Just two nights ago there was an absolutely breath-taking blue moon. And boy, did it certainly explain away a bout of questionable decisions and excessive emotional output.
There's something to be said for finality. In fact, there's quite a bit to say about it as well. If there is one thing The Trip is not lacking, it's finality. Due to the sheer amount of land we're trying to cover in 40 days and the way in which we're trying to do it -- traveling primarily via back roads and making a hefty number of stops (you can blame my art form, I normally do) -- we don't have the time to stay anywhere more than a night or even just a couple of hours. This relentless move forward is the source of most of our difficulties, whether it be getting used to this style of living or logistical issues. For one, it certainly makes it difficult to entertain any sort of romantic notions with any of the folks we come across in our travels.
I like to think that I've finally adapted to this ever-churning momentum. The other day we decided to make a push to drive "straight" down from the Black Hills of South Dakota to arrive a day early in Denver so we could spend a whole 36 hours there. *GASP* THIRTY SIX HOURS!!! The fact that we had time to just drive around and spend time in the city and surrounding area seemed like such a luxury, and it was. It was a luxury that ate away at my road-earned travel-calluses and started to suck dry the deep well of energy that is renewed by an endless stream of sensory stimuli. I needed to move. I needed to leave.
The curious thing is that the simple terms that plague the discussions of our travels ignore the complex knot of roots that are at the base of The American Roadtrip.
"To come" and "to go". "To leave" and "to stay". These verbs assume a fixed point in space, i.e. a place, a person, or really any other example that I can't think of because the coffee hasn't reached my bloodstream yet. What these verbs don't acknowledge is the complete absence of a central point. Our first Difficulty that led to our first Revelation was that our journey is not, in fact, composed of string of destinations. Rather, our trip is a long string upon which a number of points are precariously balanced, just waiting to be knocked off with the ever-changing swivel of the paths which we chose to travel.
Never before have I felt quite the need to get "the only thing that is constant is Change" tattooed across my face and branded across my chest in order to help deter the quite scoffs of disapproval from others, who are ready to assume this is the Wrong Way to see America, and even to quiet the persistent doubts of my own mind. More than that, it would be physical evidence of the internal change in my being.
There is something so reassuring about the finality of a moment. Of knowing -- as it is happening -- that it will (probably) never happen again, at least it will never again happen in this way. Being somewhere. Seeing something. Or someone. Rather than realizing post facto that whatever Moment there was, was actually the Last of that Kind of Moment -- this awareness of the present moment is refreshing. You are simultaneously creating a new memory and reveling in the nostalgia of it before it's even over. This riptide leaves no time for the waiting room of Regret.
Every interaction we have on the road is so much more sacred because we yearn for the reliability of consistency. Minor conversations hold the crushing weight of substituting for whole relationships. We're breaking up with potential lovers before we finish giving our coffee order. The Blue Moon of the other night is the celestial guide of our varying everyday experiences -- for if our trip is a string of anything, it is a constellation of blue moons.
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