May 23, 2004

Notes From the Road: That Yearning

Sometimes, phrases grip me. "I still hear trains at night, when the wind is right." "Experience your America." "And we lied about the things we would feel when we're older." "And I'd like to fall asleep to beat of you breathing."

"This is it... What you called that yearning."

They grip me with a cherishing so deep that I'm left, as Marie Howe writes, speechless.

That yearning. I always think of that yearning in terms of the familiar symbols: the dangerous smell of Drano; the difficult phone call; the letter that sits on the coffee table; the song lyrics that repeat over and over in my head. That yearning binds me up and reaches into my soul, depositing and withdrawing feelings with reckless abandon and without keeping score. I used to think that I came out of the exchange with less-- less feeling, less hope, less of my soul. I seemed to lose at life, and was haunted by the memories of what used to be. I wanted to live there-- not in the past, but in the memory of the past.

I see differently now. I still long for that cherishing, that yearning, but because it helps me to see how alive I am, and how much I love this, love what is happening now, and love who I am. How I love the good and love the bad, because, in the end, it all becomes me.

3350 miles. 89 hours. A whole lotta feeling. This trip was filled with that yearning, with that cherishing so deep of the joys and pains and hopes and memories that come with being part of the living.

I like long drives: the open road, the solitude, the blaring music, the changing landscapes, the strange sounds, the long silences... and that yearning that becomes especially apparent. I like being able to remember the things, memories sweet and horrid, that have become the mileposts in my life. I like to savor those mileposts, the mileposts that form that yearning.

"Why aren't you crying?" Jen asked me on Tuesday afternoon.

I didn't know. I was sad, yes, and dreading that goodbye, but I didn't feel like crying. "I don't know." I looked away.

"Because you're a guy," she offered.

Yes. Yes, I am. But I still cry. I cry with movies, and with songs; I cry after classes, and after reading the news; I cry a lot, and I have no problems with that. It wasn't because I am a guy. "Maybe."

Later, as Rt. 2 spun off from I-91, I watched her car drift off, watched her waving goodbye, watched her blow me a last kiss. And then they came. They get in the way while driving, and I hate that. But still, they insisted on flowing, and all I could do was turn up the music a little more.

That yearning. For the people we desperately want around, the people we desperately miss, the people we hope to hold again. That yearning that hurts because we bother to love.

I drove through PA, with the shitty roads, and bad weather, and trucks that act like Boston cabbies, listening to Angie Aparo loudly. I love Angie Aparo. It was pure chance that I learned about him-- Lupe just happened to stop by and mention him one day-- and now I desperately want everything he's ever done. Life is full of those little chances, hidden amongst the rubble, we happened to win.

Like meeting Lupe, too. And Liene. The people who climb into my heart through the back window, unnoticed until I realize how much I miss them. The people who seep into more and more of my life, influencing my vernacular, my outlook, and my Winamp playlists. Those little chances I've won.

That yearning. How I missed friends I care so much about, yet spend so little time with. How I wanted to drive south just a bit, and say hi. Maybe eat a sandwich, maybe miss a mutual friend, maybe just sit around and drink shots until we're piss drunk and carefree. That yearning that hurts because we bother to care.

It's the third biggest city in the country, and of course I expected to pass several signs directing me there. But they kept popping up, one after another, for over 1000 miles along my route. Reminding me of that yearning. It's seems, sometimes, like I've had more than my share of friends who stop talking to me for reasons I don't quite understand.

I don't think I'm a horrible person. Once in a while, I don't even think I'm all that bad. So what is it, what is it about me, that is so wrong, that drives people away? This isn't a cry in the dark. This isn't an angst-filled question. Most of the time, I don't really believe it's me at all. Maybe that's self-delusional, and maybe I'm missing something painfully obviously. I don't think so, though. I'm not the best friend in the world, but I try wicked hard, and don't turn out half-bad most of the time. I think, in the end, most of my friends appreciate me. So why can't I let go of those few who don't?

