Coming Home

Revolution, in its earliest sense, means to travel a complete circle, to end up where one begins. And so it goes with my Polish revolution. Except the circle warped into a spiral which returned me spatially to the same point while in another dimension I had moved miles away.

The knot in my stomach which gripped my mind with anxiety when I left Salt Lake returned, for a while, as I said goodbye to Agata in Warsaw and started my journey home. Perhaps it was the association with airports. Perhaps it was the deep-seated subconscious stress at returning to a place abandoned so hastily, so messily. I search for such a hidden cause because on the surface, rationally, I feel calm. I am not diving into the unknown, not launching off onto an adventure which will mark the rest of my life. I am merely entering a hiatus on that adventure, a break full of frustrating relaxation and welcome time to work.

On the plane from Warsaw to London I read a Polish magazine, Polityka. It commerates the 50 year anniversary of the EU; Poland is leaping for joy at their membership in this club. I feel impressed at my ability to read it, and contrast this joy with the struggling through basic grammar books which marked my arrival journey. However ever latent guilt tweaks my conscience as I realize how far I am from mastery of this which should be my speciality. This guilt returns full bore when I try to order my meal with the flight attendant in Polish, meeting only her total incomprehension. I shirk back into my corner and thumb more diligently through the dictionary.

On the plane from London to Chicago I while away the sleepless hours playing with my personal video screen. My mind is blank and emotions numb; sure signs of subteranean trouble which I ignore and wipe away with 3 movies, 2 cocktails, and a glass of wine.

In Chicago my bags are late and my flight delayed. A combination which works to my advantage and means I catch the plane. Meanwhile I pass the time chatting with an Irishman, come to tour the southwest. He takes pictures and sells them, an art dealer of sorts. I like him, though he is racist, and he gives me his card. On the plane there is some horrible movie which I ignore as I try to finally get some sleep. My eyes close as the plane lands and I am back.

A homecoming to my parents is always an anti-climactic affair. They seem happy to see me but nobody knows what to say. We fall into a defensive sort of ordinariness which feels comfortable and wrong at the same time.

We get home, and the 900 pound gorilla is not there. I know it must be dealt with soon. I wait for him to get home, but fall asleep. I see him briefly in the morning. My brother. Its been years.