Crying on the Plane

Flying to Europe tonight for two weeks of exhibitions and screenings. Also meeting with a German museum director for my first solo show in January. And yet, every time I fly now, either for work or pleasure, I am reminded of how emotionally homeless I feel and want to cry (or do) on the plane. I used to love to go away and did so for years. Months at a time. For a few years, I was gone a third of the year. I couldn’t live without it. Isn’t there a movie about this? Doesn’t it usually star a man? Fatigued in airports, realizing that work no longer works. My mom always says I need comfort. That’s really the word for what I need. I chose knowledge, freedom, adventure, romance all my life. But not because I didn’t want comfort, or desperately need it, but because not only was I romantic about female agency, desire, feminism, and relation, I was romantic about what it means to live and be alive. And I was sure that following a truth procedure with integrity, intentionality, and passion would eventually lead to comfort and security.

Crossposted with Love Dog.

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