Travel Log #7

June 30, 2009
I am reminded that patience is a virtue. Over the past few weeks the patience I pride myself on has worn thin. I had made my peace with circumstance, which is not quite the same as giving up.

Tomorrow, I leave for the world: England, Germany, Luxembourg, Israel. Word came in today that I have been granted an anonymous donation that covers the remainder of my balance, and then some, for OTZMA. I packed all day for a year, expecting it would really only be for three months. It is still not 100% as MASA funding has yet to come through, but OTZMA is 99% certain I will get everything I need.

July 1, 2009
As of now, I am on board my first flight of many. I got everything I needed into just two bags and a carry-on. Not bad for a year and nothing is overweight. Things went smoothly, except for this one absolutely clueless guy directly in front of me at the security check-point. I guess he's never flown in his life--bags flying all over the place, running around in circles in front of the metal detector like a chicken with its head cut off. The security officer is screaming at him from the other side telling him to put his bags through the x-ray, so he throws one under the conveyor belt (WTF) and whips his belt off! Then, he starts flinging it around and his pants start falling down because they're literally about eight sizes too big for him. So now he's hopping around with the belt flying, and his pants falling down and the bags everywhere. Meanwhile, his parents (or whoever it was with him) are yelling at him from the other side of the barrier along with security "What are you DOING?!" It took 15 minutes for him to get over his discombobulation. Once I was through, I made it to the gate within five minutes. Go figure.

I sat at the gate for a few hours, hoping to rendezvous with my friend Chris who I haven't seen in about three years, and now it will have to wait another. He said it sounded like the Olympics. I called home and a few other people to say good-bye before my phone shuts off for a year and missed a call because I was busy boarding.

While I was waiting, a woman from Ethiopia sat next to me at the gate and started bragging about paying for her son's college education at the University of Alabama: $1.00 for every 7 of whatever their currency is. Lucky him. No student loans to contend with.

I got a group of dentists and assistants sitting next to me for the flight. Along with about eight separate mission groups of kids. They're all going to Kenya--Chelsea, if you're reading this, let me know how you are over there; I'm getting anxious.

Now, I have an eight-hour-and-twenty-minute flight until I reach Amsterdam and a 1.5hr layover for my connection to London, where I will hopefully land on time at 9:00 GMT and get picked up by Jeff at Heathrow. Hopefully there will be no repeats of the Alitalia experience and my luggage will promptly meet me where it's supposed to. But we all should be familiar by now with my luck. I took the back-up clothing in carry-on just in case. I even stuffed some in with Therem.

Yes, I decided to take Therem instead of Martin because I can't afford to deal with the crack down the middle of his face again and I'm paranoid about him getting stolen. I already miss him, but Therem should enjoy the adventure and it's good for her to get seasoned like this. Martin has already done his rounds. For now. I loosened her strings, stuffed a bunch of books and notebooks in the outside pocket of the case and put her up in the cargo bins above my head.

We're moving onto the runway right now and my only qualm thus far is my lack of a window seat. Otherwise, I am very much in my element: in motion, in the sky, and on my own with nothing but mystery ahead of me and a guitar in my right hand.

I'm working on a song lately and with it, I've conceded to the fact that my music writing style has changed. When I began, I put music to poetry from years before. Then, I wrote simultaneously. The songs would come quickly and there was immediate artistic satisfaction. Now, songs do not come easily. I spend weeks and sometimes months editing, revising, discarding everything but the idea of the song and possibly a few lines. Song writing now is more like novel writing and short-story and poetry. The last serious poem I wrote went through sixteen drafts, but it was worth all the haggle over individual word-choice and their placements. Same for short stories: 13 drafts. The novel I'm working on now needs a revamp but I'm still not quite sure how. All I know is that I went through six revisions with the first one and it's still due for more--and I need to get on with the literary agent search so I can publish it.

No matter, the point is that all of my writing ends up, after all the revisions when all is said and done, like a song on repeat. I fall in love with the piece and reread it over and over (an artist's obsession with a message produced from something internal and externally-unknown). It's like a song on repeat and if I've written it, I play for hours until my fingers turn black down to the first knuckle--the pain is ignored because the reward is worth it.

Art is my mode of preservation because experience is ephemeral and I either want to hold it forever or let it go. Music and words pay their dues and I reciprocate the favor--the words remain when memory fades and the notes fade in a moment. The message lingers.