Someone trying to tell me something?

I queued up the latest episode of Modern Family this morning and was met with the following advertisement:

Too bad it ends up being a fashion commercial.

Home (again).

The leaves shuddered frenetically on thin branches, flickering in the neurotic late-fall wind like unprotected flame. I watched them quiver, gripping against each renewed gust. In any particular passing moment some would succeed and some would fail–skipping broken-toed across the tar-stained concrete. I wondered if they knew what they were leaving behind? Or had some sense of adventure about what was to come? What held them to the tree in the first place, against months of other winds? Did they hold fast against leaving, or did the tree refuse to let them go?

I walked around the corner and poured myself another cup of coffee. The shop was only sparsely populated–the lunch crowd had washed in and then out like a midday tide, leaving mostly solitary students and the occasional group of two or three behind. I took a drink, letting the thin, earthy heat roll across my tongue. It was light and slightly gritty–not the best coffee I’d ever had, certainly, but palatable enough. I am by no means a coffee snob, of course. Olfactory hyposensitivity–my “broken sniffer,” as I tend to say–makes it difficult to truly open myself to certain hedonistic pleasures. Coffee, wine, even sex–it is amazing how much smell factors into such enjoyments. Still, I like what I like. If the things I enjoy strike a true connoisseur as a little “rough across the palate,” then so be it. The sub-$20 bottles of wine need someone to enjoy them too.

Walking past the mix of perfectly manicured coeds and stylishly unkempt hipsters–and idly wondering how ski vests could be fashionable in both groups–I returned to my table. Somewhere nearby, the shop’s heater rattled noisily to life. I looked through the window again. Beyond the tree–still shuddering in the serrated breeze–the shadow of a lamppost wavered against the wall of a nearby bank. I thought about my journey–how it was grinding to a halt, shimmering into and out of existence like a shadow in inconsistent sunlight. Do I still want to do this? I wondered. If so, then what is holding me back?

I had returned to headquarters to help my family with a project–something necessary, that had been put off for years. I was more than happy to help–my family was finally rolling up their sleeves and attempting to make changes for the better. I couldn’t possibly not be there to help. It was yet another obstacle keeping me from the open road, however. To that point, my journey could have been connected on a map as a lot of driving between headquarters, East Grandma, IA, and my sister’s house in Fort Worth. Always with a reason, a visit, an agreed upon necessity–but always delaying me from doing what I really wanted to do.

Or did it? My eyes strayed to the tree again. Is it me, or the tree? The common denominator in all of these choices was me. There were things out of my control, of course–Nora’s series of unfortunate events, for example. In every other case, I went because I wanted to go. Supporting friends through sickness, family “obligations”–these had been my choices. My obstacles. My refusal to let go. So…why? I sat at that table–a rough, country-style piece that seemed more at home beneath hand-painted hangings of ducks than in a downtown coffee bistro–and considered the reasons. There were the obvious ones, of course. I didn’t want one of my best friends to be alone with her illness. I wanted to help my Kansas family regain a sense of order to their lives–I’d always felt rather lost at sea with them, and had been a pretty bad son and brother as a result. Finally there was something concrete I could do. And my Texas/Iowa family–well, they were always vocal in their desire for and enjoyment of my presence. And I suppose that I like ‘em alright, I thought–then smirked, imagining the mock outrage, crooked fingers and accusations of “Stinker!” and “Be careful!”

These reasons only told part of the story, however. I was afraid–but of what? The unknown? Obviously. Change? Incontrovertibly. The cold? I smiled. A little. I was equal parts “Survivor Man: Braving the Elements!” and “Ooh…central heat…a nice warm bed….” Buried deep in there somewhere, however, was an awareness of lost moments. After all, I wasn’t exactly fresh out of college. Aging family and a long-abandoned sense of individual invulnerability made me very aware of what could happen while I was away. Would I regret spending the time away?

Yeah. Excuses, excuses…. I was a master of analyzing myself straight into inaction. I took another sip of the now tepid coffee. What I need is a series of destinations that does not involve my family or friends. Fat chance of that happening until after Christmas, though. Yet maybe that was fine. I could spend a few weeks planning, making contacts, preparing for Christmas–then, when the new year came….

I gazed out the window for a few more minutes–then sighed, finished my drink, zipped up my collar and stepped out into the cutting cold.

I have a moustache.

Of course, I’ve had a moustache for years. It was that blond strip of hair hovering uncertainly above a thicker, darker and most certainly browner patch of chin hair that together composed what beard fashion experts might refer to as a “goatee.” Now, though, the chin hair is gone and the moustache has been shaped into a more “period appropriate” style:

Trap Door Leo Still At Large!

I love Halloween.

I don’t have a whole lot to update. I mean, I do…but most of the things I have to write about aren’t my stories to tell. As a brand new reader informed me a couple of days ago, however, I haven’t posted in a while (“What? You haven’t posted in 10 days??”), so I thought I should at least ramble out a word or two about where I am and what I’m doing.

I returned to headquarters a little over a week ago, for a family shoot with my friend and fellow blogger Sister1. The shoot went well, although there is a certain chaos that comes when trying to capture four children—ages ranging from 8 weeks to 4 years old—in a combined moment. Then, it was back to the house and my editing machine.

