This Nomadic Life of Mine

Since that faithful 4^th of July weekend in 2011 when I nervously boarded a plane from Dallas, Texas back to Portland, Oregon to divide and pack up the apartment I shared with the man who wanted to marry me, I have maintained a storage unit in Portland and haven’t unpacked any of my suitcases in exchange for the symbolic stability a dresser and closet represent.

After separating from the gig and the guy, I spent the first 3-months of my new give-us-us-free status in Dallas, TX, distracting myself from all the change by facilitating an advertising summer boot camp. I remember being apprehensive about unpacking any of my bags when I arrived to the loft space I would be sharing with three other woman for the next 3-months because I knew the move would be temporary. I was like, what’s the use of unloading my life until I looked at the mini library I packed in one suitcase for people to use, like I always do, and coming to the inconvenient truth that those linen suit pants and nice button down shirts I packed military style may need to hang on something since I don’t like to iron.

At the close of the summer boot camp, and nothing to divert my attention the unsettling urge not to be in one place for too long started to bubble inside me. I wanted to make up for all the time I felt like I lost sitting behind a desk exploring the world via Google. Not to mention, the need to shake the creepy feeling that I’d seen the same people, over and over, again for my last 3-years in Portland. (Yes, Portland is that small where you can bump into the server from your favorite restaurant in some random part of the Japanese Garden on an early weekend afternoon, then see them, again at your favorite jazz spot the following evening, which by default makes you friends.)

Before I left Dallas I lightened my load by leaving my mobile library with a friend. Headed back to Portland to hang with some of my folk ride my bike, eat good food and smoke. Swapped out my wardrobe for things more seasonal and went on autopilot traveling from city-to-city for business and personal, each stop lasting no longer than 3-weeks at a time. Even when I went back to my momma’s house in St. Louis, there was this feeling of, don’t get too comfortable, that consumed me, so I didn’t. The unzipping and zipping of my suitcases became normalized sounds, no different than the screech of metal hangers against the aluminum railing in a closet.

In the beginning, all the zipping and unzipping was fun. Another plane. Another train. Another hotel room, couch, futon or comfortable bed where I would roll over to see another face in another city or perfectly alone. Another conversation with another person I would’ve never met in my previous life or a late night happy hour with a friend I hadn’t seen in a long time. One trip after the other, after the other, after the other, after the other, until I woke up one day in my momma’s bed in St. Louis completely drained and 30-pounds lighter.

Regardless what my momma says, not having my “own “space for well over a year has made me feel a bit displaced and dependent in a way I haven’t known since I was 17-years old. For her, mommas house will always be home, a refuge from the big bad world were I can regroup and refocus and she’s right. For these last few months of extended stays at my mommas house nothing has compared to the fact that I get to kiss her on the cheek at least twice a day, hear her laughter and to ask her in person, how her day was. The inevitable reality that I’ll be leaving the nest once again is met with a heavy heart, but I’m a grown woman and I need a place where I can walk around without the fear of one of my brothers walking in, wondering why I’m butt ass naked eating a Granny Smith apple and singing late 80s early 90s soft rock classics.

My travels will not slow. This is just another chapter but I’m ready for a door that I only have keys to.

I know it’s been a while since I’ve updated my blog and for the most part, it was intentional. Now you may be wondering, why would someone start a blog and intentionally drop it like it’s hot for over a year? The short answer is, shit gets really personal really quick. For months I contemplated, how personal do I want to get with strangers. How much of my life do I want to expose? Will my butt-nakedness harm any future endeavors or business relationships? I sat with these thoughts, forgot about them, went on with my life, received the occasional email that went something like, “What happened to your blog, I was really enjoying it?” then I finally decided to start the blog back up for one reason: As a writer who seeks to get better, I need to write and this is one of the avenues I choose to exercise my craft. If someone has an issue with something I write then I just see it as an opportunity for dialogue, if the other party is open. If they aren’t, their loss. I will continue to write what I like. Gone are the days of allowing someone the permission to get in my head to the point where it has me afraid to express myself though the written or spoken word. 

This post is inspired by, today, Monday, December 31, 2012 the 6th day Kwanzaa, Kuumba (Creativity) and my own personal journey in understanding the creative process of life. I originally posted this entry on my personal Facebook page and decided, what better way to enliven my blog than with a post about creativity.

Since I left my corporate gig, life has been a daily exercise in trust, creativity and reinvention. Some days more fruitful than others but all worth their weight in lesson learned and do your best to not repeat the trails, again. 

Happy Kwanzaa! It’s Day 6 Kuumba (Creativity) 

To do always as much as we can, in the way we can, in order to leave our community more beautiful and beneficial than we inherited it. 

