September 28th, 2013 The Highlands, Grand Tetons National Park

It's raining so hard right now. I'm sitting in a familiar place trying to re-cap, make sense…put myself in the proper present. I'm awake alone, drinking shitty beer. I'm in the Grand Tetons, in park service housing, a quaint little cabin at the foot of the Grand Teton mountain range. I finally have the time to sit and think and to be honest I want to crawl into my mummy sleeping bag…read my Oliver Sacks book, drift into another land of neuroscience and someone else's observations and research. But I can't. Rarely do I have time to be alone. Rarely can i just sit and listen to my own wandering thoughts. I've been, for the majority of my life, wandering, listening and wholly at the whim of others, their lives, their ideas, their plight, their whimsy. In a sense I am a parasite. I only get to be here in the Tetons because my friend is employed here. And so, I get to experience this time.

  Being able to have this time alone is a godsend. In the past month I have traveled vigorously…visiting friends in their lives, in their situations. what I have learned is that they do not sleep. At least when I am there. I have devoured the lives of many folks in a month, in my lifetime. I have tried unsuccessfully to document all of those people. To understand them properly, to tell their story though my journals and through photographs. I have realized at the age of 33 that this is not only maddening, but utterly impossible unless I discipline myself better or become addicted to amphetamines. Early in my life I realized I had a gift (or a curse) to relate to people to the point that they wanted to share everything with me. And I could understand them, each one of them, where they were coming from, what they wanted, what they were capable of and where they fell short. I was good at listening and providing an answer (sometimes harshly). I am not meaning to sound egotistical. Any of you who have spent time with me when I've been doing fairly ok, has had the time with me…the time where we sit and talk and I fill you so full of fire that you feel inspired.
  After so many years of listening to other people's hopes and dreams and failures and achievements I became exhausted. And I realized after my own life was pulled out from under me not long ago that I had been listening to others for so long that I had no idea how to take care of myself and had no idea what I myself truly wanted. I had it and I took it for granted in a sense. Fuck these mountains for making me think so much and making me realize so much. My body is so tired. I've been saying that I'm tired for a long time now. I don't know how to stop or to relax or just BE HERE NOW. I'm trying in this quiet moment and even now…my brain, will not let me be. Memories and ideas and thoughts and feelings are at an all time battle, clashing and exploding in my brain. The thrashing rain is not helping and I have to remind myself to SHUT UP and breathe. Perhaps this is why I listen to everyone else, not because I have a gift but because I am scared. So scared of my own wants and desires and aches and pains. Scared of what it is I think of. Perhaps listening to others is like watching television…a distraction from everything I am so scared of.
  Let's just get back to basics because that is easy. Experiences. Descriptions are always the best place to start. I can start with now and perhaps work backwards. The things in my head that I have to write down are so numerous and so full that the thought of doing that much work is harrowing. I need a month or so…but I do not have that. I have this moment, this hour or so. And we'll see how this unfolds. Let's work into this like hypnosis.
  I'm in a cabin. A tiny cabin in the Tetons. It is raining outside. The wind is blowing violently through the trees which are yellow and turning. It's autumn but feels more like the onset of winter. I woke up to snow two days ago that came down delicately. Now, nothing feels gentle. It is early. 9:30 pm. The elk are in their rut and even though it is raining I can faintly hear their alien bugeling. Bucks give out a throaty mighty screeching sound to call out to female elk all hours of the night. They are full of hormones and in serious need to reproduce and sound as such. It's a beautiful sound (at least to me) but it sounds almost desperate at the same time. It echoes all across the valley and it's primal and almost haunting. On a cold crisp autumn night it feels as though it moving through you. Now, it is muffled in the rain. Amongst the rain and the bugeling I can hear the slow hum of the refrigerator and I am reminded that I am in fact in a civilized dwelling with amenities. I may be in the middle of nowhere in one of the most beautiful preserved natural places in the country, but there is a stove, electricity, two toilets, a shower and the most comfortable bed I have slept in in a very long time. Elk may be trying to spread their seed outside and I'm sure it's snowing uncontrollably on top of the mountains, but I am warm and comfortable in this tiny little cabin built so well it withstands some of the harshest weather winter over winter. In a sense, I feel like this little cabin. Weathered and lived in and left when the seasons change.
    I've been carrying heartbreak and betrayal around like a heavy suit and over my travels the past few months that suit is finally worn down to rags, almost exposing the simple body I've been roaming around in my entire life. My body looks different and unfamiliar. I stretch my face in the tiny mirror in this little hovel and look for traces of my past, maybe wanting to hold onto the pain for a point of reference…trying to remember laying next to someone I knew I loved (for the first time in my life). Maybe I want to look into the  dead headlights of my eyes to search for a glimmer of the hope I used to posses, the undying pure love for every being that came into my existence. Maybe I want to see the toned muscle of arms that hugged anyone that needed it or didn't. I want to see the teeth behind the smile that came easily. I want to see the laugh lines around my loud and unnecessary mouth…the lines that were deepened by so much easy bellowing out. I don't see any of that. I see a face and a body that I don't know. A new structure. An older place. It doesn't look bad, just different and unfamiliar. I suppose I was scared before, even when I shared my life with someone I could not see the end with. I began to not recognize my face in his mirror. And I suppose I cannot hate him for setting me free and having to face that difference. In a very human moment of thinking I had found true love I guess i was hoping to have help to recognize a new face. Instead I put on garment after garment of pain. And I covered myself so I wouldn't have to face myself. And now I am in rags…almost naked.
  It's not as scary as I thought it would be. My body, my face, my reality, is so very removed from what I have known, but it is real nonetheless. And it is mine to carry all alone. I have no one to answer to. No one to succeed for. No one to provide for. No one but myself…perhaps these hours I am able to have alone will span on longer…perhaps they will stretch out for days or months. And perhaps in that time I can learn to take care of my unfamiliar self until it becomes familiar to me. And maybe I'll be able to understand what it is I want instead of being scared to the point that I don't even try to think about it let alone manifest it.
  It's stopped raining. The wind outside is gentle. I'm sitting outside on the wet wooden porch.

 The yellow glow of other folks lives are lit up in their tiny cabins along the way. It's cold and nice and I can hear that bugeling every so often. Those elk are screaming for everything they want and need. I'm jealous. I wish I could just yell at the mountains in my new found vulnerability. I wish I could shout out for every desire and hope I have within…and hear it echo all across this pure place…and see it find me in the morning the same way I see those bucks frolicking with their cows as the sun is coming up. I suppose I'll settle for the rushing of the river next to me…I'll keep moving along like those currents,  hoping to pick up what I'm supposed to find along the way. I'll keep gathering. I'll become bigger and better than I was before. I won't have to yell and scream to get what I want. The general enertia of keeping on will make it more apparent. And then I can give back again. Symbiosis.

this happened 10 years ago.

3 Prophets

Part 1

  I woke up one morning a couple of weeks ago-the sun was so warm on my body. My room at Nate's parents' house didn't feel so cold. I got myself together and for the life of me couldn't rush myself. I was enjoying that time to myself. The big house all mine, every little creak in the floorboards all for me…The sound of the furnace clicking on to warm the big cold emptiness. I stepped out the door into the light. It felt like it was shining just for me. It was the first sunny day in a long time. I had my polaroid camera in my hand, where it belongs. something made me stop and photograph the roses standing in our yard. The sun was shining through the petals, exposing all of the veins, and even in the frigid morning they stood tall, needing attention. The blue sky surrounded them in my photograph. 

