Friday, October 24, 2008

You'll Have To Get Back To Me

What am I doing?

It's certainly the question of the moment, and several other similar moments surrounding it. As vague as it is unanswerable, it's the query that encapsulates my current existence.

There's a tug-of-war that's been going on in my head for days now. One side of the rope, we have the idea, fully formed and frightened of itself, that this drastic and baseless relocation is a decision of such grandeur and genius that it will surely end in untold fame, riches and a flock of beautiful women waiting for me in every European country. And staring across from the other side, wrestling with the rope in one hand and self doubt in the other, we find every foolish choice I've ever made, colluding with each other and pooling their resources in an effort to dwarf their own significance by orchestrating my downfall in the most spectacular way possible. Honestly, how else do you label leaving behind everyone you love to disappear to the other side of the world brandishing something that looks suspiciously like a lack of a plan?

And there really is no plan. I sit here writing this on a train speeding through the French countryside, living out the only planned portion of this globe change (the global version of a sea change, for those of us just catching up). I have two weeks of to live a life of guaranteed accomodation, unabashedly touristy behavior and an immersion in incomprehensible gibberish passing itself off in the guise of a foreign language. Following that, it's time to affix the blindfold, thrust my arms out in the appropriate manner and start groping around wildly in the dark. In case of emergency, I've got an adopted attitude of denial and false confidence that should get me by.

For a moment though, before leaving, I thought it didn't have to be this way. As I said goodbye to my friends, and my guitar, at the airport, my face inexplicably wet from what I can only assume was a small storm front entirely localised to the area surrounding my eyes, I envisaged how easy it would be to drop all the plans I hadn't made. To steal a luggage cart, drive back to the house I no longer lived in and hide under the bed that I no longer had. It was a concept the fluttered by, taunting me with the simplicity of cowardice. But in the end, I'm far too cheap to throw away that kind of money.

So instead I let France comfort me with its scenery, affording me the luxury of thoughts that suggest that, yes, this might just have been a good idea. But never long enough for the moment to escape the question:

What the hell am I doing?

1 comment:

Diana said...

Shiny. I love you. <3