The week since has been filled with everything from sorting and editing photos to playing with adorable children in the park (well, child, and I was asked to play with him—so stop checking the chomo list). I’ve packed and unpacked my storage shed twice—first for lighting equipment for the shoot and then for elements of my Halloween costume. Of course the things I needed were nowhere near the front. I recorded another section of Practical Demonkeeping by Christopher Moore for Audio Reader (and plan on finishing the rest of the book before I leave town again). I went to dinner and a movie with my younger sister and spent some time with my dad and step-mom. I became a premium member of helpx and downloaded a couple of “volunteer work in your area” apps for my phone. I started a photo blog though I’ve yet to actually add any content to it. I sat with a friend at the hospital and got drunk at a speakeasy. I’ve laughed, cried, gotten angry, swallowed my emotions, and both embraced and hid from the world. I’ve done quite a bit. So why do I feel like I’m falling into old habits, feet placed solidly on the sides while the treadmill conveyer courses silently between my legs?

My goals for this week: finish four outstanding photo jobs; finish recording the book for Audio Reader; dehydrate and prepare a week’s worth of trail meals; organize my travel bins, doing my best to get rid of things I really don’t need; spend some time tweaking the ‘mock until I can sleep comfortably again; and write and photograph something every day.

That’s about it. I know it’s not much. I’ll throw in some random photos to make up for the extended absence.

Peace, and happy Halloween.

One of my campsites in an early morning fog.

Is there a world beyond the wall of mist?

The road just outside the campground, fading into oblivion.

Campsite at Grapevine Lake

Grapevine Lake.

Wait. That's MY hammock!

Leeezard.

This is comforting.

Hiking in Ouachita.

Bears. They cross here.

The good shepherd.

Warm and cozy!

Peek-a-boo!

Campsite at Truman Reservoir.

Another angle.

A walking stick!!

Mr. Stick hangin' out.

Hiking in the Ozarks.

Random road shot, the Ozarks.

More random Ozarks.

More random Ozarks.

On Creaking Nights (and Backs)

Last night was horrible.

Making the transition from separation to immersion takes time.  Last night I was immersed in nature after a lifetime’s balance of thick walls and solid roofs, with only thin layers of fabric separating me from the outside world.  So every skitter of leaves in the wind gained the steady rhythm of footsteps (pawsteps?).  Every wooden creak held the ominous promise of being crushed or speared by a falling tree.  Every fibrous scrape against the hammock or tarp was a wet nose set above vicious fangs, or an eviscerating set of claws, or a hook out of urban legend.

When the noises weren’t keeping me awake, my body was.  I just couldn’t get comfortable.  I adjusted the whipping on my hammock my last night at East Grandma’s House, IA, in an effort to gain the perfect diagonal for a comfortably flat lie.  It didn’t work.  I spent last night in more of a banana position than ever.  Shifting to a more comfortable, slightly fetal position didn’t work either–it opened gaps between the underquilt and the hammock, creating cold spots where my body touched the fabric.  For the first time since I took to the trees, I emerged from the ‘mock stiff and miserable.

But what a glorious morning I emerged into!  I had arrived at the site in the dim, directionless light that only exists on the darkness sides of sunrise and sunset, so I didn’t get a chance to really see beyond what it took to check for tracks and scat or set up my accommodations for the night.  In the morning, though, with the icterine sun cutting coolly over the Eastern trees, reflecting off the lake’s lazy jade just down the hill from my camp–poets have written about these sorts of things with eloquent grace.  Me?  Cut me some slack.  I’ve barely had my first cup of coffee.

(Wanders off to set up the propane burner for water for a second wondrous, life affirming cup o’ joe.)

So, let’s see–what details from the last few days have I missed?  Skipping the mundane but necessary moments of daily living, of course….

Nora came back from the auto medic spry and sexy.  Gone was the unnerving metallic rattle I had long assumed (in my automotive naiveté) to be strut and/or shock related.  She was once again fun to drive, whipping around bends in road–at nothing more than the maximum advertised speed, of course.  She was slower to accelerate than I’d remembered, but that could very well be because she’s carrying a little more weight than usual.  I wouldn’t say that in her presence, of course.  She’s sensitive about such things.  Especially the cooler full of bottled water.  Water weight is the worst.

I spent Sunday cleaning, organizing, and packing my gear, and enjoying what I could of my last day with the family. We had dinner at Pizza King (a strangely nice restaurant for the name–it started out as a pizza joint but somehow evolved into a restaurant with filet mignon on the menu) and dessert at Christy Creme, our favorite local ice cream shoppe (the extra “pe” stands for “patently exceptional”).  Then we sat around watching television and chatting while I made a few final decisions about the next few days on my trip.

So, Monday morning I finished gathering everything and packed it into Nora.  Then it was time for goodbyes.  ”I hate saying goodbye.  I just hate it!” said my mother, and we all felt it–but every journey to a destination involves leaving someplace else.  Still, I dragged my feet for about as long as I could before heading out the door.

