There is a shaking -a slight rumbling in the air that tells me that the city is starting to awakening to the promise and heavy responsibility of a new day. As I walk down the boulevard on the way to the sleeping train station I am reminded that for some time I won’t be in a position to witness, by my participation of course, the rhythmic back and forth motions between moments of poignant belly-aching laughter and harrowing worry that serve as the background for the 9 millions or so narratives unfolding every second in the city.
I’m taking the first steps of a 3600 miles journey into tomorrow. Los Angeles California is my destination which means that the seemingly innumerable labyrinthine memories that in their totality have mapped out the course my life has run from birth to this overly introspective adult I find myself, are going to be for a moment going to be just outside the range of my periphery. But is that the real journey?
The places we visit and inhabit, the expanses we fly through are only the setting for the real trip. I’ve always firmly believe that things, places and people sometimes are just a means. In and of themselves at times they are not as meaningful as where they can take us. Some people come into our lives for a brief moment and forever change it. Often times is a child passing bye that waves and smiles at us, or the person bagging our groceries with the far away look in his or her eyes. All these people bring us someplace and I am just presumptuous enough to imagine that they bring us to a place of a shared experience of honesty perhaps.
Honesty is a funny word. The real journey I should say has nothing to do with NYC or Los Angles and 623 feet per second of the unknown that the plane will propel itself through. Rather this trip is about honesty. Sometimes we have to be forcibly taken away from all our psychological and material comforts to really look at ourselves. I seriously doubt that whatever it is I am is encapsulated by my profession or by all the activities that I have done or will do. I doubt I will ever know what it is I am, but instead of admitting that to myself, I like to pretend I know what’s best for me, what I really want or need.
I am hoping that this trip I get closer to admitting to myself how little I know, or how vulnerable I am. It’s hard to be honest, and I am not sure the flashing lights of Vegas or sunny palm tree-lined sky lines of Southern California will do anything to bring me to that point but I can hope in the same way I am now that for an hour we have been buffeted and rocked into a kind of somnolence by the turbulent air of a soon to be arriving tomorrow.