Most every night, I dream of my beloved, my big-eyed WRX, racing cross country on an empty two lane. Or plowing and slipping through a snow storm. Sometimes careening right on the verge of losing it on a dirt track.
It's been a year since I held a steering wheel.
Once upon a time getting out on the road was a significant part of life—the freedom and escape and potential of even an hour spent on an open road to somewhere else, the power and security and joy of being strapped into my dream car, the absolute joy of unfettered possibility. In my car, on the road, I can go anywhere, reach anyone, with the only limit being my consciousness.
Before leaving, it seemed like quite a turbulent year: graduation, Europe, a straggling breakup, moving home, facing down some of the monkeys on my back, finding myself smack in front of, “NOW WHAT?”
My car was solace and comfort in the process.
And the importance of the road, the freedom and potential of escape, of taking control and deliberately guiding myself from wherever I am to wherever I want to be, followed me here.
For a few glorious months I roamed about the countryside, burning through an oil change every other week while exploring the elephant's trunk.
And smearing liberal chunks of flesh and spirit across the tarmac.
Still, I have nightly reminders of the importance of that freedom and self determination (although the only bike dreams I've had have involved the horrible smash of plastic that will haunt me for the rest of my life).
It has been nine months since I turned an ignition key.
Which is the last time I used a kitchen sink, cutting board, microwave, frying pan, or bought raw meat.
Part of me wants there to be some significance to this, wants it to be important or somehow meaningful that a baby could have been conceived and born in the time since I cooked in anything but a hotpot, ate any food that wasn't raw, boiled, or bought from one of the food carts.
But there's no more significance or meaning than objective value: it is simply a byproduct of the choices I've made to negotiate most easily through present circumstances.
One day, I will likely have a kitchen again, and I will likely enjoy preparing my own food, and I will probably even prepare Thai food (there will be a lot of fried potatoes before that, though). But that's an eventuality on the far side of a lot of decisions and events, and as immaterial as my onetime concern over seeing bugs in food.
Why is it again that an ant on a piece of lettuce is so objectionable?
The person who would've thought that is the same one who walked up staircases without a bit of appreciation.
Now, I live in the guesthouse where I spent my first night in town, across the hall from the first place I've ever had on my own, or close thereto. When I moved in, I was significantly disappointed with the dirt and wear and what I took to be neglect. With the rock hard mattress. With the amount of mold and scum growing in the shower. When I moved back, I was relieved at the amount of upkeep that had been happening without me doing anything, relieved that the building would be kept up and going without me having to do anything.
Now, from the room across the hall, I know the person who came here would've been moved to comment on a toilet seat not attached to the bowl. I would've been considerably put off by the auditorium chair with a hole in the seat. I would've wondered how a guesthouse could justify not providing sheets and towels and changing them with at least weekly regularity.
Now, I'm grateful for a bed that I can sleep on without getting bruises, for someone else taking out the trash, for having access to a mop and broom so I can clean once I need to. I'm just glad to have a toilet, period, most especially one with a seat, and wouldn't comment on the seat not being attached unless I was thinking about what would've once seemed significant.
When I moved into the cabin on the Togaik River, I was considerably put off by the bare plywood walls with insulation tacked unfinished to the ceiling. I thought the single lightbulb with spotty electricity was pretty crude, the lack of shelves or dresser a considerable hinderance. The moths and mildew in the bathroom seemed markedly unpleasant, and there was liberal application of bleach and Lysol.
How bizarre to consider what was accepted as significant and worthwhile while working in the Ritz, that I came straight here from there.
It's impressive how much things can change.
No.
It's impressive how much I can change.
The reality hasn't changed, the events and conditions haven't changed, it's just my perception.
It's impressive to consider how much life I used to cut out due to some aversion or another.
It's impressive to see what can be accepted as routine, what becomes standard and unremarkable as soon as you remove the luxury of a discriminatory dismissal.