Life is an insanely beautiful creative process. The majority of us aren’t taught about the creative process of life and walkabout as if our paths are these societal and/or cultural predetermined courses we must struggle through, to that I say, bullshit. 

Each day that we are blessed enough to open our eyes, inhale and exhale a breath, we have the opportunity to creative/manifest something. Anything. Yes, anything. The only voice telling you you can’t do something is that one in your head made up all the other voices of those around you who have relinquished their personal power to create their lives. Get those people out of your life ASAP. 

This year I have been constantly reminded that fear cannot occupy the same space as love/creativity. Oftentimes, I have found myself reminding myself with tears streaming down my face that I am the captain of this ship and with divine insight I am responsible for charting my own course. That I have the ability to stop and say, this is not what I want for my life and I have the ability to change it. 2012 was intimidating to say the least because here I was/am, squarely placed in the middle of reclaiming my ability to create the life I wanted. Consciously shutting off each negative voice in my head, acknowledging self-depreciating behaviors and thought patterns and taking time to create and implement new thoughts, new visions and new ways of being.

I haven’t owned a car since the winter of 2002. Quiet frankly, I got tired of getting parking tickets on Miami Beach and school was walking distance so I traded in my car keys for a pair of good shoes, a bus pass and a bike.

In every city I’ve either lived in or traveled to since that carless winter of 2002, I’ve opted to take public transportation, not because studying for the written part of the drivers examine makes me cringe or my undiagnosed parkingticketphobia, but because people are actually nice to each other on public transportation.

Now don’t get me wrong, I’ve seen grimy moments on the bus and train but the beauty I’ve witnessed turns the volume down on some of those loud cell phone conversations I have no desire to listen to.

While I’m no dating or relationship expert (another blog for another time) I know there’s a lot of good-hearted men out there because I see them rush to the aide of women struggling with heavy strollers and babies in tow.

I’ve seen my fair share of mean people but you can’t tell me that there’s no compassion in the world when total strangers pay each other’s bus fare or slide a transfer to someone who really needs it.  

I’m reminded of how down we are for each other when passengers on a bus raise their collective voices like a choir commanding the bus driver to stop for a person who’s running with every ounce of their energy to catch the bus. 

However, my favorite and by far the most comically sweet thing to watch is the faceoff between some young person and a tired person who’s sitting in the area reserved for elderly and/or handicap people, when that elderly and/or handicap person boards the bus.

You can feel the tension between the young person and the tired person as they watch the elderly and/or handicap person board. They look around the bus to see if anyone’s paying attention to them staying planted in their respective seats. Then they look at each other, holding a silent debate where the factors of age, tiredness and gender take place via direct eye contact. Then they look at the elderly and/or handicap person boarding, again as if they’re trying to assess just how elderly or handicap the person is. Then they look at the bus driver who’s looking at the both of them through that big circular mirror right above the driver’s head. Then they look around the bus, again to see if someone is going to say something to either of them about getting up.

People on the bus in-turn look at both of them like, “one of you better get up or…” Then the young person and the tired person look at each other to see who’s prepared to get up. Then something happens, the look on the young person and the tired person’s face changes instantly. It’s like they both realize at that very moment that 1. Someone, including the bus driver, just may call them out for not getting up 2. Some good karma points may be earned if the elderly and/or handicap person picks their seat. Then it becomes a niceness faceoff. The young person and the tired person standup just in time for the elderly and/or handicap person to pick the seat of their choosing. Right as the elderly and/or handicap person sits the winner of the “I followed the rules on the sign above my seat” faceoff receives their non-verbal reward of head nods and smiles for their act of couth.

However, there’s always that one person with the not-so-random audible aside that was more than prepared to tell either person about their lack of home trainin’ if they didn’t get their ass up out that seat.

While many public transportation systems have their downsides like limited bus routes and trains that seem to never come on-time, one thing can be said for the vast majority of the public transportation populous: They are beautiful people.

Whenever I talk to someone about this improvisational journey I’m on, I notice that their body posture if not already closed, closes. Their head tilts a bit to the left or right, all depending on what leg they shift their weight to. Their eyes seem to focus off on something in the distance. Something outside the room. Far from us, yet somewhere deep within them. Someplace I can’t see, but know.

It’s as if my anecdotes of hopping from one-place-to-the-nex, with my ounce of planning and heap of trust causes them (the listener) to think about their own desire to escapes whatever four walls, physically or metaphysically have them trapped.

They (the unaware prober) look at me as if they’re truly interested but their crossed arms with gas-face to match is a dead giveaway.  