Next stop, Harry S. Truman State Park, Missouri–a nice quiet sprawl of wooded greenery on a peninsula jutting into Harry S. Truman Reservoir.  It ended up being a somewhat longer than normal drive, with all of the construction, but it allowed me to break the drive to the Ozarks into two bits.  And this quiet little campground and park (well, perhaps not little in the strictest sense of the word–this place is enormous–but I feel isolated enough in my own little plot of woods) is pretty wonderful on its own.  I stopped, set up camp, cooked a bit of soup and bread on my propane burner, chased off a possum, and eventually folded myself into my ‘mock for a “pleasant” night’s “sleep.”

Well, I guess that brings us up to date.  I’m going to pack up and go explore a bit before hitting the road.

Come on world, turn my way.

“The man who goes alone can start today; but he who travels with another must wait till that other is ready.” –Henry David Thoreau

The latest news from the auto medic is that Nora won’t be sewn up and ready for the open road until Monday. No motor running, highway heading, or adventure seeking wildness for a little over two more days. It’s fine, though. It can’t be helped. Does an umbrella complain about the rain? Every time. But my response to it is always the same:

Better you than me, sister.

Or it would be if I spoke Umbrellish. Which I don’t. My high school didn’t offer Umbrellish as part of its regular curriculum. Instead I took French, which has proven all but useless in the two decades since. Ah, well. C’est la vie.

I spent yesterday evening making a few adjustments to my hammock and quilt arrangement. Throughout the day I’d felt the promise of chill against my skin, so I made plans to spend the night out in my grandma’s backyard. I set everything up, made all necessary adjustments, donned my cold weather sleepwear (a long-sleeved silk base- and merino mid-layer on top, a merino base-layer and jeans on bottom, and a thick pair of Smartwool socks, a Buff and knit cap to cover up the alpha and omega, so to speak) and climbed into the ‘mock. I quickly learned two things: a) my grandmother’s automatic security light is very bright, and 2) Shelties do not like it when a member of their herd is not properly shut up in the pen for the night. At all. Not one bit. My mom’s year-old puppy spent most of the night patrolling between house and hammock, waking my stepdad up with the regular thwicker-thwack of the dog door, and repeatedly setting off the aforementioned security light.

I was absolutely fine, though. I had my Buff configured as a blindfold, and a pair of headphones pumping the low drone of an audiobook into my ears. Other than early attempts by my shepherd to climb through the bug net and into the hammock with me (she quickly resigned herself to licking my face, hands, or whatever else she could reach through the material), I slept like a baby. The temp dipped down to the high 30′s. When it starts to go much below that I’ll use a wool blanket to supplement my top quilt, I think, but for now at least I’m in good shape. Even with an adorable but slightly stressed pair of warm brown eyes gazing through the mesh at me.

I woke a little after 7:15 am to a slight bite in the air–and a dull pressure in my bladder. I snuggled deep into my TQ. There were a couple of cold spots on my back that should be an easy fix (just a quick adjustment of the underquilt), but they weren’t enough to drive me out into the chill. I managed to hold on for another half-hour or so, the sounds of distant traffic gaining in intensity at approximately the same rate as my need to go inside and activate the void trigger. Finally, though, I crawled out and headed into the house–to the obvious relief of one bleary-eyed puppy.

The rest of the day passed pleasantly if rather quickly. I went to a movie with my mom (“RED,” an action-packed movie that is a great deal of fun–even if it will win no academy awards for its unbelievably all-star cast). We had delicious spaghetti and meatballs for dinner, and a glass or two of a nice Zinfandel. Eventually everyone went to bed, and I headed to a hot shower–to relax stiff muscles in preparation for my own journey toward slumber. All the driving and switching between strange beds over the last month is really taking its toll on my body. I need to make arrangements for a good massage as soon as possible.

So, nothing particularly earth-shattering (or even mildly thought-provoking) in this entry, but there are days like that. I look forward to having many new and entertaining stories to share once I’m on the road again.

For now, though, it’s just a case of hurry up and wait.

Change We Cannot Leave In

When you cast yourself like dust into the wind (“All we are is dust in the wind, dude. Dust. Wind. Dude.”), you have to be able to roll with change. Or in my case, be able to roll at all.

After noticing by way of a helpful sticker on my windshield that it was past time for Nora’s oil change, I made an appointment with my grandmother’s trusted mechanic to get “a lube and a look-see.” It’s always a good idea to make sure your car is at the top of its game before heading on an extended road trip, after all. The lube went fine. The look-see, however, turned up a few troubling points of interest–a torn CV boot and a timing belt on its last legs. The timing belt is more preventative than anything–pay now to keep from paying much more later. At 101,000 miles, it’s about time for it anyway (manufacturer recommends it at 105k for my model). The CV boot, however–I feel like the man who complained about his wife faking a headache every time he tried to get frisky, only to end up distraught by her bedside after an aneurysm forced her into ICU. Wasn’t I just a few days ago mocking poor Nora’s dainty paddies on even mild gravel roads?? If she doesn’t pull through, I’ll never forgive myself!

