There's something I must secretly enjoy about moving, living out of a suitcase, and flying from place to place. It's a lonely thing, to travel and move so much, but there's something romantic in always being so lonely.
There's things of mine packed in boxes from two moves ago, that I haven't seen in 5 years. Some things I doubt I will ever really unpack. There's something too permanent about unpacking, and I have commitment issues.
There's things of mine that I have lost, and now lay scattered in fields and houses and along side roads and in hotel rooms all across the country.
I've driven across the country.
I've slept in a van in the parking lot of a gas station in Nova Scotia. Well, I spent the night.
I've slept in a hotel in a small town in Quebec, the same hotel my grandpa died in.
It was his van I spent the night in, after we picked it up and were bringing it back to PEI for my grandma.
I've slept on the 6th floor of a Toronto hotel, at least, I think it was the 6th floor.
I've been so sick and delirious that I thought the giant statues outside the CN tower were real birds, and that the rocks lining Lake Ontario we're covered with plastic wrap.
I've almost been thrown off the Rocky Mountains after fishtailing in a car during a blizzard.
I've driven through Oakville late at night and seen lights that seemed so different that it literally made my heart ache.
I've slept on several small islands on several small lakes.
I've canoed on several small lakes.
Driven across the ice of Rainy Lake.
I've sat under the lilac tree in the back yard in the first house I can remember living in, the only place I've ever felt stable and permanent, and the scent still haunts me.
I've walked through a park overlooking the city of Calgary, and could not think about anything but how lonely it is to live in a city that sleeps under a cold, white blanket.
All I want is something permanent, but I have commitment issues, and I'm unwilling to unpack.
This is the tangerine (machine)