I trek here and there, uproot myself every few months, dissatisfied with the place that I've been. I live by rumors and whims, whispers, promises by former inhabitants, dwellers of towns and cities I have never seen. I get there by train, by bus, by someone's car, complete with my bedroll, my sleeping bag, clothes and books. I have it narrowed to a system, a regimen, so my belongings are always the same, so I am a system unto myself, a closed circle complete, unchangeable. Always I arrive, stay at a hostel, the floor of a friend of a friend's house, and I begin, what I say, to establish "roots." I find a job cutting vegetables and steaks, mixing sauces and soups, or I file paper, enter strangers' names and addresses to the orange-on-black screen of a computer, or I slosh soapy water all day, with a sponge and a firing hose as limp as a flaccid penis.
I rent an apartment, sometimes my roommates are 3, sometimes 4, even 5 or 6. They are noisy, their lives lay in walking in and out of doors, they are too busy to look at themselves, to sit in spring-drenched parks, to notice what kind of bird is scraping a nest of mud and brown twigs together outside their window. Their agendas are full with tv and work and beer.
I am everywhere. I am nowhere. And nowhere and everywhere I have a slight scowl on my face, dissatisfied with the answers other people have given, to questions I was too shy and afraid to ask.
Everywhere I am equally rooted, scowling at the populace and the glass wall separating me from touching them. In the moments I realize my shortcomings in reaching out, opening my truth like a flower, I tell myself, if I break through, there is nothing there to touch anyway.
I have many boyfriends, and like everyone, they are busy walking in and out of doors, busy with work and TV and beer. They are busy telling me I am not smart enough, elegant enough, too short and too tall, how I should let my hair grow long, how I should cut it all off.