the hamartia disease

“I long, as does every human being, to be at home wherever I find myself.”

re.count [ri’kount] v. tell someone about something; give an account of an event or experience

Margar recounted everything she could remember about leaving Swarthmore and coming home.

Stumbled around to find everything I’d need and unceremoniously threw all my stuff into my suitcases. Treasured objects become stuff when they’re deadweight.

The last time my dad came to pick me up he read the “play a musical number on a fucking roof” quote and looked quietly scandalized. To improve this experience, I erased my Margar quotation from the whiteboard. “The whiteboard is a transitive property. It’s like a mandala. Do you know what a fucking mandala is, you bitch?” (After writing that quote, my dad tottered into the living room and tucked another blanket around me. No, there will be no vulgarities for you, peaceful patriarch.)

Dad brings all the suitcases to the car and leaves me to rummage through the room. I decide to clip my fingernails instead (so I wouldn’t break my skin scratching at the ANTI-antibiotic rash.) Room empty, Willison charges in. We have a conversation about how gross my rash looks and how sick I probably am, and for some positive contrast, how awesome and rad it is to go home. Dad calls my cell, Willison lets my dad into Wharton, Dad and I depart the dorm.

We pick up my art project from Beardsley. Tasha, Zein, and Thomas are all there. Zein asks something that I can’t really comprehend, so I respond with noncommital noises to acknowledge and validate his curiosity. Not the right response, he becomes more confused and asks a follow-up question. Tasha looks vaguely interested about my condition, but not enough for me to give an actual considerate report. I try to shuffle out of the room as quickly as possible so I end up leaving in the most inelegant and unsociable manner. I’m only mildly embarassed. Fuck them; I’m sick and going home.

Riding home. Eight hours. My dad and I listen to every Beatles tape we have stored in the car. There are only five: Magical Mystery Tour, Help!, Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, The White Album, Abbey Road. We almost transition to The Worst of Jefferson Airplane. We talk sometimes, about my friends, the quad, the mice, his work, the dog and cat. But mostly I just fade in and out of consciousness and watch the road move. He compulsively drinks Chai after Chai, collected en masse from the trucks stops along the way. Dad grabs me a burger and diet coke, but forgets a straw. So I mindlessly suck at the raised hole on the lid, sipping from a makeshift Coca Cola nipple.

We make it home.