Finally caught up on Lost. Cain's salsa como deja vu and talks with my roomie. 330am I'm looking at teaching English in Russia. How far is St. Petersburg from St. Ericksplan? Plans. Kelsey's talking about modern day slavery and law degrees. I'm talking about modern day slavery and justice with a friend in India. Skyping 'bout families and injuries and honours degrees with my friends from Germany. I received an e-mail from my Irish professor that was tagged with Glen Hansard. But the associations there are too stretched to explain. "Take this sinking boat and point it home, we've still got time."

"Take this sinking boat and point it home." I got about twelve skips on one stone, and I told Liz that I was gonna quit while I was ahead. I've dropped my heart into so many people, so many places, but I can't seem to drop a dream or a class. Bored and busy. I looked both ways when I crossed the street, first the British way, then the American way. All this was subconscious. But she changed my mind. I threw another stone in the stream. I'm still confused, don't know where I'm going. Home? Yeah God, wherever you lead.