by Cameryn Moore
I’m never ready for coming to ground.
I don’t think I’ll ever be ready for it. I stopped with my lover in DC last week, my husband, in fact, and we talked and talked, for the first time, really, in a long time: about us and about his job search and the fact that I don’t know where the fuck any of my work is taking me at this point. We talked about my lovers and his lover, and we talked about ourselves as lovers to each other, and where we thought we were going, and among the truths that emerged was one that was no surprise, I think, to either of us: I want to keep travelling for a while yet. I want to keep moving.
Even these short stops, the week-long or month-long or, oh god, FIVE WHOLE FUCKING MONTHS, it seems like too long, that there is somewhere I could be, performing for someone, there are people needing sidewalk smut or something that I could be providing. I can feel the invisible ties between me and all my cities tugging me this way and that. While I’m in one place, I can feel the beds being too small, or the rooms growing a little stuffy. I watch my burrows forming, of dirty clothes and paperwork and boots, and I think, no, I’ve been here too long. Gotta go, gotta kick that mess apart and pack it back up. Get out, go go go.
I’m never ready to come to ground. Every place is just a layover on my way to somewhere else.