There have been times in my life where the air seemed to crackle and swirl deliciously around me, as though it were heavy, saturated with hope and possibility. I can’t even begin to express how much I miss that feeling. I felt it my first year at Utah, as a fifteen-year-old kid on a snowy campus full of professors, theatre companies, and supercomputing institutes. I felt it again when I was re-admitted in 1993 and just discovering film, critical theory, and the Language Revue. I felt it coming back from my Odyssey of road trips in 2000, when I had spent weeks and weeks on the road, some of that time alone and in absolute silence watching the landmarks and trees fly by. I felt it my last year at Utah, along with the sense that I was already secretly a stronger, wiser man whose soul was walking somewhere across the sand in a far-away desert. I felt it my first year at Chicago, sitting in the elevated trains in one of the world’s great cities, watching the ice shimmer on the steel girders on the platform outside.
I expect to feel it again sometime during the fall of 2006. Maybe more strongly than ever.
I’m hungry for it.
But it’s a long time to wait.