   I walked down Foulkrod St paying attention to too much. The leaves were falling on my favorite little tree. People walked by and nodded to me, their hot breath coming out in smoke signals in the winter air. The house where the folks live (who collect trash the night before trash day and then re-sell it at flea markets or porch sales) had cats and kittens all nestled together to stay warm in the chilly day. I see those cats every single day. Almost always I feel bad for them, I worry about them. Today, this day, I seemed to understand, and it didn't pain my heart. I took Penn St instead of Foulkrod to Margaret. As I walked down Penn looking at new things-different houses, the obvious class change, the social structure change-the light itself seemed to change. It looked almost brighter. I nodded my head and gave a silent "thanks" to a god I swear I don't believe in. Everything in all of it's trash looked absolutely breath taking.

   I walked down Arrott St. Three young black kids were chasing each other around the rotten porch of a house. One girl who couldn't be older than ten years old sat on the bannister looking out into the world. She looked elegant, pained and beyond her years. Seeing her created a little space in my chest. I wished her comfort and looked at the boys playing and my hollow(ness) was replaced with a happiness for innocence. I stopped at Arrot St Terminal even though I was very late. I pulled out my cigarettes even though I didn't want to smoke. The sun was playing games on all of these peoples faces at the terminal and it illuminated a hispanic man as I asked him for a lighter. Blue collar man in well worn work clothes. His bus came as he was reaching for his lighter and he handed me his cigarette and rushed past to hop on the 59 bus. Immediately the old woman who was standing behind him said to me "Hey, do you want that cigarette?". And I did not want a soggy half-smoked newport. She said"Why don't you ask one of those fellers over they want it?' She pointed at two down trodden men dressed in rags, looking flushed with alcohol, looking tired from living hard and with no recognition of the life happening around them. I politely told her I was too shy, so she took the limp cigarette from my hand and asked them if they wanted it. They looked up and one of them became alive and animated instantly. He smiled wide and said "Lady, I've been trying to bum one of these for three hours…thank you so much!" She made his day, or his moment, or whatever. Her simple thoughtfulness made me remark on it. I told her she was kind for thinking of them. The sun was on her fully. She looked almost angelic. Her head was wrapped in an ancient scarf riddled with holes. It was dirty. Her coat was ragged. She was layered in clothes that were beyond repair. Her face and hands were wrinkled beyond her age. Lines ran deep like rivers down her cheeks and around her gleaming eyes. She gave me a big smile from behind her withered lips. I saw gaping holes where her teeth once were. For the first time I noticed a big, jagged scab on her nose. She was so pure. Something shined from within her. 

  We started conversing. Her voice was burly, deep and scraggly. She had a thick Kensington accent and I loved it. She kept talking smiling and laughing. I told her she was beautiful because it was bursting out of me. She just said "Yeah, 'cept this cut on my nose." I asked her about it and she explained that she was walking on Kensington Avenue beneath the El tracks late at night. The Street light above her was out and she could;t see very well. In the darkness she stumbled and fell face first to the ground, scraping her nose. She said "You know what the funny thing wasThe light went on as soon as soon as I fell." The she burst out with a big "HA!" She told me "you just have to laugh. There's too much in life to make you cry, so sometimes you just have to laugh." The she crinkled up her face and said "Hon do you want to hear a joke? It's corny but clean, like my life" I replied that of course I'd like to hear a joke. This 86 year old woman proceeded to tell me a silly ass joke about cockroaches of all things. It only made the Kensington come out all the more. It made me laugh hard. I told her a pirate joke and the laughter that bellowed out of her filled me up. It made me feel whole, made the day of work ahead of me a concept that didn't seem so bad. We stood and talked for a couple of minutes, those hazel eyes gleaming at me the entire time. She touched me, touched my arm and said "remember to always smile. Don't let life get you down. There's more out there to make you sad than happy…but you gotta laugh". This would be the first message of the day. When she touched me with her withered hand a warmth spread right through me. Her bus came then. She told me her name, Marion. She smiled that big decaying black smile and wished me well. I floated up the steps to the El. I felt like that God I didn't believe in was on my side. I couldn't stop smiling. I was in my own happy little world. Everything looked wonderful and my neighborhood was my neighborhood. 

Part 2

  I stood up there on the el platform at margaret and orthodox happy as could be, watching the sunlight move across the tracks, feeling possibility, feeling endlessness, just a calm warmth. Folks walked by, I watched them, their faces and differences. A woman saw me watching and immediately approached me. She was slightly heavy, fairly unkempt. Her long, dark brown hair was stringy and dotted with large dandruff flakes. Her brown eyes dances with a hint of mischievousness and curiosity. I watched her work the words out of her mouth before she spoke them. Her round cheeks pushing them out at me. "Hey, you goin to school huh?" I said "Naw, got work." She replied "Must suck. you like it though?" I said "Nope. Don't like it, but it's ok. I'm lucky to have work when the economy is so rough. " She said "yeah" but dragged it out. Something was off about her but I could tell she just wanted to talk. She moved about shyly but kept her eyes on me at all times. Her mouth was fun to watch, she half smiled as she talked. She looked lonely and tortured but smiled nonetheless. She asked me "Aren't you 'fraid to talk to me? You don't even know me." I said "nope. Your eyes tell me you're a good person. You don't mean any harm. You're just curious aren't you? Why do you talk to strangers?" She took a moment, looked at me with such full brown eyes and whispered like she'd get caught "so I don't have to listen to myself. It keeps my brain busy." I wanted to fill her with my warmth and honesty. I wanted to love her, touch her face. Here she was so honest and curious, so innocent, just in need of some validation. Doesn't anyone give it to her? Have they ever? She was not afraid to talk to me but she was socially awkward and she was extremely observant. something was strange about the entire interaction.

    The train came. I sat facing her. Things started moving fast, spinning almost. She barraged me with question after question. She asked me questions most people don't ask. "What do you like to do more than anything else? Are you scared when you wake up in the morning? Do you love your family? Do they love you?" She told me about her life. 37 years old, lives with her dying parents in the attic of her childhood home. She nearly whispered to me, looked like a scared child, but still smiled after each painful sentence. I couldn't help but love her. The questioning began again and just kept going. Her questions fierce an strange. I started getting goosebumps. The questions were getting serious. The train moved over North Philly at the pace of her endless inquiries. And she listened to my answers and I answered honestly, honestly to questions strangers shouldn't ask. They kept coming, her face becoming brighter, her eyes stronger. She knew me. She had me, and she wasn't who she was.  She asked me questions no one would know to ask but myself. They were in fact of the things I had been questioning of myself over the past month. It scared me. I looked in her face and questioned her with my eyes. I looked for answers in hers. Something extraordinary was happening. I don't know if I could ever explain it. The goosebumps spread all over me. 

