Packed and Bagging

Traveling makes me uneasy as of late. I can’t be certain if it’s the lack of authenticity I attribute to movement-by-aeroplane or just my aging, changing persona, but I have felt very uneasy here in Chicago over the weekend. Primarily at night, and with my sister and girlfriend, or with my mother and son. I don’t know if it’s concern for their feelings, but I’ve been pistol-in-holster, shaky-handed all weekend, with visions of trains derailing or Lake Michigan tidal waves overwhelming the streets and how exactly would I leap from mailbox to bus roof to lamp post in time to avoid the disaster?

Of course, gypsy looking brunettes singing / songwriting their acoustic guitar airiness over our sandwich shop afternoon late lunches and the realization that Chicago holds a city-under-the-city of streets where deliveries are made all day and beautiful rhythms of a busker using two old buckets to play marching band worthy processions as we make our way across bridges fastening one side of the riverbank to the other all put the oil in my daytime springy step, so a fair amount of trade off and balance seem worth it, I suppose.

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