So, here it is, that old familiar feeling of terror. It settles in and ruins everything.
I’m actually shocked to find myself sitting here feeling like I might throw up, because, I have been and remain excited about my trip.
I’m envious of people who feel like unified wholes. I mean, I guess I feel like a unified whole most of the time, but occasionally, things happen and I am reminded that I am not as in charge of things in here as I would like to be.
So, intellectually, I’m excited. That part of me is scared shitless. I spent half my lunch hour staring at but not reading blogs. Usually, I read what folks are up to and I feel connected with a large, spread-out group of people. Today, I felt lonely and irrelevant.
There’s no reason, except that I’m leaving and some part of me doesn’t want to go.
I keep thinking about the man who lives on my morning walk. He lives in a little brick house near the corner, to which he just added on a room and a small back porch. On his door is a wreath and a banner that says “elcome”–the “W” obscured by the wreath.
Every day, he teeters down his side stairs in his brown suit and an old fedora. I think the suit is expensive; it fits him exquisitely. And the hat suggests that he once was irresistible to folks and knew it.
Anyway, we frequently see him come out, all dressed for public consumption, at 6:15 in the morning, and he gets in his car and he drives 30 feet to the end of his driveway and gets out and picks up his paper.
I don’t know if he gets in his car and drives back down the driveway or if he drives off to read the paper and have coffee. It could be either one. I haven’t ever seen him at that moment after he gets the paper.
Does his effort matter to anyone but him? Is it really so tragic if it doesn’t? If he doesn’t get farther than the end of his driveway, does anyone notice? If he does and never comes back, will anyone care?