I left my country the day after. Like walking out of a pile of rubble, I saw myself get in cars, on a plane, trains, toward possibility and a sidewalk all mine. I traded in my language, because I was sick of each and every word. I spent a month stripped of all that made me who I am and I liked myself better. Light, reassured, new. All the dirt washed from me; it was startling, this easy rinsing, no spots left. I couldn’t help but laugh at myself. A reacquaintance.
The next thing I gave up was fear. Not completely – how can you ever give up something physiologically yours – only as far as I could throw it did I kill it, push it out. Without it, other things came back. Confidence. Challenge. It made me throw away more and more – this system – and more was returned. I gave up worry; I won chance. I gave up control; I found places so dazzling I never stopped staring. I gave up shame; you found me. I gave up guilt; with each step my sneakers smashed the concrete.
My blue messenger bag, left in New York. My old couch, left to a second-hand-salesman in Sittard. My house, which is – according to my brother - the most substantial asset I ever wasted. My dog, left to a drunk bastard sleeping in his recliner and a car that was fast and hard. My best friend, left to God and his servants, so how could I ever curse the son of a bitch? Ice cream, which is better left to the kids anyway. My subscription to the newspaper, because the person who took it no longer existed. I left you behind out of necessity. I gave one day a week to whatever comes next. I gave my hair to the hairdresser and then wanted it back. I gave money to lots of people, but they all earned it, except for the kids who needed it and the IRS who demanded it. I gave money to myself and nobody thought it inappropriate but me. Red, painted on a wall.
And some small ideas. The idea that work is the most important thing. The idea that family comes first. That I’m old. That eventually everybody – even me – has to settle down. That to cook equals to be an adult. That being an adult means anything. That I prefer men. That you can only write when you’re a writer. That too much wine constitutes a habit. That being on your own means being incapable of half. That I don’t have anything to say. That I’m a rationalist and a realist. That Taco Bell is a great place to have dinner. That everything will be okay.
When the year was over and dust had settled, I remained.