Dodge

“All journeys have secret destinations of which the traveler is unaware.”
— Martin Buber

“What we will become waits in us like an ache.”
—Lucille Clifton

“No one knows the way”
— Tony Scalzo

Feeling like it's time to get out.  I'm ready. I'm through with it. I'm gone. Zip. Where am I going? A room, the church, that tall hotel, a city, the country — I'm going to unhouse, head out, relocate, ramble on, kick the can on down the road, out of here, out of town, outta dodge, like some wandering western outlaw bandit, with 5G wifi and a twitter handle.

It is time to take a breather. Time to give this place some space. Time to coast. Time to take a break, shove off for a bit. Get some fresh air, a change of scene, a change of pace. Time to get going. Time to shake things up. Sow my wild oats. How about an Odyssey, an upheaval? Move on, move out, move on up. Disappear. It feels like I'm ready to pop this cocoon and metamorphose. Gonna beat it, gonna break out, gunna bust, bunna burst and bloom, better run, it's best if I was on my way, good and gone, spreading out, time to go.

I'm yearning for a fresh start, a new lease, a new beginning. It's time to wipe the slate, go back to the drawing board, tabula rasa, square one, a clean sweep. Ready to reboot, reshoot, reload, and restart. It's time to teach this old dog some new tricks.

They say consistency is a spiritual virtue, but maybe they didn't mean sticking with the world of ritual but consistently beginning again? Plus, why stay in a place you don't want to be when you could be happier and do more good elsewhere? I'll admit, it's a loose jointed argument. Not everything fits together, however not making much sense does not mean that I haven't thought it through. I have thought it through. I just haven't been able to come to any other conclusions. Another benefit of distance is hindsight. Maybe I'll see it once I'm gone. One thinks of the pigs, the one living in a glorified hayfield, untedded, who, upon recognizing the piggishness of his ways, suddenly craves more and runs squealing to the other, in a mortar-less log cabin, which doesn't hold up, sending them all oinking along to the third in his ripe brick bourgeois bungalow. Let's huffenpuff and blow those fuckers pork loins until they get it right, sayeth the wolf. There's a tiny hole in my heart, I feel like I could stopper it with my thumb.

It must be where I'm centered, where you lay me down on the turntable (or, kids, the CD Player) in order to spin me around. But I'm ready to patch the scratches and lay a new groove. Perhaps my hopeful optimism here is evidence-defying. As I said, I'm not thinking it all so much as weighing the feel of the thought. It feels like it's time to move. Let's see where this feeling takes us.