Streetlights flicker off, signalling the near approaching dawn. The lights burn away the dreams I held onto during the night.
Life would’ve been so different if I would’ve believed everything my seventeen year old self thought. I want to believe that its our flaws that make us beautiful, that make us powerful. But when I’m shrouded in a shame oh-so-deep that I can barely look straight at myself in the mirror, what do I expect?
“Where will you live?” They used to ask me. They’d ask me in Paris and they’d ask me in New York, they’d ask me in Los Angeles or on the way to Lima, Peru. I’d answer truthfully sometimes, and lie other times. Some people would ask me in earnest questioning, others in blasé indifference. I suppose, it didn’t matter where I lived or was going to live. But I always imagined I would live somewhere exotic, that I’d move around, see the world for a bit.
I’d see those van-life people, shredding around tarmac in their slow-moving vehicles, gulping down fuel and burning rubber all for the sake of living a ‘free’ existence, and I’d imagine myself doing it too— ‘this is the life, baby,’ I’d say, smiling at my non-existent road partner.
In some capacity I’ve played it safe, I’ve stayed in one place, worked here, done a lot. But I’ve always wanted to be a nomad, to travel from country to country between films. Writing a lot, living at the brink of time.
Shoot that gear stick into first and ‘let’s get it rolling!’ I’m saying to myself as I doze back into the routine of everyday existence. The gentle wobble from the furry dice air-freshener lulling me into hazy daydreams. I blink and five years have passed. Do anything but glance into that rearview mirror for too long, keep it moving, keep smiling, that’s the life, baby.
Where are we headed? They’d ask me, referring to the economic and political state of the world. I’d let my gaze drift beyond the face in front of me, stare out the window and shrug my shoulders. I’d catch a flight in Frankfurt then find myself in Stuttgart, listening to the scratching roll of my suitcase on the pavement. I’d see the world but only in glimpses, a fast food joint here, a snowy suburban road there, a hotel lobby, an exit sign, the inside of a taxi, a studio, a restaurant. Always passing through, coming from and heading towards.
In the midst of all this rushing around, this movement, I may catch a glance at myself in a reflective airport surface and think ‘is this the life, baby?’— sometimes the answer is overwhelmingly yes, and other times, the question rings in my ears for many moments later.
Be grateful, goddamnit, come on! But the coaxing only works for so long, only when the sun burns, only when the hum buzz of the light tickles this human into stifled activity. When the earth turns it’s shoulder to the orange fireball, the whispers turn to echoing shouts.
Time is money, money is time, and movement is progress. This is the sentiment that propelled me forward as I fell into the haze of business travel. Living from hotel to hotel, those scratchy wheels of my suitcase the soundtrack to more, more, more.
After too long on the road I’d begin to feel myself and my work partners lured into hormonal moods of commercial travel. A kind of irritable dread would fall over us when the room service halted, an anxious befuddlement dulled our senses as we found ourselves preposterously unequipped to hunt for food at 2am.
Where are we headed? They’d ask us at the airport check-in desks, bodies dragged along to the irregular drum of disoriented circadian rhythms. Look ahead and you’re never lost, keep going and it’ll be okay, there’s always somewhere new to see.
In the chase, the frantic stomp through airport lounges and overflowing security queues, you may think you want to live in a van— you may romanticise, glamourise and fantasise about the unbounded freedom of the open tarmac road. But until you’re doing it, showering on the side of the road and folding yourself between the roof and spring mattress of your vehicle, you just won’t know.
Until you’re alone in a room (or a van) and its just you. Until its you and the noise has stopped, and no one is asking you where you’re heading, or where you’re living, and there’s no question of whether ‘this is the life, baby’ because the time keeps going and you keep trying to catch up and you remember the line from Fight Club and realise that “this is your life and it’s ending one minute at a time.”
Where are we headed? They’d ask again, they’d ask us so much we wouldn’t know if they meant it metaphorically, or nationally or literally.
Well I don’t know about you, but I’m headed home.
PS. This edition of Bluezone was inspired by Joan Didion’s ‘On The Road’ which can be found in her book ‘The White Album’ (1979) as well as of course, my own experiences whilst travelling for work.
Dear Reader,
If you’ve made it this far, thanks for reading. I appreciate you following along with Bluezone.
Next week’s edition will mark the 10th instalment of Bluezone (!) and the first big milestone of this journey. I’ve enjoyed the first two months on Substack considerably, the community, writers and readers here are a joy to interact with.
Although I have a decent following on other platforms such as Instagram, I have refrained from advertising Bluezone on there in order to experiment more with my writing and, in all honesty, to figure out what Bluezone actually is.
The intention of Bluezone has always been to be a kind of journal on the creative process. Yet whilst writing these editions I have discovered that it’s much less about providing practical advice (there’s enough of that out there) and more about offering reflective and poetic approaches to creativity and life itself.
Every time I sit down to write one of these, I never know what I’m going to say. Much like making anything creative, you find what it is whilst doing it.
We crossed 40 subscribers a few days ago and, to think that all of you would fit snuggly into a small classroom is quite an amazing sight to imagine. Thanks for being here.
In the future, you can also expect the following from future Bluezone editions :
Mini-essays
Interviews with other creatives such as : writers, filmmakers, photographers, painters, musicians, fashion designers, architects, athletes, sculptors, creative directors and more
Reflective and poetic observations on life and creativity
Short stories
If any of these peak your interest then feel free to stick around.
You can support my writing by becoming a free subscriber or by buying me a coffee so that I can write faster and more efficiently hehe.
Until next time,
iL
This is absolutely my favourite!
I love diving completely in the words you write xx
Whilst reading this, for some reason I pictured myself as a tiny being stuck to your shoulder, like a spec of dust , riding along saying “this is the life baby”. So don’t shake out your jacket, I want to ride along again. 😶