whipchick (whipchick) wrote,
whipchick
whipchick

Priveleged Vessel

New Orleans.

I look down at the Man Who Loves Stars and I realize that if I loved him as much as I love him, it would be not merely the terrifying that it is now, it would be an abyss that swallows me up. I am not a shore-paddler, I am not wise enough to take the boat out a few yards, test the depths, make sure she’s sound before committing to a voyage—I step both feet in and set out.

Mostly, I sink.

The Man Who Loves Stars whispers in my ear, we are having a whispered conversation after our whispered fucking that (hopefully) didn’t wake my roommate in the next bed. Tacky. He says,

“If you’re on the road, and you’re faithful, you end up sleeping alone all the time.”

And there it is. You can be good and lonely. Or bad and comforted. It doesn’t count. It counts. It doesn’t count, keep bailing.

* * *

Only other performers understand, only other people on the road get it. That a day of being clapped and admired while paid to do what you adore beyond all measure can still drain you enough to not call home after dinner. That down the pub with the other performers is still booking the next gig. That Switzerland-Germany-Austria-Amsterdam is still work and not a vacation. That coming home is sometimes extinguishing the light, losing the compass. That the dinghy tied to the dock, filled to the gunnels with duty and honor, capsizes as surely as the trimaran set out chartless and un-provisioned.

* * *

Belize.

She is lovely, and smart, and I like her. I like her almost as much as she likes me, enough to break out the rations and start checking sails. In the end, I have learned. There is only room for one in this boat. It only follows one route—there is no destination.

The water taxi pulls away from the island, away from her. And there she is, alone, her red skirt brushing the boards of the dock. She watches for not quite as long as I wave, and then she turns away.

If you’re on the road, and you’re faithful, you end up sleeping alone all the time.

There is always a leaver and a left. One on the dock, and one in the boat pulling away. I count my bags, I check my tickets, I pull down my sunglasses and turn my face to the wind ahead.




whipchick can be counted on to call home once a week.

Tags: ljidol, travels
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