we tell each other that this is far less than, say, an year. thirty hours shouldn't be difficult if we can wade through three years. thirty is small. finite. easily countable with the eight limbs we have between us. surmountable. then there is hysterical laughter. sheer terror and unmitigated joy tingling across continents. then the breaking down under the pressure of it all and a calm reassurance that we'll do fine and that I am nuts.
it'd be easier if there was some momentum. things getting taken care of, lists getting crossed out, calls being made. instead I gave myself three days of nothingness. alright, frantic last-minute clubbing isn't nothingness. three days of nothing-important-ness, then. what is to be done with this pile of clothes that I was hoping to grow back into? and this grim reaper coat that'd probably kill me if worn outside of Minnesota? and my resilient pink heart-shaped balloon that's been floatin on since Valentine's day as a symbol of undying roomie love? it's the what-is-not-important-enough question that makes this so irritating. I can see the wisdom in being a monk now. and in not moving away from partners with a more practical outlook towards packing. it's very easy, he says. pick. crush/fold. pack. simple. of course, it's not that simple. every scrap of paper found has to read through and reminisced over. every piece of clothing has to be judged cruelly. in spite of the fact that nothing is gonna get thrown away, anyway.ok. the nearest Goodwill is bound to get a few boxes of blingy indian clothes if I really plan to take a flight home. one more day and so much to throw away. (this is calming me down. I'm actually realizing that I need to throw away stuff.)
Other thoughts? Apollo 13 is not the best movie to watch 30 hours before an international flight. Jus as The Texas Chainsaw Massacre isn't a nice idea a day before you leave home the first time for Bushland.
I'll miss you, America. You of the many weird people I'll never get to see back home. land of opportunities. that made me realize I wasn't ready for all those opportunities and never might be. I'll miss being exotic. and I'll miss being truly free. You have made me less judgmental, more aware, more concerned, more reckless, more beautiful in the Indian sense of the word beautiful, and less healthy. works for age 22, America, works splendidly. Maybe, I'll come back again and, maybe, you'll have been through a black president and done with silly wars and the brown-people-are-terrorists phase by then. Adiós.
Housekeeping: check out the new colors on this baby. and let me know if it kills your eyes. also, I might have screwed up the blog feed thingie. I don't know yet. Somebody tell me it's working. please.