    I asked her what made her warm? What does she love? Does she realize how special she is? Does she know how smart and observant and necessary she is? I told her that her bright eyes were lovely and warm and that she was setting me on fire with her words. She grabbed my arm, looked into my face and with all of the seriousness in the world said to me "You question yourself too much. Question the world. You look for answers every day. I want you to know that there are no magic answers to any of your questions." A hotness spread over me. I was dumbfounded. She took away her hand and I immediately felt cold. I looked up and all I could do was to ask her name. She simply answered in her shy nervous little kid way "Rose".  I looked down at the polaroid in my hand and something inside of me made me silently place it in her hand. After a moment I said "I think I took this for you when I left my house." She asked my my name and asked me if i knew of Saint Theresa, I said "of course, my grandmother is quite fond of that particular saint. She told me I had given her "the rose". She felt that God had blessed her with my presence and our interaction. She explained that "the rose" was Saint Theresa's sign that her prayers were to be answered. I remarked that she was in fact my own "rose". My own sign of Saint Theresa. She smiled. Her stop at 8th Street came. She stood, smiled at me at my eyes. She told me to remember what she said. She told me to have a good day. She said "Wish me luck finding nice plates at KMart." Her otherworldly powers shutting off. She embraced me and left. 

    I just sat there in a daze, trying to make sense of what had just taken place. Maybe god was making it hard for m not to believe. I got off of the train at 15th Street, that big giant clothespin above my head. Everything was bright and intense. I felt like i was dreaming and couldn't shake it for a moment. I had two very intense meetings in only 45 minutes. I shook it off and thought it a strange coincidence. Philadelphia is an intense place. With intense people. I just kept telling myself that as I walked up the steps, looked at Billy Penn and prepared to shoot a polaroid. 

Part 3

   When I looked up at City Hall an overweight Asian boy with a big horseshoe shaped scar on is head was looking at me and my camera. He was wearing shorts and a tee shirt. He was riding a scooter from the eighties. One of those scooters that is primarily an old skateboard deck with a metal upright handle. He rode it clumsily. He spoke too loudly at me. He said "Hey! Hey lady! Miss! You got a quarter?" I handed him two shiny dollar coins. He looked amazed, like I'd made a mistake. He said "Hey! Hey! This is two dollars!" I just said "yeah I know. It's all yours". He laughed a little too loud and very much like a child. He exclaimed "Yay! I got two dollars! YES!!!" I smiled at him. He smiled back. I opened up the polaroid to shoot the top of city hall. He saw me taking a photograph and said "Hey! Hey! Take my picture. Take my picture!" He was full of energy, excited. He seemed slightly retarded or mentally ill. His face was chubby. He looked like a bright shining buddha. He never stopped smiling. He looked like he knew something I didn't. Like he was in on a joke I'd never be able to figure out. I played along. I asked him where he wanted to be photographed. He moved to his spot of choice, in front of City Hall. 

  I framed the photograph and snapped. He let out a squeal of delight as the polaroid popped out. He dropped his scooter and ran to me, stood close to me. We watched the image appearing slowly. He giggled and blew on the photo. As he bent down close to me I noticed for the first time the social security tags hanging around his neck. The tags issued to someone with a disability or medical condition. Made sense. We shared space for a moment. He said "Wait till you see what I did!" and put his hand over his mouth and laughed with so much mischief. He then pointed to my back pocket and said "Hey, what's that?" I turned around to see what he was pointing at, finding nothing and looking again like a dog chasing it's own tail. I couldn't find what he was trying to show me and asked him what he was talking about. He laughed hard, amusing himself. He said "Ha!! Nothing! Got you! Got You!" I laughed. He composed himself, calmed down as much as he could and pointed at my chest asking me "What's that? No I'm serious this time, really. Promise." I said with my best fake curiosity "What? what is it?" I looked up and down and he poked my face with playful fingers screeching "Ha! Ha! Nothin!!! Gotcha twice" Then he snatched the polaroid from my hand and said "Ya gotta see this! You Hafta!" I looked down and laughed hard at what I saw. In the image he stood, smiling so big. He was giving me the finger. He laughed with me and said "Ha! Gotcha three times. That's three!" Then he put his big paw on my shoulder and said "You shouldn't be so EASY!" He just kept laughing And I laughed with him. I was having the time of my life. I asked him if he was cold in only shorts and a tee shirt. He stopped, stood tall, looked into the distance and said with all of the dramatics he old muster "I was born on a cold winter's day." It made me laugh. I asked him if he liked the cold. He just said "I like the cold, I like the hot." I questioned "So you like everything then?" He looked at me proudly and replied "There's nothing wrong with liking everything. It's better that way." I silently agreed with him. I smiled at him and asked him his name. He told me "My name's Alannnn, What's yours?" and shook my hand. I replied "kim". He jumped up and down, laughing hysterically. He yelled so loud "Ha Ha! KIMPOSSIBLE. Kimpossible. You make everything IMPOSSIBLE!" I laughed and felt strange because it fit me perfectly. How would he know? He stoked, looked at me directly in the face for the first time and said "Kimpossible, it;s time for you to go to work." Then he stood and put both of his arms out, pointing in opposite directions. I stood, puzzled, wondering what he was doing and asked him as much. He said simply "Whatever direction you choose will be the right way. You'll find your way, so keep going.Just go. " 

  I didn't know what to say. This was the third message I seemed to have been given in such a short period of time. I thanked him and started walking. I was confused and overwhelmed. Almost tired from the interactions I had had on my commute to work. He was the final prophet. I wanted to shake it off, blame myself for over sensationalizing the chance meetings I'd had with these three intense strangers. Something inside wouldn't let me. All of them had questioned me and gave me answers and some sort of advice that I couldn't throw by the wayside. I felt blessed almost or I suppose, how people describe being blessed. I thanked the nonexistent God one more time. I took in all that had happened and tried to digest it, feeling warm and pure. I walked the sun soaked bustling downtown streets to work, almost forty five minutes late and smiled at every single person I passed. 