So, perhaps I’m being a touch dramatic. I’m an actor, among other things. Sue me.

A couple of somewhat major repairs, but there is not much I can do about it–I certainly don’t need my CV joint to give out while traveling down the highway at a thousand miles an hour. Same goes for the timing belt. But it will be Friday at the earliest before the shop can get to it, which means my departure for South Dakota is delayed until at least Saturday. That gives me approximately six days to do the Badlands, Black Hills, Spearfish Canyon, Deadwood…there are more, but there’s no point in listing them all. Six days is simply not enough.

One of the major rules of this journey, though, is that nothing is set in stone–right? Every journey has its own rhythm, its own purpose, its own direction. I knew I was pushing it to get to South Dakota before the weather turned rotten. I’m not going to stress about this. The winds of change, and all that. But I do want to get out there. On the road, hanging in the ‘mock, the crisp morning air cutting my lungs as I reach out to turn the gas on for a quick pot of boiling water…the warmth of coffee and the stick-to-your-ribs goodness of a bowl of oatmeal…a long hike through some of the most beautiful landscapes this country has to offer…. These things call to me, and I am ready to go.

Not that my time here at East Grandma’s House, IA, hasn’t been productive. I now have a wonderful 3-season underquilt. The bulky sleeping bag I bought for $5 at Salvation Army has been converted to a top quilt (complete with a drawstring-and-snaps footbox–my mother rocks the sewing box!). And once Nora returns from her trip to Club Med, I’ll have a traveling companion with a bit more spring to her step.

Or at least one a touch less likely to kill me.

There have also been good conversations and togetherness-es. And inroads made on the mental journey–the “Self” part of the subtitle. I’ve discovered a permission I have long needed to grant myself: to kick the Editor out of the room when I’m writing. I always take a long time to write because I edit it as I go. I concern myself with grammar and word choice and tiny points of meaning and phrasing and…so on. Eventually I just end up locking down my creative impulses. I know this is a bad thing. I’ve told myself for years that I need to learn to just write, and leave the editing for later–because the way I’ve always done it rarely works. How you phrase things is so important, isn’t it? I needed to “learn” to do things differently. The problem was never that I didn’t know how–I just didn’t allow myself to do it. Additionally, this editing issue isn’t confined to my writing. I constantly edit myself as I go through life, analyzing words and decisions out of a misguided notion that I have only two possible roles in this life–The Prince or The Fool. Either everything has to come out perfect, polished, impressive, and original, or else silly, pathetic, demeaning and self-deprecatory. It all comes down to a public yet ultimately false self–one that is so heavily filtered that it has no flavor. We are all so much better at life when we allow ourselves to generate, to create, to put ourselves and that energetic spark that makes us unique out into the world around us. And the first step of that is to not allow the Editor in on the free write, the Censor into the idea room. Get the thoughts down. The “fixing” can come later.

The first (and only, really) rule of improv is “Always say yes.” The Editor tends to say “no.” This journey–and life–is first and foremost an improvisational engagement. Friends, family, events, crises, unexpected successes and failures–these are all the form and function of partners in an unfolding scene. And thus a very important new “rule of the road”: whatever my scene partner’s impulse–take it and run with it.

I hear there is some breathtaking beauty and wonderful trails to be hiked in the Ozarks. I think I’ll head there next. Then, back to headquarters for a few days for a shoot and some editing time (a few people will be very happy to get long overdue photos). And then…wherever the road goes.

There’s a group hang in Texas, November 12-14. Sounds like a good place to roll.

Self. Community. Hammockery.

It’s been a few days, and I’m back on the road. Which is to say: back at home base. It’s only for today, however. In the morning I will gather all my gear and climb back into Nora (I’m testing out a new nickname for my Jetta. It stands for Non Off-Road Automobile. She does not like going off the pavement–even gravel roads make her lift her low-profile feet daintily and wince like a cat on wet grass.). My first stop is East Grandma’s House, IA. From there I will travel up into South Dakota, spending a few days in the Badlands and Black Hills before the weather finally decides to play the alternative to “…or get off the pot.” Which is a bit of a concern, really: even now, not three weeks into fall, the overnight temperatures in SD are forecast to dip uncomfortably close to freezing. I have yet to fully implement adequate insulation for temperatures that low. My Gossamer Gear Thinlight pad and $5 Salvation Army sleeping bag are simply not going to cut it. I’d hoped to avoid spending any more money on equipment for this journey, perhaps adding a piece or two to my Christmas list–it takes a village to outfit a vagabond, after all. Putting off my temperature regulatory needs until well into winter carries with it certain difficulties, however. A quick visit to my bank’s website left me with the online equivalent of “Suck it up, crybaby!” I resolved to wear more clothes while sleeping and take a few extra blankets. Hopefully it would be enough.

As luck would have it, however, I returned to headquarters to find my old apartment’s deposit refund waiting for me. I was online ordering my 3-Season CrowsNest almost before my street-clothes suitcase settled comfortably on the guest room floor.

