Wanderlust
by Becky "Human Map" Baumann
We are on
the precipice
of a panic
attack searching for an escape
from the
stress and anxiety that has relentlessly assaulted
our nervous
systems for the last twenty-two years.
It is only 1,646
miles to Montana.
We will forsake
the GPS device in favor
of the
decades old atlas that has lived undisturbed
under the
passenger’s seat of the station wagon I used to loathe.
And when we
embark we will listen repeatedly to my Nico CD because
her voice
sounds as disoriented as we feel.
And we will
drive North to Wisconsin, which will look
just like
the corn-covered central Illinois we are running away from,
but we will
not be disappointed because we will see it
through the exhilarated
eyes of explorers. And we will venture straight
West through
the land of 10,000 lakes, steering clear
of the
obvious shortcut through North Dakota because you understand
my fear of
falling face-first into a Fargo wood-chipper.
And we will drive
towards the bison and bare beauty of the black hills, but
we will ignore
the overrated, underwhelming
tourist trap
that is our beloved Mt. Rushmore.
And we will
climb to the tops of the glacier-glossed mountains
of Montana
and discover that we have not nearly reached
our
destination.
It will be
an adventure—and we know all about adventure
because we
have read Hemingway and London and Kerouac
and we will
be delighted when we realize
we are
leaving confusion and nonsense behind
on the road
of self-discovery, which winds its way
through the
Americana we had previously tried to avoid
—and we will
decidedly overlook the cliché of it all.