There is traveling in my future. Long distance, traveling. Distances that place the Hardware Store an inch or so from the Vegetable Garden. We are talking, way beyond the county line. And with no offense to either Mongolia or Virginia, I might just as well be going to Mongolia. But it's a big error to conceive of 'place' without also giving thought to what the woolly heads call 'a sense of belonging.' The two aren't the same thing, but they can try to be. For some of us this 'sense of belonging,' often appears more like a mirage. It can be clung to very briefly and then at a bump in the road, it is gone. Others are so rooted and happily gnarled by what I guess is a stasis, a chemistry of the 'stable state,' that they have the good fortune to know their mirage is real. This latter more blissful character does not fare well among those preoccupations of mine that include, never leaving home and the nature of meaninglessness.
As for the journey itself, the secret is to know how to react at the "halfway there point," when following some cruel mental process borne probably from the monotony of endless travel, comes the inevitable revelation of something forgotten, or left behind. Wiser minds, will write something like a list, long before departure time, and to this list they will faithfully adhere. The fallible, or the much less wise, will dabble for about five minutes before departure time, throw stuff in a bag and be off. Then at the half way point, when revelation of something forgotten strikes, the list writer will veer into oncoming traffic and accidently switch on the windshield wipers. And those of us who have become non-list writers following illegibility of handwriting, or who fall into the category of those who in all honesty might never have actually been list writers and who couldn't find a pencil when the list writing mood struck, tend at the half way point to have a much less dramatic reaction, because we long ago came to the sometimes bitter conclusion that no journey is complete unless something is left behind. And what that something might be I'll try to tell you next Friday.