For those of you unfamiliar with hammock camping, the CrowsNest is an example of what is called an “underquilt”–or, UQ in the shorthand of the hammocking community. It is the equivalent of the bottom half of a cozy down sleeping bag, designed to hang tight to the underside of the hammock. The theory behind using a combination of UQ and TQ (top quilt) rather than just crawling into a sleeping bag inside your hammock is that any insulation needs trapped air to operate at full efficiency. When you lie on top of your sleeping bag inside your hammock, the bag is compressed between your body and the hammock and thus loses most (if not all) of its warming properties. An UQ, however, hangs on the outside of the hammock. Its insulation maintains full loft (i.e., space containing trapped air) and thus its warming properties remain undiminished. Combine that with a TQ (I plan to enlist my mother’s help in converting my $5 sleeping bag into one) and you have a toasty warm cocoon to pass your hammocking nights.

Needless to say, having that unexpected (or, rather, expected but forgotten) extra money arrive at such a fortuitous moment was a very, very good thing.

That worry behind me (I know, I know, “suck it up, crybaby”–but catching pneumonia on the first major leg of my travels frankly lacks in style), I could return to shaping the overarching narrative of my journey.

The week plus I spent at my sister’s house gave me a lot of time to ponder. Part of that time I actually spent pondering–it is so easy to give myself over to available forms of mind-numbing stimulation. Television, video games, and Internet are just a few examples of the kind of almost obsessive self-stimulation that I have to consciously force myself to avoid. They were all present at my sister’s house. The constant flood of images flickering across our eyeballs, media that is not just accessible but compulsory–I have a very hard time saying no. It is why I had to take a break from online gaming, among other things. In fact, my current journey is in essence a large-scale and rather dramatic extension of that break–when I do things, I don’t do them halfway, it seems. I allowed myself to construct the world as overwhelming, then used various forms of self-stimulation to escape that world. I would look up at a clock hours later to find that I’d wasted most of the day. What had I accomplished? Nothing. Frustrated with myself, I turned all my dials of available mental noise to 11 and knelt there, awash in the cacophony. I retreated from the world, ashamed of my purposelessness.

So, what do you do when the ambient sound is too loud for any kind of conversation? You start by turning the radio off. Or television. Or you step out of the bar and let the brain-jarring thrum of angry music fade into a barely discernible rhythmic pulse. However it works, you remove the noise. Then, once the ringing in your ears has stopped–once you have embraced a kind of healing stillness and are again capable of meaningful communion–you reach out. Humans are hard-wired to be social, but every so often the system needs to be reset. Some do this on a daily basis, others weekly, others can go months or even years without needing it. In my case, I was in desperate need of a reboot.

This is not about being alone. Well, to be accurate, it’s not solely about being alone. I spent the better part of two years alone, going into long periods my friends referred to as “hermiting,” but there was very little stillness in this solitude. The stillness is what is truly important. I used to tell my acting students that, “Theatre, like life, is all about the silences.” We come from silence, we end in silence–yet so many of us are absolutely terrified of it. Being comfortable with stillness is vital in allowing oneself to exist within the moment. How can we possibly connect with another human being outside of the moment–when our attention is chained to the past and future, to self-judgement, regret, prejudice, and shame?

These are the sorts of thoughts that wandered through my leaky brainpan between playstation sessions and stream-of-consciousness web-play. No conclusions as of yet, but a rough structure emerging wraithlike from the mist could be…

Too much world is a problem. It mainly serves to drown out the self.
Too much self is a problem. It mainly serves to block out the world.

“But, isn’t what you’re doing exactly that? The ‘too much self’ that ‘blocks out the world’?”

Yes and no. It certainly has that potential, if I allow it to continue unchecked. What I’m attempting, however, is a brief period of stillness in which neither the world nor the self is actively engaged. Both are allowed to come and go as they will, greeted at the door, offered lemonade or an ice-cold beer to enjoy on the porch while we wordlessly watch the sunset together. Then they wander off. Once this is done–once the need to overpower every moment with masterful misdirection is gone and I allow myself to simply be…then I turn my attention outwards again. Be Reverend Forbes’ leaf, simultaneously drawing health from and feeding health to the community. Somewhere along the line the prevailing wisdom became “take care of number one.” Put on your oxygen mask first, you can’t love anyone until you first love yourself–practical and safety considerations aside, is it possible and perhaps even preferable to do both at the same time?

I don’t know. I don’t have all the answers. What I do know is that this blog’s current subtitle–”Self discovery through hammockery”–is too limited. It doesn’t quite fit the journey I want to take. It is about self discovery, yes. That doesn’t mean it is just about me, however, wallowing in my thoughts, analyzing my feelings–trading in the psychiatrist and couch for this blog and a hammock. You can only appreciate the world’s largest ball of twine by comparison, I think, and a metaphor is useless out of context. I’m changing the subtitle to something more appropriate.

The week at my sister’s house was great. Other than the “stuff exchange” with The Ex, of course. But it’s done. I wish her the best and hope that someday she will open herself to happiness (she’s spent so many years convincing herself that it simply isn’t possible). I very much enjoyed my all too brief camping trip with my nephew. He’s a sharp kid, with a quick wit, a ready smile, and a short attention span. Reminds me of myself at–

Ooh! Shiny!!!

