And I’ve never been sure what I have been chasing all this time. I’ve had good, even great, jobs most of my life, but none of them were the result of a particular pursuit. I honestly can’t recall either of my parents, let alone counselors, asking what I wanted to do when I grew up. I always wanted to write and I always wanted to travel, but that vague desire is no clearer now than it was when I was home sick in fourth grade and wrote a book called Flight about two astronauts traveling through the galaxy. (I didn’t think it was too bad. At some point they realize they didn’t bring food along so one of them reaches out to break off part of the Milky Way–hey, I was nine). 

And all of this stuff and belongings are a bizarre thought when I give it any thought at all. I have hundreds of books and I can’t figure out why. Certainly, some of them make sense–signed books, first editions, books which had an impact on me as a writer or as a person. But even them as well as the rest of the pulp do little more than take up space. I’m not likely to read them again, I don’t open photo albums, don’t open bins in the attic filled with my son’s artwork from first grade, don’t pull out the Rubbermaid with souvenirs from my own youth. This stuff is literally just there, existing, filling space, perhaps to say in the subtle way of items, that I did live, those places and moments were real, and I didn’t just imagine it. So many times so much of my life feels like just some television show I saw once which I more or less enjoyed but I’m starting to lose track of the plot, and I keep hoping for some Ghost in the Machine to show up and pick up the pace of my narrative. 

Meanwhile on a break from doing nothing I picked up my phone to make myself feel busy, and I noticed many of my contacts are dead, same in Facebook, and I was going to write about it but Sedaris did in his last book, even though I’ve wanted to do that piece for years, but now it will look just like the “Small Talk” piece I wrote four years before he released a piece about waiting in line at Starbucks, but people still said, “Oh! Just like Sedaris,” not knowing I was there first, way first. But I did notice the contacts of dead friends and wondered how long I’d let them sit there in my list like old books I really enjoyed but will never read again. Should I give them away? (the books, not the dead contacts). Should look at them once in a while and remember? (the contacts, not the books). There’s Laura, but she is too recent to delete. It feels blasphemous to delete Fr Dan, and Letty simply isn’t going anywhere. Not yet. 

My point is I’ve come to realize at this point in my life I more or less simply tumbled backwards to this point without any real direction or coaching. Everyone I know is relaxing and laughing with family and friends and talking–albeit mostly small talk–about their careers and their lives, and I never quite feel like I’m part of it. 

Drop in Jackson: I always feel like I’m just a day away from where I oughta be. 

There is one place though, one summer when the items in my life were never in my thoughts, my job a quick reference to strangers, my ambitions irrelevant, and my hopes alive and well and living in the next moment. It was in France and Spain on the Camino. Look up at the photo above. That’s me south of Pamplona looking out over what was next. My son took the shot and it stands as the main photo for this blog. See that backpack? I had everything I needed in there. 

My son is there now, so it is on my mind. Here’s the thing: I had an Osprey backpack with a few changes of clothes, water, necessary paper and funds, guide, map, and charger. Usually a loaf of bread stuck out from a side pocket. Flipping through my journals over the years and remembering it now, I don’t recall ever, not once, thinking I needed any more, wondering how I forgot this item or that. I was set and I was one hundred percent in the present, walking, meeting pilgrims, swapping stories. I didn’t feel the need to head home, I was there, and as a result, these dozen years later I can still recall nearly every village, every person we met, what I ate and the feel of the sun on my neck. Like it was earlier today. This is about as close to teleportation as I imagine is possible.

But still I flounder wondering if I can get to the end of my life without having to have major surgery on my teeth. 

I’ve come close to that–hiking up in the Uinta Mountains, walking on the beach along the Oregon Coast. Wandering the water buffalo saturated fields of Neunen, Netherlands. Looking for Sunflowers, searching for a Wheatfield with Crows. 

But most of our lives are involved in routines at home, at work, adding people to our cellphone and deleting them when they die. Few people in Spain exchanged numbers. We were friends, brothers and sisters, linked together forever because of the Camino, but not wondering about when we can call them after the trip; thinking only about sharing some wine, laughing at night while soaking our feet in a small pool, and watching the day like it was the only day ever invented. 

I deleted Cole some time ago, and Rachel, and Trish. I never had Billy in there or Richard. Mom stays. 

I can delete most of the boxes in the attic, most of the clothes I’ve not worn in several seasons. I can get rid of the tins and artwork leaning against the wall behind bureaus because the walls are already spoken for. 

I can delete the walls. I can delete the foundation and the subfloor and the addition, the bathrooms. I can dissolve my cellphone in some lithium-sucking formula and work my way to Paris, to Notre Dame, and head south toward Arles. 

Let Sedaris write about that. Punk. I think he has bad feet.