I don’t know where I’ll be tonight, tomorrow. That’s normal. Tucson has been a series of bounces between the college campus and a friend’s back terrace. Cacti and intense sun rays. Hopeful students, deep in their illusions. Expensive fast food burgers and mediocre Chinese.
Mostly, it has been the loneliness that comes with being around someone deeply content with their life, far removed from the revolution. As college friends, we laughed constantly, but their contentment was a division between us even then. Thirteen years later, the division is wide. I feel contentment sometimes, but I mostly feel pain about the Oppressors Versus the Oppressed. My friend still feels content.
No matter how I bring up revolution, my friend wants none of it. So, these past few days I have felt unseen, unwanted.
And now I must decide about the next place, the next thing. One friend is beckoning to me to return to Minnesota to continue the fight against the pipeline. Another friend’s energy pulls me like a magnet to Portugal. The fight-or-flight in me buzzes loud. When I feel this, I cannot be bothered to brush my teeth or feed myself. The feeling like I need to run but unsure what from or where to, dominates.
It would be easier if affordable hostels existed in the US. A place to stay for a couple of days until I can determine what part of my mind is running on reason and what part on anxiety. The revolution is everywhere, as is the pain. What parts am I running from or toward? Do I just need a meal and a warm, long hug? Some glucose and oxytocin?
I came to a random bar a half mile away from campus – from where I’d been dropped off – for a beer. Five hours of staring at plane tickets and talking on the phone with two different comrades illuminated no answers for me, no lasting peace.
Again I imagine a house with a dog and potted cacti and a job that pays for other delights and escapes. I dream of that contentment and feel sad that I cannot un-wake.
Typing at this empty bar, I still don’t know where to go. One comrade wants me in MN, to use my skills on a house repair project for an indigenous leader in the pipeline resistance. But will I be coming “in a good way?” I’m not certain of that. I would be coming to find usefulness, love, attention, acceptance as much as to give aid. I do not feel self-sufficient. I feel desperate, lonely, ineffective.
I tell this other comrade of my envy toward people who delightfully attempt to escape. My comrade recoils at the concept, pairing peace with ignorance. But I insist, that peace must feel so good. I would love not to have these nightmares, these night sweats, the lack of appetite, the sadness and anger which flows through me constantly. I feel as if I am watching a horror unfold and nobody else can see the villain. I shout to people walking by and they dismiss, even as the killer stands in plain sight among us.
Golf is on the tv. Gallons of fresh water wasted.