Spending a day at the Museum

It's Friday morning. After some serious contemplation and a ride on public transportation across town, I decided to play hooky and spend the day alone. I haven't had much time alone here in Philly. It's almost impossible in fact, for me to spend any time by myself here except when I'm in the bathroom. Needless to say, I really enjoy being in the bathroom.
Bear with me, I'm attempting to begin writing again, and having not done so in such a long time, everything is scattered and lackluster. My apologies.
I moved to West Philadelphia a week or so ago at the invitation of my friends Pam and Kellzo, a married couple who inspire me a great deal in many ways. Their house (our house) looks like some sort of esoteric art museum and is decorated almost haphazardly with their combined artwork (many mediums), random furniture, plants, plants and more plants of all varieties, self designed light fixtures, books, cassette tapes, records and various audio equipment, a plethora of spices and culinary oddities in jars,clothing and gems that Pam seems to find on her wanderings around. The house is seemingly endless, with so many rooms, each dedicated to different function and purpose, each with their own creative flair. Kellzo has a room for audio recording and creation, There is a shared room for the making of just about anything with catalogued materials including filing cabinets labeled-"adhesives, markers, pens and paint, paper, fabric, etc. There are tools for carprentry and building, screen printing supplies, a sewing machine and needles and threads and yarns, a dummy for tailoring, wood stamps used for printing on fabric, rulers, a paper cutter and a collection of various kinds of tape. You get the idea. Pam and kellzo share a spacious bedroom which is comfortable and homey and wholly embodies the characteristics of both of them. There is a bathroom on that floor which is sparse and has a hose attatched in the bathtub to clean up any artistic processes necessary. On that same floor is a door to the attic. Up the creaky steps and illuminated by christmas lights you will find a lounge of sorts. An old table and high stools overlooks the city out of two windows on either side of the cavernous room, which is musty and has exposed insulation. Old projects of theirs rest up there as well and sit about in little heaps that seem to converse with one another about times when they were created, in use and maybe on display. Kellzo also used this room to spray paint cds he'd made and so the design still remains imprinted on the floor. It's surprisingly cozy up there and it easily feels as though you've escaped the world and entered into a portal to another time and space. Downstairs on the first floor is the kitchen-the warm epicenter of this big old body. Spices, dry goods, sauces and seasonings are all in a makeshift order on giant shelves. A variety of cookware hangs from the shelves as well. There seems to be an endless supply of anything and everything needed to make whatever you can dream of. Photographs line the walls and homemade light fixtures create a soft ambiance over top the table and chairs. There is a collection of things both old and new and it feels as though I could take days trying to catalogue everything that is in that kitchen. It is inviting and comfortable. There is a bathroom-with all of our varying natural toiletries, herb tinctures, historic looking grooming devices, a small shelf of books for reading while on the crapper or in the bath and of course-plants. At night, white christmas lights softly illuminate the space, making it calm and comfy even though it tends to be so cold most of the time.
The living room is one of my favorite rooms in the house. I think it's also one of the warmer places. It's large and holds the most organized part fo the Pam-Kellzo collection. More homemade light fixtures light up the living room in a warm tungsten glow. Plants take over the front bay windows-some viney and draping all about. Pam has a keen interest in amateur botany and she will if you inqure, tell you about each plant and how it came about to be in her garden of sorts. Vintage furniture makes for comfrtable sitting and or sleeping. Pam recently built the library and all of their books collected over the years are catalogued and in alphabetical order. Paintings cover the walls and thier record and cassette collection is somewhat organized on shelves under two giant mirrors which give the room even more depth. The sun comes up in this room in the mornings, making it a melted buttery orange-yellow and creating a quiet peacefulness I haven't much felt in a city environment. My room is at the end of the hall. It's often very cold in there, but inviting nonetheless and like the rest of the house, museum-like. It was Pam's old sewing room. It's furnished with her furniture and some remaining belongings and so I feel as though I am staying at some historic hotel run by mad artists as opposed to having my own room, which in fact, is a blessing considering that I own next to nothing and am a severe minimalist as far as decor goes. It already felt lived in before I moved in with my meager belongings. There is a giant bed complete with many giant warm blankets, two desks, three giant windows, and a massive closet adorned with mirrors taller than my body. Some of Pam's collected paintings and photographs adorn the walls, and then of course, there are the neat piles of the only things I own=Camping gear, my clothing in a suitcase, boxes of negatives, prints and film and my cameras. The house is an old West Philly structure. It sits at the edge of the very distinct West Philly Activist/Artist/Hippie/University/Ghetto/Alternative area of the city. Bordering it, is the straight ghetto-which is blighted and dilapidated. It's certainly an interesting mix of culture, history and environment. It feels wholly more spacious and less congested than anywhere else I seem to spend time in the direct metropolis. Their house, our house, in a sense-is an oasis in an overcrowded, over-burdended, over depressed city. I feel like it's a proper place to unravel and untangle all of the massive knots I've accumulated and developed in my brain over time. It's a resting place for now. A much needed much anticipated resting place.
It's also a place where my own creative juices seem to flow. Pam and Kellzo promote that kind of lava river inside of oneself-and they do it both collectively and independently. They, unlike most people that I know in life-do not force their way into your inner space, rather-they invite you in when they feel comfortable and gradually and slowly come into you as you yourself invite them. It is symbiosis at it's best. No bossing around, or pushing or pulling, just, being. They are inquisitive and informative, intimate yet distant. The give a closeness that requires almost no maintainance. They are a rare find. Wonderful curators both of themselves and their abode. I'm lucky to have been asked into this residency. I'm sincerely hoping that I have to the time to properly assess things I've been storing inside of this broken vessel of a body over the years. I'm hoping to take some of their behaviors with me to aid me in my anxious frenzy of too much thought and feeling.
I'm sitting here now at 11:12 am, smoking a cigarette, drinking a Yards Thomas Jefferson Ale listening to the traffic outside, not worrying about the things that normally plague my brain and thinking about how lucky I am to have this place and this time to just r-e-l-a-x.
I woke up at 7am on Jude and Erin's couch-worrying about heading off to Chestnut Hill to go to work. Looking at the dreary gray day out there. Jude held both of my hands for a minute and massaged them..as he softly talked to me and told me I had to get up. I happily arose, knowing I'd get to spend some time with him. I rubbed the crusties out of my eyes (all brown from the endless wood dust of sanding at work), put on my glasses and went into the kitchen to drink coffee with him and listen to the sing song sound of his voice. I spent the next hour and a half quizzing him on blood and the heart for his midterm and then dashed out the door to begin my own day-walking through south philly and hopping the subway to get to the trolley to come back home to the museum with all intentions of going to work. I carried Jude with me and felt too tired around all of those people on the train. Watching West Philly come into view I knew I had to take a day off, to sit here in the museum alone, think, lay low and just put everything into focus.
Home isn't so bad sometimes. Sometimes, home is a necessary thing. And you can bet your sweet ass I'd like to be skiing in Alta with my friends, or up at the cabin in Maine with Nate, or out on my farm in Kauai listening to the chickens yelling and the bees swarming above my tent and the mountains welcoming me in the new morning light. But shit-I'm here in Philly-so why not just drink a Philly beer and listen to the sounds of the city and digest all that I've been eating over all this time.

