Another travelin’ song.

Leaving Northampton, leaving dark coffee-shops and hipster haunts, leaving this little room with its French windows and fake daffodils and cozy white bed. Wrapping up writer’s group, perhaps one of the most satisfying things in my life since Street Sense ended. Packing life into old green Volvo wagon and hightailing out of town, Jackson Browne blaring through speakers, running, once again it seems, on empty.

In October, this same rearview mirror shrunk down home – waiting tables, barista-ing, life on the Atlantic Ocean, sun-drunk familiarities. A frenetic June in northeast D.C. – heat strokes and thunderstorms, Sunday markets and pizza joints. Graduation, a sprint to San Francisco, before that, the little apartment in Northwest – homeless newspapers, radical musings, regalia, anticipation.

My life moves in circles of 3-and-a-half months, trained for an academic calendar that has since unpinned me. Yet like the girl with the red shoes, I cannot stop dancing. Jobs started and quit, internships engrossing and then dull, homes decorated and then deserted. Friends made and abandoned. My resume is but a testament to my inability to commit.

Things, people, inertia - they just don’t seem to get their claws in me. But Africa is waiting. It too wants its turn.