In a few hours, I'm off to the Old Continent. I am surrounded by half-packed suitcases and my thoughts are trivial - where is my battery charger? are suspenders superfluous? why didn't I do my laundry? As blase as my attitude seems, I'm certain that at least subconsciously I am rather excited. Journeys mean new epochs, and I've always assigned them symbolic meaning, whether that's right or not.
I used to be a very goal-oriented person. I'd write out schedules and plans to no end, and while I've mellowed out considerably over the past year, I still take a change in pace as an opportunity to resolve to accomplish something. Hence my plans for this summer:
-read Ulysses
-read the Desolation Angels
-write something useful
-take pictures
-run every morning
-live simply
Hopefully I'll be able to report back from my travels with wild tales of half-crazed gypsy boys.