Let the Circle Be Unbroken

I'm a piece of shit. What can I really say but that. I haven't maintained this or kept up or even attempted to write in so long. At least not electronically. I keep journals of some sort. Of course, so much has happened since my last entry. Actually, an entire year happened. And there have been places and faces and things that have happened that would take me quite some time to actually describe. After Alta, I spent some time on the road, and then I spent a month in San Francisco and Berkeley and then, well, I moved to Kauai. I became a farmer in the most beautiful remote wilderness I've ever seen, I made friends I still can't stop thinking about and i moved back to Philadelphia to hopefully be there for and help my sister, who was diagnosed with breast cancer and has been beating the shit out of it for the better part of half a year. One of these days I'd like to rehash the Kauai experience, and even explain properly what happened to me exactly after the first few weeks of 2011. For now, I'll try to properly ground myself, for right now, in Philadelphia, so that maybe I can make some sort of documentary sense out of the crazy light picture show that has been my my life over the past year, and maybe I can make room for what is about to happen as exciting and uncertain as it is. All I can really say is that I wound up back in my home town of Philadelphia on December 8th, freezing my ass off after a nice long time in Kauai, still stained with the red dirt of farming, still in the country mentality I had grown accustomed to, to exit the airplane into a cold and wet city, full of things that were both familiar and foreign to me.
I'm still having a hard time adjusting, but still find that most things have been pre-programmed. I found this journal entry from the 11th of December and wanted to share it in hope that I could at the very least start from somewhere and then retrace my steps to fill in the gaps of 2011 so that I can, at some point, catch up to 2012, which is rapidly unfolding. As per usual, my life hasn't stopped. In fact, it seems to be moving faster and faster all the time. And I do suppose, that's what the old folks always said would happen.
This entry was written my first weekend back in the city. I guess without the back round of how I was living in Kauai it might not be that big of a deal, but fuck it, it's the internet...I just wanted to share this..again...to have some sort of a starting point. I guess I'm hoping that if I begin to tell the story, I'll continue to write it. It's not really like anyone is reading this anyhow, so here goes nothing.
December 11. 2011
-Riding the subway to to connect to the Frankford-Market El-to take a bus-to walk. I need this time to just pay attention. I'm hung over, smell like 5 packs of smokes and full of Millet, banana and mango. Folgers coffee is turning my belly inside out. It's funny that the interchange from the subway to the el is still so simple, second nature I guess from high school days-weird to not think of moving from one filthy tunnel to another amongst so many bodies-lost in thought like all of them-all organisms in the same shitty tube. It smelled like vomit and cheap cleaning products in that dirty linoleum and tiled passageway onto the el platform. Train grumbles along like an old broken worm-the black people on the platform wait for the black people to exit the train and then push in past the white people who are trying to exit. The opposite happens in other neighborhoods (northeast). Everyone rushes in to claim a seat. Every man for himself. Maybe they're tired from living so much and need a rest as we're carried through the intestines of this beast we must be parasites of. My city, my Home. I can hear snippets of their murmer(ing) conversation. They all mesh together in a strange hummmmmmmmmmmmm. I feel guilty drinking in all of these faces varying so much in color, style, expression-like I'm getting drunk, intoxicated. Too many smells. I've left my garden to troll the metropolis. Like a tart-I'm committed to no one or no place or no beast.
When we emerge into the sunlight out of the tunnel-above the city instead of deep inside-i feel like I'm being pushed out of the womb. And it's bright. And it hurts my eyes for a second. But I can't stop looking around in wonder, like it's the first time I've seen this grid of broken crayons-broken buildings-new shitty pre-fab facades amongst broken old men who were glorious in their day. Streets, like extended bony fingers filled with discard. The river right beside us, trying to drown us-it's all gritty and it's all beautiful. I've been gone so long I don't know how to understand everything.
It's so beautiful that I can't take it some times. But it's only beautiful because it's real-and harsh-and because I choose to perceive it that way. Sometimes all of this decay and rot is just too much and it's easy to get swallowed up in it's trash mouth full of broken teeth and slimy saliva and bad smells. Sometimes it's easy to feel loved and embraced and held in this place that is just so real and so true and just as ugly as you.
But it is alive nonetheless. And my garden back in Kauai was alive, and the ocean was alive. But it's far away and almost like a fairy tale I wrote at some point. This is no fairy tale. This is life. And I can fly if I want to. I can make all of these shelled out buildings museums inside of my brain. This place can be one massive exploratorium. But I can't escape the truth on this earthworm moving slowly through the dirt that is North Philly. I'm inside of it-and it's inside of me-and we're all regurgitating the same shit-and everything starts all over again. I'm Home.

The End of an Era. The Beginning of the Unknown.

On New Year's Eve a good friend of mine scoffed at the celebratory screams and hoots ringing in the New Year. He made the argument that time is irrelevant, that people stupidly use time as a marker to make things perhaps more important than they are. That basically, we have invented time, and that our existence, measured in time almost loses it's meaning. While i understand this deeper philosophical standpoint, I also enjoy the frames of time by which I can monitor my adventures, the changing of my ideas, my emotions, my interactions; my progress, so to speak, as a human being. Life is quite the time frame (for some). It feels indeed long, and at times, I suppose it feels short. All around it seems to be changing, speeding up and slowing down, and just p.a.s.s.i.n.g. Days move in and out. For insomniacs like myself, the night crawls through me like a slow parasite, taking it's time to suck from me. Whether or not we like to admit it, time, or life, or whatever it is, moves on, taking us with it, changing our bodies, our metabolisms, our ideals, our hearts, our guts. Everything keeps on keeping on. What a lovely and comforting thought. I digress.

On New Year's Eve, yet another calendar year was exhausted, evaporated into thin air, gone. And we all, drunken with hope and fear and excitement and relief, opened our arms, whooped it up and kissed someone (what a silly tradition), to out with the old in with the new. And our sins, and guilt and shortcomings from the previous year, all washed away into the vault, with all of the previous years. All of our wonderful adventures, and flings, and progression and advances put into the box of things to be cherished and romanticized and compared to for this new year. This new era. We made resolutions and promises and felt the seemingly eternal re-birth making it's way into our bellies. We drank to keep the flame of all of our new beginning burning so bright. We drank to try as hard as we could, to just hold on a little tighter to what we thought we knew in 2010. We made it into the morning of 2011, feeling haggard and tired and still intoxicated with all of that extinguished campfire of last year, still figuratively speaking, smelling of the smoky glow of that fire. Did it feel like an entirely new year? Well, I suppose for some of us, it did. For me, I felt as though I had let go of some of everything. I liked to utilize that year as a mile marker. For me, it was the end of a decade. I turned thirty one this year. Just before the New Year. I spent quite a bit of time contemplating the last ten years of my life. And shit, I have really done quite a bit in those ten years. I suppose though, most of us have. All of us measure our lives in time. Through the grand time frame, we can measure all that we have or have not accomplished. Although it is wholly a made up concept (or so in the way that we human beings utilize it), it is a great measuring stick.

The one year of 2010 may have been my most productive and travelled year. I changed so very drastically within that year. I compiled a list of the places I visited and lived and almost blew my own mind. I was lucky enough to have roughly four months off. In those four months I was productively traveling, learning, spending time with friends and family, losing my mind, thinking about suicide, being so grateful to live and genuinely having the time to think about time and utilizing my time and understanding my freedom, and making and breaking goals and so fourth and so on. My occupations over the past year were a joke for the most part. I have not had a serious job since I was a social worker a few years ago. I have been a seasonal worker for an entire year consecutively (on feb 1) and it certainly has had it's ups and downs. I've met more people in the course of a year than perhaps a few years combined. I visited more National Parks, National Forests and National Monuments than I ever have in my lifetime, all in this one year. I became more comfortable with my body and my mind this year. My intimate relations this year surprised me as well. As I shouldn't mention them, for reasons of respect, I can simply say that I was all over the board. (no pun intended). At the end of 2010, I was in fact, in the same place emotionally as I was at the beginning, free. I was on the road a great amount of time and for the first time felt road weary. I lived in the desert, glacial mountains, the piney woods, the thriving, throbbing metropolis, the snowy canyon of a ski resort, the dry but green hill country and all of the in between of the road. I rode a train cross country for the first time in my life, watching America slip by and letting all of my dreams run out of my greasy head like spoiled paint. I fell in love with the lives and thoughts and guts of all of the people I met along the way and tried unsuccessfully to catalogue them inside of myself in some way or another.

