Now You See Me, Now You Don't

I've been thinking a lot lately about moving. Moving to a new apartment in Wilmington, moving to another town after graduation, moving closer to Seagrove for my last semester, the better to research it with, my dear. I've been thinking I've never moved to a place without a definite end in my mind: four years of college, three months of internship, three months of volunteering, just until the holidays are over, just until grad school, and now just until graduation. Because, as much as I like Wilmington, it's school for me. Many of the people I care about will be leaving when they're done here, which will leave me holding onto empty clothes and ghosts. Going back to Davidson feels like visiting the set of a beloved play or the soundstage where a favorite movie was filmed. The field where Field of Dreams was filmed is one of the most popular tourist attractions in Iowa. That's how Wilmington might be for me one day, after everyone else filters out. That and the lack of publishing jobs, and the dreary romantic prospects, nudge me toward the thought that it'll soon enough be high time to go.

But really? I'm just so tired of starting over. I want to have the same friends, see the same friends, for ten years or twenty years, not notice each other's aging or changes because we're together so frequently. I want to paint some walls and knock out others. I want to forget what it feels like to be restless. I don't ever again want to be thinking toward a move. I don't ever want, as I get to know someone, to anticipate what it will be like to leave them. I don't want to introduce myself or prove that I'm cool or break the ice. I want to come home and not automatically turn on the TV, because there will be someone I can't wait to talk to, or something I can't wait to do.

But I shall be telling this with a sigh, somewhere ages and ages hence, and laughing like a hyena at what I thought I wanted. I will, at some point, need new friends, get tired of my routine, and wish I could move anywhere, anywhere new. I will roll my eyes unnecessarily, and I will stomp around the house just because it feels different from walking. I will pray for wings or wheels. I will change the sheets obssessively. Because the woman with curly hair wishes it would just behave, and the woman with straight hair wishes it would do something interesting. Because when I am bound to move, I wish I could stay, and when I know I must stay, I will wish I could leave.

It has a lot to do with men. I mean I think it will be easier for me to stay in one place when I'm in love with someone there, and conversely, staying on the move is a natural step to take when I'm not and when it's important that I do find that place with the person in it.

It has a lot to do with this apartment. It's shoddily built from inferior materials, and the counter space is laughable, and there are spots on the floor that don't come out, and I never open my blinds because I'm on the first floor and don't want anyone looking in at eye level.

It has the most, I think, to do with being days away from twenty-five and still feeling like a teenager in many ways, but having to act like a grown-up for the world anyway. It's funny--while I have a sense of having missed the mark, it's not because of any expectations I personally had. I don't remember having had ideas of what I would be like or do at this age. In fact, the only indicator I have is a drawing from second grade or so, and according to that, I'm pretty much dead on. The printed instructions say, "Draw a picture of yourself at work in a job you would like to have when you are twenty-five years old." I have drawn myself in an artist's smock, with an easel, outside. The easel is a miniature version of the scene I stand in and says, "$10." Most of my art supplies languish in the dark these days, but I do have them, carry them around from move to move. And a writer is an artist. A nonfiction writer is the kind of artist I drew in that picture, one who takes down what she sees as closely as possible. Considering that particularity--I could have been selling an abstract piece or a portrait--and the hundreds of other jobs I could have chosen, we must say Second-Grade Rachel was not at all far off. Or maybe I'm the one who's not far off. The other childhood paper I currently have on my fridge, apparently from even earlier, has me at an easel whose contents you can't see, and says, "God wants me to be an artist." I keep them both up as reminders to maintain that certainty. God does want me to be artist. This is a job I would like to have when I am twenty-five years old. Maybe I should go back through the childhood files and see if they have anything about where I'm going to live.