The desktop sleep/wake screen was a picture of Monument Valley. I looked it up on a map. I haven’t explored that part of the country. Looking at the map, I was hit with a slight urge to pack my bag and go. I zoomed out on the map. I saw Sedona. I zoomed out further… Santa Fe. I couldn’t remember the name of the town near Sante Fe where I stayed to break up my drive from Austin. I traced the route. Tucumcari. Part of old Route 66. I felt a slight pang for the road. Maybe it’s the fall weather stirring in my bones.
Aside from asking the cashier at the grocery store how his day was going, I didn’t talk to anyone today. Instead, I cleaned and read poetry and went on a few short walks. Correction – a friend called while I was on one of my walks and I talked to him. It was a short conversation – he said he won’t be coming out here in late December. He travels to SF once a quarter.
I’ve been… I’m not sure what I’ve been. I’ve been thinking about space and time. Not in the grand, cosmic, continuum sense, but my personal space and time. I’ve been protective of it – maybe hesitant to let people in. Some friends have asked about getting together – dinner or just hang out. I’ve been noncommittal. One of them told me as much.
This then, is the season’s ache. To be a part of something, to be connected to others, and also to be out on the open road in the middle of the night with the car heater on and the windows down. Or to be holed up with a moody playlist, dim light, and rich red wine. It was icy when I drove from Tucumcari to Santa Fe. Late October. The road into Sedona was dark and curved like a sidewinder – mostly downhill. I hit the breaks often. Too dark to see, I felt like I could become the victim of gravity and poor eyesight yet somehow in charge of my own fate on those nights – never sure what was beyond the next turn or town.
I should probably make a pact with myself – never to read poetry in autumn. Or never to watch the patches of fog cross below a near full moon on a crisp and mostly clear night.
This feels like the first night in quite a few weeks in which I’ve leaned in to my alone time: music, poetry, wine, and the mental waltz between wanderlust and the longing for the familiar. Like the road, I kind of miss it – the pushing of everything else to the side, the letting go of minor desires. This feels needed – or at least welcomed.