I stopped being a photographer. I stopped being a writer. I stopped being so self absorbed and tried to ABSORB everything around me. I lost myself and found myself and found you and you found me. I gave up on luck and quit making decisions and became ok with riding the horse that was dragging me around. I don't want to sound new age-y, but I feel as thought 2010 was symbolic. My decade went out with an incredible fucking BANG. I watched the last sparkle of my blazing firework die out in the sky and promised myself that I would in fact, attempt to take the reigns in 2011. That I would let go of all of the shitty parts of my wild wild life and try to be at peace with myself, instead of burning the candle at both ends. Hopefully I can do so. It's hard to re-learn when one is so set in their ways. I have to go slide into my penguin suit and serve the upper class expensive food in a minute, so I'll spare you all of the bullshit. It's snowing gently outside, the mountains are all fogged over. (like my brain, I've had a concussion for the past week and I secretly enjoy the white noise it creates in my head to an extent). Life does indeed feel a little different. I feel different. Perhaps it's because it's 2011. Perhaps it's because I have agreed to the allusion that a New Year has in fact begun. I'll take it. I'll fill myself with hope and desire and all of the goals I've always believed in. I'll wonder if I can make this next year and this next decade as amazing and adventurous and full of life and wonder as the last. Can I really have both insanity and control? I guess I'll have to find out. Or make it so.

For now, I'll leave you with the list of 2010. I'll post a blog of only photos from 2010 later. Enjoy your New Year. Hopefully I'll be lucky enough to see some of you this year. That's one of my resolutions. I'll find you, or for a change, you come find me.

THE YEAR OF 2010- Places wandered

National Parks, National Monuments, National Forests

Caddo Lake, Texas

Big Bend National Park, Texas

Big Bend State Park, Texas

Carlsbad Caverns, New Mexico

Guadalupe National Park, Texas

Lincoln National Forest, New Mexico

White Sands National Monument, New Mexico

Gila National Forest, New Mexico

Gila Wilderness Area, New Mexico

Apache National Forest, New Mexico/Arizona

Coconino National Forest, Arizona

Navajo Bridge National Monument, Arizona

Vermillion Cliffs National Monument, Arizona

Grand Canyon National Park, Arizona

Kaibab National Forest, Arizona

Bryce Canyon National Park, Utah

Escalante National Monument, Utah

Dixie National Forest, Utah

Capitol Reef National Park, Utah

Glen Canyon National Recreation Area, Utah

Natural Bridge National Monument, Utah

Arches National Park, Utah

Flaming Gorge National Recreation Area, Utah/Wyoming

Bridger-Teton National Forest, Wyoming

Grand Teton National Park, Wyoming

Yellowstone National Park, Wyoming

Gallatin National Forest, Montana

Glacier National Park, Montana

Waterton National Park, Alberta Canada

Stehekin, Northern Cascades National Park, Washington

Lake Chelan, Washington

White Mountains National Forest, New Hampshire

Acadia National Park, Maine

Zion National Park, Utah

Wasatch National Forest, Utah

States 2010

Texas

New Mexico

Arizona

Utah

Wyoming

Montana

Washington

New Hampshire

Vermont

Maine

Massachusetts

Pennsylvania

New Jersey

Delaware

Other Places

Canada

Puerto Rico

Towns that seemed to have some bearing

Uncertain, TX

Marshall, TX

Midland, TX

Odessa, TX

Marathon, TX

Alpine, TX

Fort Davis, TX

Presidio, TX

Pecos, TX

Terlingua, TX

Study Butte, TX

Lajitas, TX

Carlsbad, NM

San Juan, PR

Rincon, PR

Van Horn, TX

White’s City, NM

Artesia, NM

Elk/Hope/Dunkel, NM

Alamagordo, NM

Silver City, NM

Sanders, AZ

Winslow, AZ

Flagstaff, AZ

Kanab, UT

Boulder, UT

Torrey, UT

Bicknell, UT

Moab, UT

Jackson Hole ,WY

Livingston, MT

Missoula, MT

Babb, MT

Whitefish, MT

Kalispell, MT

Cardston, Canada

Lethbridge, Canada

Las Vegas, NV

St. George, UT

Hungry Horse, MT

Essex, MT

Columbia Falls, MT

East Glacier, MT

Browning, MT

Wenatchee, WA

Chicago, IL

Springfield, MA

Brattleboro, VT

Townshend, VT

Conway, NH

Denmark, ME

Fryeburg, ME

Bridgeton, ME

Portland, ME

Bar Harbor, ME

Boston, MA

Philadelphia, PA

Cherry Hill, NJ

Austin, TX

New Braunfels, TX

Llano, TX

Vineland, NJ

Claymont, DE

Waymart, PA

Salt Lake City, UT

Alta, UT

Sandy, UT

8500 Ft.

I'm in Alta, Utah. I live in the Little Cottonwood Canyon and work in the most expensive and high end resort in this very small ski town. Alta is renown for it's amazing snow. I'm sitting in the lodge now, watching it dump down out there. It's been snowing all night and it's not supposed to stop until Monday. When it snows, everyone is in an excellent mood. When it doesn't snow, people are on edge. I have never in my life, seen this much snow. I'm told I've seen nothing yet. We have already had about 166 inches of snow and by the beginning of the week, we will hopefully have 2 more feet. I'm learning about yet another sub culture here. Skiers, are really and genuinely a different type of human being. This year, I've covered much terrain and have had six different mailing addresses, living in the desert, glacial mountains, the New England woods, Metropolitan cities and now here, at 8500 ft elevation in a veritable winter wonderland. I am as far removed from any world I've ever known. I came to a skiers paradise, never having strapped sticks to my feet, and having an unusually low tolerance for the cold. I came to spend more time with my good friend Jason Weber, I came for an adventure and I came to challenge myself as much as I possibly could. And here I am.

When I first arrived, I was unsettled and more scared and socially awkward than I ever have been. Truth be told I had a really hard time emotionally this year. Traveling and living so hard takes it's toll on the body and brain. Honestly, something happened inside of me that closed me up, created a darkness I've not known and made me feel almost every day for a while, that I did not want to wake up anymore. This was a conflicting mess inside my warped and weathered brain, as I was, for the most part, seeing the most beautiful and breath taking parts of the country. I was making some really genuine friends who continued to love and to teach me. I pushed my body-hiking long distances through some of the most unbelievable landscape in the country, summiting mountains, wandering through the desert, and just GOING most of the time Full-Tilt. So I should have been grateful and excited for my life. I live a life most people dream about. I've been told often how "lucky" I am. And I wanted to feel lucky. I wanted to feel as amazed and impressed with my life as others seem to be. I would have spurts of that realization, but truthfully-I felt more like a failure than anything else. I couldn't seem to maintain a relationship with anyone more than friendship and if I was going to be "close" to someone, I could only relate in a physical way. It was almost as if my brain and all of the experiences and information I was taking in were just too much. Leaving no space for any sort of actual connection. My only constant-seemed to be my family, who I have become so incredibly close to and my ex boyfriend, who I have an odd reciprocity with. Living so rigorously with no close partner is hard. And without someone to "share" all of the beauty, intensity, wanderlust, non-stop moving, going, living, and escapading- well...I became a cluttered, panicked, tense and tired mess. I kept looking around me at everyone else-who seemed as though they had it figured out, and then I looked at myself...an open book, constantly willing to move, adapt and change, fleeting, unstable, and ready for anything because truthfully, i know nothing. I watched my already meager bank account dwindle and let myself become upset about being a monetary failure. I tried too hard to connect with ALL of my friends when I went home and found that I just couldn't hack it and in the process alienated myself. I ruined a couple of great relationships this year. I ruined a lot of my brain this year. I broke myself down and beat myself up. And that darkness kept growing and growing inside of me. I came, a few times, to the point of almost just-letting go. I was hoping that coming here, would in fact open some new doors in my head, and let all of the nasty, dirty things I can't seem to deal with bleed out. A word to the wise, if you already feel hopeless and lost and you are unwilling to fight the good fight, do not go about overcoming your own idiotic shortcomings by completely moving to a place you do not understand by any means.

