Thursday, September 18, 2008

No matter where I move, or how unresponsive I choose to be, the alma mater never ceases to amaze in its ability to track me down, its long arm of an alumni association ever peppering my mailbox with donation requests and magazines published to engage a thoroughly disengaged party. One day, far down the road, I’ll probably donate regularly, though at this particular junction I believe all debts have been paid. Sure, it was a good experience, but wasn’t tuition thanks enough?

There have been a few mailings now about the five-year reunion for the class of aught-three, with festivities looming nigh in October. I imagine the correct response is excitement at the chance to relive the swirl of people, places, and food–to join your peers in tying the roots of the past to the push of recency. The immediate sentiment for me, however, is a profound disinterest, a heavy feeling couched in my core, ground deeply into my stomach floor. It’s unpleasant. I know I should regard this event fondly. But I don’t, and restlessness overrides once again, shoving any nostalgia aside as it exhorts me to move, move, move forward.

This inclination to run, this thrill of being ready to fly, used to strike me a lot, especially around the tail end of my time in Chicago. Now I’m trying to lock it down. Seize some permanence. The townhouse–and the godawful market tied to it–certainly plays some part in this, but something tells me what I’m searching for isn’t built on crawl space or slab.