Im folding laundry in my tiny studio apartment – we call it the closet. Billie Holiday & Louis Armstrong are wrapping themselves in every piece of clothing. I hope that tomorrow when I wake up I will feel the jazz stitched inside my t-shirts. Quincy is in the kitchen stripping kale. It’s midweek and I can already feel the stress of the workplace creeping into my neck. The smell of hot oil and water is stuck to the horizon cooking it’s way down with the sun.
We know we are in transition so we cling to the nights when this closet feels like home. The nights when we can trick the kitchen into feeling like a gourmet restaurant and the lighting above my bed into an ambience that is made for lovers. I picked up Travels with Charley: In Search of America, by John Steinbeck, from the library the other day. It’s summer and I figured that an adventure book would cure my restlessness. One of the opening lines: I was born lost and take no pleasure in being found.
I have been spending time up in Maine at the beach this summer. I spend hours watching the water and trying to figure out why it will never feel like the Pacific. I meet with John later that evening – read his tales of the Northeast and wonder if he ever spent time staring at the ocean. I imagine myself as his dog, Charley, his truck, his hands moving to meet strangers across America, and I think of how comfortable being lost they feel. If I am comfortable being lost.
I close my drawer and help Quincy with the last bits of dinner. If this is what being lost feels like – I think –
there is no sense in ever being found.