When I flew out of Philadelphia, A knot worked it's way into my stomach. My head hurt terribly and I had a lump in my throat. I watched the city I know best drift away and let the black hole in my head, my heart and my gut suck me in. I wanted to jump out of the plane. I just didn't feel READY to deal. I kept questioning myself-Why hadn't I checked myself into a hospital somewhere? Why hadn't I just started taking medicine again? Why didn't I just stay in Philadelphia and let everyone know that I was so depressed and scared? Why didn't I go to Missoula and visit the one person not related to me that not only knows me so well, but also has gone through what I was going through? Why the FUCK did I not just take the easy path. GODDAMNIT....my head...it hurt. And so I slept, and dreamt awful dreams, and prayed as i woke up occasionally, that my plane would crash into the squares so neat and organized down below, so I wouldn't be a coward...I would and could just not be.

When the plane landed, it was snowing hard. I couldn't see Salt Lake at all really. My friend Zak picked me up and even though I was excited to see him, I felt at odds. I was wondering if he could see that darkness. The white out conditions in Utah were almost symbolic in a sense. I had entered a numb void that would not really become comforting until a few days ago. Zak drove me up the canyon. The snow was really coming down and driving was entirely unsafe. I could feel Zak's own fear radiating off of him. I clenched my hands as we skidded up the windy mountain road. Crescent nail marks were embedded in my palms. I couldn't see any of my new home by any means, visibility was low and everything looked ominous. The trip to this new world was as peculiar and unmatched as the new world in and of itself. I arrived, nonetheless, confused, exhausted, empty, lonely and completely and utterly socially awkward. Jason received me well. And we hugged and I felt grateful for his graciousness. In reality, I wanted to curl up into a ball and sleep off the past few months. We trudged through the snow my first night here, walking down the hill to a lodge bar, to sit by a fire and catch up. The light at night is queer here, bizarre. It feels almost as though you are on the moon. The reflective nature of the all encompassing snow makes the land look and feel preternatural. The mountains are silhouetted even in the darkest of nights. There is a glow that does not feel warm, but does in fact, glow. As the snow crunched under my feet and I looked around, i felt dizzy and overwhelmed, and I decided to just do as I always have, suck it up, suck it in, ride the wave of uncertainty.

I don't think I had any idea what I was really getting myself into. I've been doing seasonal work for awhile now, so I sincerely believed I would just fall into place. There are always rites of passage, adaptations and simple sociological rules and regulations. There is a natural groove that becomes more obvious, and a placement of one in certain circles and rank takes place. And then, you settle and then of course, with all of us being naturally or for the most part transient, it all changes, over and over and over in the course of the season. This place...is like none other. Ski culture is incomparable to anything I have attempted to understand. Skiers are intense people, with their own vocabulary, their own style, and their own way of thinking. I'm still learning, so it's hard to accurately describe it. But it is intimidating, overwhelming and just generally physically and mentally challenging. Girls here find the opposite sex more attractive as their skill level as a skier is higher. People certainly pay the better skiers more respect. If one does not go out on a "powder" day, they are looked down upon. If one does not get a "few runs" in a day, they are wasting their time here. The gear is astounding, the variety unending and the culture confounding entirely. Throwing myself into this band of privileged snow warriors was jolting. It may have been the hardest thing I have ever attempted. And I hadn't even strapped into skis yet.

Most of the people who work here are returners. Few of us are newbies. This was certainly alienating at first. I think I was actually the ONLY person who had never in my life, skied. People are generally kind here, and want you to ski, they want skiing to be a positive thing. They certainly want to share their enthusiasm for skiing. Ski bums are obsessed with, well, skiing. They constantly look up the weather report and are constantly concerned with the snow, the consistency of the snow and what the fuck the snow is doing. Business and service revolves around snow. I have seen snowflake every thing here, ranging from snowflake tattoos to snowflake jewelry, snowflake pipes, snow is all it's about. Actually BEING in the snow, in a pair of skis and flying down a mountain, well shit, that's another story. It took me a few days of PAINFUL and defeating falling, crashing, smashing, splitting, cursing, cold wet sadness, but after my first real run, I got it. It made sense. I began dreaming about skiing. I skied powder vs hard packed down icy groomers and understood the difference. My gear isn't cool, I look like a retard, I'm what Alta locals call a beater, but I did find love in skiing. It is an ever changing challenge to wake up and go through the labor of putting on all of that gear, telling myself over and over that I can actually-do it, deal with the self defeating voices that remind me how shitty of a skier I am, and just GET OUT THERE. As soon as I click in, and hit the first hill at the ski exit of the lodge, I'm fucking stoked. Riding the lift is almost like going to church (for religious folks). It gives you time to reflect, to look around at the astounding beauty, to feel the cold wet air in your lungs, to let the excitement build in your belly and think about the run at hand. Once you go, there's no turning back, and once you put your skis to the snow, there's no where to go but down. Watching a good skier really is wonderful, the body moves like a machine, but with so much fluidity it's awe inspiring. It's almost like watching the wand in a conductor's hand. I often sit in the lodge and watch the tiny bodies dotting the pure white landscape, carving fresh lines like veins into the mountain. It is almost calming, but it creates a feeling in my tummy, a longing to at some point move with such agility and ease. I have had similar relationships with summiting mountains. I hope to become one with the snow so to speak.

I received a letter from my other yesterday and her handwriting, looping and swirling like the tracks on the mountains outside said "Things run full circle". Knowing how much has changed over the past few weeks since I've been here (tomorrow will be three weeks), and feeling that darkness sliding away, and becoming more comfortable with myself and my new world makes me feel that she is in fact correct. I have always found so much comfort in change. At this moment, I am feeling comfort in the moment. At 8500 feet, the air is thinner, my brain seems to work slower, I am almost forced, to just fucking take it slow. And upon doing so, I can stop and see the scenery, I can actually hear my thoughts, feel my feelings. Everything seems to just "flow" here. Time does not really actually exist. Nothing really actually matters but the snow. There is no consequence except injury. Life is fleeting and it doesn't matter. The pines, wearing their winter sweaters of fluffy white down, sit peacefully in clusters all over the mountains, and those bodies glide swiftly between them, such a beautiful symbiotic relationship. Everything talks differently here. I'm listening and I suppose, the more I listen, the more I'll understand. Nothing is the same now as it was. But I guess, really, it never is. Time to strap in and fly as well as I can on land.

Adios Brah.

