May 31, 2010: St. Louis (Night before the trip)

So what does a guy who majored in Political Science, minored in History, and got a Foreign Service Certificate at Saint Louis University do with his degree? How does a 1-2 month long road trip across the Southwest, up the West Coast, and across the Rockies to return to the place that has felt most like home sound to you? That's the plan all right. I remember when I told my Dad sophomore year that I was going to declare poli sci-- he told me that all the political science factories back East had all closed. 2 years, a degree, and a number of rejections from jobs I didn't really want all that badly anyway I'm choosing to shelve the "go out and get a real job" mantra for just one more, one last, summer.

The (rough) Itinerary

from St. Louis, MO

• Dallas, TX
• Austin, TX
• Albuquerque, NM
• Santa Fe, NM
• Taos, NM
• Durango, CO
• Telluride, CO
• Flagstaff, AZ
• Los Angeles, CA
• San Francisco, CA (via HWY 1)
• Eugene, OR
• Portland, OR
• Seattle, WA
• Vancouver, BC
• Salt Lake City, UT
• Boulder, CO

What to wear?

• 9 boxers/boxer briefs
• 1 Levi Strauss Jeans
• 1 corduroy pant
• 4 non-athletic shorts
• 2 athletic shorts
• 1 swimming trunks
• 8 t-shirts
• 2 long sleeved shirts
• 3 collared shirts
• 6 socks
• 3 shoes (Sperry, sandal, Nike)
• 1 Northface jacket
• 1 Light jacket

The Things He Carried

• Poetry by Pablo Neruda, Stories by TC Boyle and Raymond Carver
• Checks
• Passport
• Digital Camera
• Journal
• Computer
• Ipod
• Cell Phone (doubles as GPS)
• Toiletries, Meds, etc.
• Towel
• Sunglasses
• Cooler
• Food
• Tent
• Small propane stove
• Flashlight
• Pillow
• Sleeping bag
• Collapsible chair

How I'm Getting There

• 1997 Acura CL 2.3, black with Ohio plates, new brakes, a potentially slipping clutch, freshly changed oil, and enough miles on it to make me too nervous to put the exact number down (think north of 150k). Tom Joad listened nervously to the sounds coming from the family truck as they went West from Oklahoma, hopefully things fare better for me than what became of the Joads.
• Graduation money (thank you! to everyone who gave me a check, seriously you guys rock)
• My wonderful and supportive parents that will get a call from their son daily to let them know that he is still alive and having a kick ass time.

I've been wanting to take this trip for several months now, a blue line wiggling across the American West was (and is) the background image on my computer and got me through some tough times during my final semester. I wanted to graduate and be free of everything, free of school, free from work, no ties to anyone or anything; and now I have. There's a lot going into this trip for me. Going home. Finding home. Figuring out where I want to live next. Seeing people I thought I probably wouldn't see again. Scoping out graduate programs. And learning how much I loved St. Louis and my life here by leaving it for a while.

I know how cliche it is to take time off after school and travel, but if it's a cliche at least I can make it my own. I don't really know what to expect from this trip, but I do know that I want to get out there, to see it, to feel it. This blog will be a place for my head on this trip, and I invite you stop in periodically and see what's going on between ears and in front of my face. If I'm in your city then show me some love. If I'm not in your city, let me know you miss me (blog, twitter, facebook, email, cell). Much love guys, I'll be seeing you.

Joel

Life in my Pockets: A Story of Senior Year

I always keep them separate. One in the left, the other in the right and they are not allowed to swap. They have their homes and if they are anywhere other than the right or the left pocket then they are lost.

In my left is my past. California, Colorado, Ohio, New Orleans, Ireland, and St. Louis are all there. Family is in there—people I should call more often than I do. Lovers are in there, not many of them and those are numbers seldom punched now, but they sit there and stir me when I scroll past them. There are a handful of names that have meaning to them in my left pocket. The people who would be on the “favorites” list if I ever used it. Old bosses and references are in there too because, you know, I might need them later. Something my right pocket could interested in.

Then there are names and numbers that probably shouldn’t be there and they’re given away by not having a last name. The one namers are ghosts. You were a pretty face that night and I had to, had to, have your number. Or maybe you insisted on giving it to me. Maybe if I look at your one name long enough I can remember that party or that kiss or that joke and remember the urgency that brought you into my left pocket. I don’t know though. I can’t ever really remember.

Megan, Megan, Megan. Who are you? How did you come to be here? Above and below you are people. People that matter. People that make me laugh and smile, but you—who are you? And Aren too. What made you special? How many of you ghosts are in here? And why are you still here? I should know these things, I suppose. I put you there after all. And I can take you out just as easily, easier even. But I haven’t yet, you’re still here. I can’t delete you. You’ve made it this far, why should today be your day to disappear into the void, falling out of my left pocket and gone forever? You didn’t do anything to deserve it today. You haven’t done anything so I guess you can stay. I must like having ghosts in the phone, a comforting haunting in my left pocket.

While the left pocket carries the weight of the past the right is harder and colder. There is no nostalgia among the grooves and ridges and points in the right pocket. The metallic song that sings from my keys doesn’t remind me anyone or anywhere. There are no foggy memories of a party or washed out remembrances of job that really wasn’t that bad. Even the little Spanish bull that dangles among the starters and openers is metal and cold and sings the same song—its attempts to remind me drowned out and indistinguishable. There are no ghosts in the right pocket. It is firm and finite and functional. Key/keyhole. Door open/door closed. Home/not home. There are no mysteries in the right pocket.

Recently though, while the ghosts mingle with lovers and new friends in the left pocket, the right pocket has gotten lighter. Keys circle around the ring and are gone. While I can choose to keep my ghosts of the left pocket, there is no comfort once a key is gone. The song of the remaining keys is the same as it was before, metallic and cold. But I’m starting to notice it now. First one key, then another have circled the ring and more will soon make the trip. With each ending I lose a key. First work, then school, and next the apartment. Soon the only key left will the one with the gnarled plastic head that makes my car come to life. As the key count dwindles in the right the ghost population rises in the left.

I always keep them separate but the occupants of my right and left pocket live together now. Swapping significance and meaning from one hip to the other. The distance between them is the same. The distance between them is different. They have their homes, but I can't say the same.