On that note, and before I plunge into abject absurdity, I better head to bed. Tomorrow I’ll write more about What Comes Next. Now, though, I’m going to unfold the hide-a-bed…and drift off into yet another form of silence.

Good night.

…if I never had the hunger.

NOTE: No baboons were harmed in the making of this post.

If there is one thing to say about life, it’s this:

Life is vague.

More accurately, life’s rules are vague. Life itself is pretty damn specific, most of the time. Yet there are very few hard-and-fast rules to be found.  When you do find a rule, it’s usually something like “no leaving the classroom without a restroom pass”–and when the pressure mounts and you stumble forward, the hook where the pass should be is empty.  So now what do you do?

My friend Lesa, intrigued by my idea to have volunteer work guide my travels, sent me a link to a woman who has been doing just that.  In the way that these things work, that link sent me to a number of other links–and one of those links led me to a free e-pamphlet titled “Seven Keys to Discovering Your Passion.” The title leapt out at me, a ring of ancient incandescents around each letter–with the word “Passion” in flickering neon, like the inconsistent pronouncement of vacancies at a run-down motel. Passion is a somewhat elusive concept for me. I’m a thinker, an examiner, a dissector. I process things at length in the space around me, considering minute details and rolling ideas over the surfaces in my mind like wine in a connoisseur’s mouth. This is not to say that I’m particularly intelligent, or even good at examining my thoughts. It’s just to say that I’ve always found it difficult to be passionate about things when I live so much in my head. Because of this, I think, passion intrigues me. I envy people who get bathed in fire, skin flushed and lips stinging as adrenaline slaps them across the face. So, I downloaded the e-pamphlet and clicked it open. And there it was. Key number one, numero uno, primo and prototypos: “Give yourself permission to be passionate.”

What absolute schlock, right? The worst kind of psychobabble and individually packaged manure–microwavable meat pies, high on taste but, man-oh-man, how I’m going to regret consuming it later when the heartburn hits and my intestines lurch like a tanker in a hurricane! Except it’s kind of not. There are all sorts of permissions we fail to give ourselves on a regular basis. When you come face to face with that empty hook and the horrible certainty that the worn, over-sized wooden board (some kid’s C+ project in wood shop) is currently riding around in a Ritalin deprived, first period student’s backpack, what do you do? Do you fawn and beg? Do you slink back to your seat until you just can’t hold it anymore, and then refuse to leave with the bell because the nickname “Chrissy Pissy” is not one you want staining the rest of your public school experience? Or do you break the rules, giving yourself permission to leave sans pass, to pee in the trash can, to wear your yellow trousers like a revolutionary’s bandana–no guilt or embarrassment, just a sense of satisfaction that your sacrifice has brought an unjust system into a highly unflattering light? At the very least, this “permission to be passionate” thing deserves a bit more thought before I dismiss it.

Yet, therein lies the problem: I already have plenty of experience thinking about passion. I’ve kept it firmly placed in the abstract world of thoughts and ideas–the place I keep most everything, these days.

I think it’s important to recognize that “giving permission” as an act is not a purely mental one. Civilization has long viewed mental activity as superior to physical (although current events in U.S. politics shows a certain backsliding in that regard–vilifying science and intellectualism seems like a bad idea when it comes to solving the many problems that face us). I think, though, that breaking down this devotion to a monarchical mind is sometimes necessary. Eckhart Tolle in The Power of Now writes, “You are not your mind.” Mental noise, compulsive thinking–these are things that interfere with being fully present in the moment. All of these permissions–to be passionate, to fail, to succeed, to talk to strangers, to punch a baboon, to do whatever it takes to find fulfillment, growth, healing, a sense of harmony or delicious discord–these are all at their core a plea to allow the endless analysis that paralyzes so many of us to just, for the love of God or whatever you find holy, stop. And release us to live freely in the now.

This is at the core of this journey, for me. I want to find ways to force myself to not get locked up, as I have a tendency to do. I’m developing a list of “Road Rules” to live by while traveling, to help me get around my glitchy thinking and force myself out of my comfort zones. So far, all I have is: 1) Make choices (even if they’re wrong ones), 2) No choice is set in stone–leave room for the journey to take you where it feels you need to go, and 3) If it makes you uncomfortable, DO IT.

I’m still figuring out the volunteering part of this journey. I’ll be at my sister’s for a few more days–I decided to stay through my brother-in-law’s birthday this weekend, and to take my nephew on an overnight camping trip. We’ve spent a fair amount of time together over the past few days, playing video games, driving around, tossing a football back and forth–it has been wonderful spending time with him. He’s a good kid. I think we’ll keep him.

Tomorrow is finally the dreaded “stuff exchange” with The Ex. It’s just so mind-numbingly stupid that things are so cold between us. There was never any real volatile incident to create hatred. We just stopped communicating anything of real value. Neither one of us stopped it from collapsing. There was no violence, no heated words to be regretted later…there was just the slow sickening collapse into non-connectedness. Which makes the current emotional crispness rather out of keeping with the spirit of the break up.

Still, I guess we’re both grieving. And I guess everyone deserves permission to grieve in his or her own way.