"Vacationland"

October 19, 2010

It’s easy to lose track of time without the outside world. It’s easy to lose track of time without a routine of personal hygiene. I stood outside tonight as the moon bellied up, naked and cold, shivering as I washed my filthy body with water warmed by the stove, a washcloth and some good old Dr. Bronners and realized that I hadn’t washed up since Saturday. My hair was unbearably greasy, I had become fairly odorous as I spent almost the entire day working outside and damn, it’s been quite cold, so I haven’t found the desire to change my clothing. Needless to say, my socks could have marched from my body themselves. Anyone who knows me well knows I normally shower every day, twice a day sometimes. I wash my hair daily and brush my teeth three times a day. I certainly change my clothes every day, and almost every night slip into pajamas. Somehow, out here, with the lack of running water, I have developed a pleasure in being dirty. And I have developed even more of a pleasure in standing outside in the moonlight, completely nude, using a washcloth and hot water to cleanse my body. I never thought dipping my head into too-hot water after lathering it with soap could be so refreshing. Towel drying, in the frigid autumn evening might be one of the most invigorating feelings to be felt. Showers are for babies. I suppose I began to describe my bathing situation because it did in fact remind me that I had lost track of time. It is Tuesday evening. To me it could have been any day of the week. I didn’t know the date until I figured I should at some point today. I have been here just about three weeks now. I have accomplished very few things, but have seen and done countless.

I am flawed in many ways. Once a social butterfly, I have become a social retard. Once worldly and a multi-tasking perfectionist, I am now slow, and enjoy watching ants carry leaves, I squeal with delight while listening to the trees groaning in the wind, alone, I enjoy walking through the woods, with no conversation, like watching the light move over the valley of arbors, exploding with the colors of the season. I lose track of hours, days and I guess, weeks. Sometimes I can come out of my own brain and not remember for a second, where I am. I’ve been living in a daydream since I left Montana. It’s been beautiful for the most part. My heart feels like it is on fire. Once again, I’ve fallen in love with a geographic location and put aside human beings in the process. I have been communicating for the most part via written correspondence. The only person I really have to verbally communicate with is Nate, and his father Pete, and the postmaster and the gal who works at the convenience store. Most of the time I am living in my head…and my head, well, it’s like a child. My imagination is seemingly never tired. I still cannot believe all that I’ve seen here.

I’ve been infatuated with Maine since Nate kidnapped me ten years ago and brought me here after school one afternoon. He took me to a jetty and we climbed into an abandoned lighthouse on the coast and drank beer and talked about life. The ocean crashed angrily beneath our hanging feet. The gulls squalled and screamed and the fresh salt air washed over me as I half listened to Nate, feeling so excited I could have peed my pants. He took me on a country road and for the first time in my life, I saw the sky exploding with stars. I remember the way it smelled here. I remember the way my belly felt all full up with such excitement. I was lucky enough to come and visit him and my friend Justin many more times over the years. The more time I spent up here, the more I dreamt of it. The more I longed to be here. My friend Justin took me on many adventures, and seeing my delight, fed me, more and more each time. Having an entire month, to sit and exist here, has been more in some ways than I thought it could be. It has been much quieter than I would have guessed.

For the most part I wake with the sun and fall asleep not too long after it sinks down below the White Mountains. We seem to follow a sort of schedule that feels nothing like a schedule. As I mentioned, the days and nights blend over and over and over again. Some days we work from the time we awake (Nate is always awake and outside working before I crawl out of my sleeping bag). He gives me tasks to complete and I work often beside him mostly doing grunt work, as I am unskilled. I’ve been shoveling, moving, piling, pulling, tilling, ripping and hauling. The pitchfork, mccloud, axe, rake, shovel and wheelbarrow have become an extension of me. I learned to use a come-along the other day to move a one-ton rock with my own sheer strength, simple physics, a chain and Nate. I helped to install the wood-burning stove that we use to keep us warm. I chop the wood that we burn. I wash dishes with rainwater heated on the stove. Hopefully I’ll plant grass seed in the yard before I leave on Tuesday. My back is sore, my body bruised and my clothes covered in a fine layer of dirt and mud. My fingernails seem to contain their own constant soil sample. Being here in Maine, in the country so to speak, Nate and I do not look out of place when we walk into the Paris Farmers Union to pick up supplies, in the state of dirt and grime that we are in. I do not feel embarrassed or dirty while sporting my ripped up dusty jeans or giving money to a cashier with grimy, cracked hands. I actually feel quite proud and productive. Nate made a good point to me, that this is a novelty to others in the outside world, mainly to our friends living the city life in Philly, New York and LA. He is unfortunately correct. But what he is doing takes courage. It takes strength and patience. It takes craftsmanship, it take sacrifice above all. I have not felt this free in such a long time…and ironically I am working physically harder than I ever have. The constraints of the world “out there” mean nothing here. With the lack of tapping into constant electronic communication, I have time to think, and feel and see for myself entirely. I have virtually no money, but don’t need it. The cost of living here is radically different, the quality of life almost immeasurable. It takes a certain type to live this way. You must be self -sustaining and self-aware. It amazes me to think that most people I know would not like this lifestyle, that they’d have a hard time without non-stop internet, that they would not look forward to long days of physical labor, that the entertainment you may have would primarily be watching a movie, listening to your own thoughts, sharing conversation with your friend or the local folks. No coffee shops, no movie theaters, no bar to wander into, not here in Denmark. Everything is a drive away. And I suppose- the closest place to find city folk who share a certain taste for fashion, culture and metropolis inspired ways of living within the living breathing concrete and steel beast that is a city would be in Portland Maine. Extroverts rely on a city to validate them, give them opportunity, find companionship, congregate and bounce their thoughts, wishes and ideas off of others. Here, the only validation you have is your own productivity. The company you keep tends to be the trees, the mountains, and the land. The folks you have to socialize with are your family, local neighbors, your postman, your convenience store clerk and your friends in other towns around the area…in season; you have tourists to change up the dynamic. The only opportunity seemingly, is the one you make for yourself. There is certainly something to be said about city life…the feeling and the excitement of feeling like one cell moving around in a massive body of other living, pulsing cells. There is an excitement that comes from the formula of many different minds all melded into one place times the endless possibility of place and commerce and interaction within a city. Out here, the excitement, at least for me, comes from just existing. Just noting my breathing and body actually working.

My time is nearing an end here. And I seem to go through a familiar pattern when I have spent time in a “place”. I try to mentally catalogue all I have learned. All I’ve seen. I like to find the characteristics that make the place I have been significant, individual, and extraordinary. Maine easily has it’s own presence. It’s own way of being. It has been called “vacationland” and I can honestly see why. The trees around me have changed every day. Winter (or what I am used to associating with winter-like weather) has moved in. Frost is now on the ground in the morning, and the nighttime air makes my cheeks rosy. I can hear hunters in the woods, and now when I hike I have to wear Blaze Orange so I don’t get shot. The lakes look less calm and often they have a fine layer of whitecaps all pushing about. Whether the sky is grey or bright blue-everything looks like it is on fire. I’ve had a time here. Oh it’s been a time. I am almost positive I’ll be back again in the spring to see how far Nate has come along in his endeavors. Knowing him, everything will look entirely different. And knowing me, I’ll have seen too many things and been too many places and be entirely different myself. I’m sleepy. The weather is not necessarily forgiving. I’m sitting by the stove, keeping warm. I’m wondering how life in Philly will be. I’ll miss it here…but I know in my gut…it’s time to move on once again. Thank ya Maine. It’s been swell.