I miss her so much. I want to know what she thought about the season finale of the West Wing; I want to hear more stories about her crazy/ evil/ insane roommate; I want to ask if anything amazing has happened in her life since last we talked, if only so I share the amazing things that have happened in mine-- happened because of her; I want to know she is well, and doesn't regret knowing me.

That yearning. For the places and people we still care deeply for, even when it's dark, and raining, and the large green highway signs seem like the only thing, save the pain and yearning in our chest, that connects us. For a future that isn't isolated and unresolved. For a chance to say thank you to the people who most deserve it. That yearning that hurts because we refuse to forget.

The first urban traffic I encountered was near Spokane, on my last day of driving. Somehow, by chance, I had avoided urban rush hour traffic through my entire journey (though taking I-70 across the Midwest, instead of I-80, certainly helped). I had only been to Spokane once before, when I was 11 or 12, I think. My mom had picked my brother and me up for the weekend, as usual, but instead of taking the 217 exit, we continued onto I-84. "Where are we going?" my brother and I enquired.

"It's a surprise."

It was one of the only vacations I can ever remember taking with my mom. We ended up visiting a Native American museum that was closing-- my mom had read about it in the paper--and, as the trip took 8 hours each way, not much else. Still, I miss that. And I miss my mom. It's been almost a year since I last talked to her, and several years, now, since a conversation didn't hurt enough afterwards that I regretted having it.

That yearning. How we long for the warmer days that exist only through the fragmented lens of memory. How we hope and wish and pray and try anything-- anything at all-- to ease the life-sucking pain afflicting our loved ones. How we try to find that balance between living our own lives, and not leaving behind the people we know we should love. That yearning that hurts because we refuse to give up on the people who have already given up on themselves.

The sun had already set as I sped across the Columbia River Bridge at Umatilla. Oregon, at last. The gentle bumping of the tires over the concrete slabs, the crisscross of green steel passing me by on each side, the "Welcome to Oregon" sign I barely caught as it blurred by. It was the blurring of the sign, how the visits here had become less frequent, and quicker, and how I seemed to be able to form less and less of a picture, that gripped me with that cherishing so deep.

That yearning. For the rain and the mountains and the trees and the sky. For the beach, and the Interzone, and the people whose faces we know. For the high unemployment and above-average gas prices and daffodils that bloom in February. That yearning that hurts because I know I would give it all up to be 3350 miles away.

These yearnings along the way-- these yearnings that hurt-- fix me in a formulated phrase. And how should I begin?

They hurt because being alive hurts. That pain is how we know that we've made difficult decisions along the way, struggled with the agony of options presented, and we now live with those choices. It's not a negative pain, either, or one that takes our soul, piece by piece, and gives nothing in return. It's a pain that teaches us, guides us, and shows us that we can move forward without losing everything. It's a pain that reminds us we can still care, deeply, for the places and people we know. It's a pain tells us we are living, and that this is what the living do.

We sit at the rest stop, and as the Gorge winds blow just right, we hear the sound of trains echoing through the darkness. The trucks rumble by, and we softly hum a sound not unlike the beating of the breathing of the people who we love. We fall asleep with the blanket and the pillow and the cherishing-- that yearning for the everyday-- that grips us, and leaves us speechless.

Posted by Sean at May 23, 2004 01:19 AM

Comments

Posted by: Raquel at May 23, 2004 12:48 PM

Posted by: Sean at May 23, 2004 01:05 PM

Posted by: Liene at May 23, 2004 04:30 PM

Posted by: gabrielle. at May 23, 2004 10:52 PM

Posted by: Rebecca at May 24, 2004 12:31 AM

Posted by: Sean at May 24, 2004 03:00 AM

Posted by: patty at May 24, 2004 09:19 PM

Posted by: Rebecca at May 25, 2004 06:48 AM

Posted by: Jen at May 25, 2004 01:00 PM

Posted by: Sean at May 25, 2004 11:02 PM