Let me lie and let me go on sleeping.

I’m exhausted.

I crawled out of bed at 5:30 this (Saturday) morning in order to get Pipes to the San Antonio International Airport. Then I drove 5 hours to my sister’s house, where I played video games with my nephew until we drove up to my brother-in-law’s brother’s house at about 5 PM. They have a new-ish example of slobbery cuteness, so I once again grabbed my camera. It’s a good sign, I think, that I’m finally starting to get the old charge about shooting portraiture. Or, shooting anything, really. Ever since I closed the studio, I’ve felt a sort of gruff irritation any time I was asked (or expected) to pick up my camera. Not an ideal response for a portrait photographer, I know. I was just burned out–and, let’s be honest here, more than a little depressed. I viewed the studio as a failure, and therefore myself as one as well. I doubted my talents. I was certain each time I picked up a camera that someone would expose me for the fraud I was. It was rather like the few times in my life that I’ve been without car insurance, or been driving on expired tags–every time I passed near a cop, I stiffened, sure that I was only moments away from the dreaded demand for “license, registration and proof of insurance, please.” The camera became both a symbol of my deception and the means by which I would be shoved naked into the light. So, these hints of a reawakened passion are very, very good things.

I’m going to tack a couple of photos from today at the end of this post. Then I’m going to close the computer and go to sleep. I am so tired, and the morning (with my last Audio-Reader recording session for a while) will be here all too soon. Plus, my brain is almost complete mush. So please forgive me the short and likely incomprehensible post.

I am, as some might say, “Ti-ti.” So I bid you good night.

I don't think he's quite sure of me yet.

Whaaaaaaaaa?!

Is that a smile??

…and I’m sitting by the Seine.

I did not go hiking.

There’s an immediacy to nature when you experience it from a hammock. Rain is not a distant thing, rattling gently against the age-worn shingles of a well sealed roof. All that is between you and the weeping sky is a thin layer of silnylon and a few leafy limbs. It is decidedly, disturbingly, deliciously close.

It rained off and on for the majority of Saturday afternoon. It waited politely for me to finish my last post, and then began hinting that I might want to gather things up and move them (and myself) to shelter. I put most things in the car, moved the firewood, a few bottles of water, a bag of trail mix and my kindle under my tarp’s awning, and then passed a pleasant afternoon reading. It mostly drizzled, but every so often the sky would open up for a few minutes and really let me have it. Nature knew that the weekend was a dry run (so to speak) for my travels, and wanted to make sure they I had a chance to test my gear in wetter conditions. I appreciated the effort.

After the sky cleared, I considered dinner. I built another fire–this one caught almost effortlessly, and with far less kindling. As the fire burned down to coals, I surveyed my supplies. I had ingredients for more kabobs but wasn’t really in the mood to wrestle with the too-short skewers I had on hand. I thought about an egg-based dish, but decided I didn’t want to dirty my new pans. They were a last minute purchase at a big box establishment (after a quick search of the local Good Will turned up nothing), and returning them would return a much needed $27 of my rapidly dwindling travel funds. In the end I decided on a can of lentil soup–cooked in the can, Steinbeck-style–and sliced open a bag of baby carrots. A simple yet satisfying meal.

A working meal, to be sure. While the soup simmered slowly on the fire, and before the light faded completely, I pulled out my notepad and began plotting organizational strategies. I mapped out a series of tubs divided by their point in the process: a tub for tools, with all the implements I need to set up camp and start a fire (including smaller tubs inside for fire starting materials and batteries/electrical supplies). A tub for non-food kitchen supplies. A tub for cleaning supplies and toiletries. A clothing tub. A tub for shelter and sleeping supplies (this one got cut from the program–it ended up being easier to stuff these things around the edges of my trunk). A tub for back up supplies–my tent, for if I needed to go to ground, gloves and other cold-weather gear, that sort of thing. And a tub for firewood and kindling. With this setup, I could pull out two tubs to begin with and have a smoothly running camp within minutes of hitting the site.

After night quit skirting the subject and got to the point, I pulled my camp chair near the fire and enjoyed a cool beer (figuring out how to keep things cold for days will have to be dealt with sooner rather than later, I’m afraid). I threw another log on the fire and let my mind wander with the flickering light. I had turned off my phone hours before (due to recharging issues that I’d have to address before leaving town for good), so it was just me, a sort of muted white noise provided by other campers and nature, and my thoughts.

A group of psychologists and neuroscientists recently met in Utah and unplugged themselves from the world (link) and began mulling over the affect that multitasking and constant digital intrusion have on our ability to focus and process information. It’s too early in their process to draw any conclusions, certainly, but one idea in particular feels right to me: so much of our working memory is tied up in constantly adapting to informational influx (or even being prepared to adapt to it) that our brains lack the downtime needed to process that information. It certainly seemed true at that moment as I drifted along the tide of light and shadow.

After an hour or so of this, I broke up the fire, sent a cloud of water steaming into the night, and retired to my hammock. I read briefly, then shut off the light and let the ‘mock’s gentle sway and nature’s soundtrack lull me to sleep.

I woke up a little after seven the next morning. The fog diffused light rendered the distant trees and tents indistinct, and I thoroughly enjoyed the crisp wet air breathing gently across my skin. I wandered for a bit, camera in hand–catching moments in an impressionistic landscape–and then grabbed a yogurt and fruit and mixed myself a quick breakfast. Then I began packing out my camp. One of my neighbors was out walking his dog and stopped to chat for a bit. He asked questions about my hammock setup, I responded, we discussed hiking and gear and the sometimes frustrating task of finding women with any interest in outdoor adventure–that sort of thing. Eventually, he wandered off again, and I finished shoving my disorganized mess into the car and started the relatively short journey back into Lawrence.

Sunday mornings are when I read a couple of sections out of the Kansas City Star for Lawrence’s Audio Reader (link). On my way home, I stopped at the AR studio and recorded my sections. I’m going to miss doing that, I think, but living out of my car and hammock will hardly be conducive to logging in to Telephone Reader. Still, there’s a sort of therapy in helping others–as though individual health and community health are inextricably linked. More on that later.

After finishing at AR, I met up with Pipes (an easy enough task, as I’m staying in her guest room). We headed down the street and enjoyed the Sunday buffet at Maceli’s. It was delicious, as always. Then a few friends and their children stopped by to chat with Pipes and her rabbits (the rabbits, sadly, did not hold up their ends of the discussion). The children and rabbits were being extraordinarily charming and photo-worthy, so I pulled out my camera and floated around the fringes of the conversation.

Eventually, everyone left and I began focusing my thoughts toward Tuesday (my planned departure date). I made various lists, hit stores for supplies, and took a few more things to storage. I finally heard back from my friend Lesa about getting together before I left town, and we made plans for Monday evening. I cleaned out my car, did laundry, labeled and began packing tubs, and the like. Between Sunday afternoon and Monday evening, I had things pretty well in hand for a Tuesday departure. Rick came by with a tub full of camping gear he was loaning me for the trip (including various pans and cooking implements–hello, $27!) and we chatted for a bit. Then I threw on some less rumpled clothes and headed out the door to meet Lesa.

Lesa is one those friends I can fall out of touch with for months, even years, and yet with whom I can fall right back into a comfortable rhythm. As it just so happens, this particular stretch had been of the “for years” sort–at some point, she had even developed an entire two-year-old child I knew nothing about. I picked her up at her house, passed a few moments with her husband Terry, got a distracted greeting from her older daughter and a rather unusually serious one-armed hug from her two year old, and then we were off. We drove to a local micro-brew restaurant and caught each other up to speed on the important points of the last few years. Children, pets, relationships beginning and ending, studios closing–these sorts of “previously on…” conversations always end up being so much quicker than you think they should be. I mean, I was there, living that life. How can it possibly be summed up so briefly? Yet, before we knew it, we were on to new topics–topics of the moment, topics of the future. I discussed my upcoming travels–this nomadic journey of self-discovery–and Lesa offered her thoughts on the ultimately self-defeating quality of too much self-focus. She is a trained therapist, on sabbatical as she raises (apparently) two children, and as we discussed the idea of volunteer work as therapy–turning outward instead of turning inward, as it were–several things began to click into place. Conversations with The Pageburies, words from a speech by the Rev. Dr. James A. Forbes (link) about the leaf as a metaphor for individual and community healing, how much more focused and purposeful I felt when I first began volunteering for Audio Reader–these things swirled around, thoughts seeking slick-fingered purchase on an idea.

What if the spine I’ve been looking for could be found in volunteer work? What if I use my travels to take me from need to need–traveling, enjoying, photographing, but also helping? It’s an appealing idea, though I have no idea how to manage its logistics. I’ll definitely explore it more in upcoming posts.

Lesa and I enjoyed a meal and a few drinks, chatting fairly late–well, late considering that I needed to be up around 6 a.m. to drive Pipes to the airport and she needed to rescue her husband from their children. I dropped her off and headed home.

Tuesday was quite a bit more relaxing than I’d expected. After an early morning run to the airport, I took my car to Free State Auto to try to figure out the power point/phone recharging issue. It needed a part that he couldn’t get until the morning. So much for my leaving on Tuesday. I didn’t mind, though. It felt nice to spend the rest of the day relaxing. I was about to throw myself into life as a vagabond, after all. One more night in a comfortable bed in a place that was, for the moment at least, “home”…well, I certainly had no problem with that.

So, that brings us mostly to the present. There are a few things not worth dwelling on–long drives and hasty sleepovers, on my way to San Antonio–and things it really isn’t my place to discuss–issues of health and crises, for example. However, I am here, in San Antonio, enjoying some more time with Pipes before she heads off to New Orleans and I head off to who-knows-where. Well, I do know one where. My sister’s house, for a few days. Where, among other things, I will arrange a connection with The Ex, to collect the detritus left in the wake of our failing relationship.

I’m so looking forward to that.

The Three Amigos. When they're not trying to kill each other.

Cute kid. Slightly dumb rabbit. Okay...mostly dumb.

So much more organized than during the test run!

All packed up and ready to go!