The response I normally get from the receiver of my fly-by-the-seat-of-your-faith stories, which are only shared after a few explorative questions on the askers behalf is, “I wish I could do something like that,” and my kneejerk response almost always, with Willy Wonka like innocence in my voice is, “Oh, but you can,” which then, in turn, is met with a blank stare and some not so awkward silence.

Not so oddly enough, I feel like I’m looking in a mirror as I observe the response of the closed body, weight shifted to one leg, daydreaming, want to get away from this hamster wheel demonstration I now call life listener. As I stand there, wanting and waiting for the silence to break, part of me feels bad, like, “damn, I use to look that?” Then another part of me is completely comfortable with my Shug Avery-like enthusiasm as I picture myself, running toward myself screaming, “I’s married (to life) now.” 

But sometimes, something unusual happens to a tiny part of me. This unwelcomed feeling creeps up into that feel good part and does an off-beat two step, disrupting the whole feel good flow, posing a monkey-wrench of a question, which is somewhere along the lines of: Why are so many of us filling ourselves up with experiences, people and things that have us feeling like Bill Murray in a scene from the movie Ground Hogs Day? Loaded, right?

I have a theory: We’re so busy asking or answering the question of the half-empty or half-full glass that we fail to see the ease in pouring out whatever’s in that damn glass.

In the words of legendary designer Kenya Hara, “Emptiness is potential.”

If you want to take some time off work, don’t feel like you have to wait on whatever amount of years the HR department at your gig says it takes for you to go on sabbatical.

If you want that person out of your life, let them know it’s not working for you anymore and you wish them luck. 

If you want to take a step down to bring yourself up, Do It! (fuck the critics because chances are they’re unhappy anyway and just need something to talk about)

If you’re tired of the way you look, don’t go grab a magazine and run to a plastic surgeon or resort to self-depricating humor, try loving yourself first.

If it helps, find the nearest empty glass, take a note pad, write down your hopes, dreams, ambitions and freaky little fantasies on a slit of that paper then place said slit of paper in that empty glass then when you get the courage to bounce out of whatever situation that has you feeling trapped take that glass with you and start acting upon each item—slit by slit until you carve out something that looks like the life you’ve always wanted to live.  

While I don’t claim to know the truth about all things, regardless of my afro and tone, I know what I know, and what I’ve come to know is that life is what you create it to be.

Edit. Add. Subtract. And most importantly, have the fortitude to just say, fuck you (person, place or thing of your choosing), fuck you (dog, cat, and/or any allergic person, place, or material, fuck you (singer, songwriter, politician, co-worker, or perhaps, your current way of thinking) …and I’m good (because you simply need some ray of sunshine in your life.) 

It’s jus’ that easy, and jus’ that hard. 

And in the words of a wise man I don’t personally know….

“I don’t want to be that guy mumbling into his drink at a bar.” Bill Murray 

That empty glass in front of you is telling you that anything is possible. 

I need to meet the guy who sang this jingle

No truer words have been spoken and I wish I could take credit for this saying, but I can’t. My right-hand man, Ting is the originator of the above quote that serves as the title of this entry, and these words have also served as one of the many mantra’s I’ve used for some years now. 

While washing my ass has been fairly accessible, being myself has been an exercise in steadfastness a.ka.”How other people feel about me is none of my business.” because I know who I am and just as important, what I smell like.

In my travels, I’ve met some unique people. Naked people. Overwhelmed people. People with solutions on the tips of their tongues and wisdom encapsulated in their tears. Those that have walked fine lines, double-dutched their way through tribulations and hopped right into happiness. I’ve met starters and stoppers. Believers and non-believers all wrapped into one. But the most interesting people I’ve met are the ones whom haven’t showered for days, intentionally or unintentionally. These are the folks that are being themselves to the point where they’re like, this is what a human smells like, baby, ain’t nothing covering this up, I hope you don’t mind. I have an appreciation for people who’ll just put it out there like that because in that airing out, there’s a certain comfortability, a certain knowingness about oneself that’s mastered over time.  

I’ve had the pleasure of looking into the eyes of some of these people in the terminals of Greyhound bus stations as they venture off into the “Devil’s Playground.” Been fortunate enough to hear their stories as they drift in-and-out of consciousness on bumpy, long distance Amtrak rides. And I admit, I’ve given a shit about a total strangers tomorrow over drinks on a flight and found beauty in their stank breath and all because what they were saying was more important then the abuse my nose was taking. 

So while washing your ass is important, and considered to be polite in most cultures, I think the value in being oneself is worth its weight in sanity. 

Lizz Wright “Open Your Eyes, You Can Fly” 

There’s a lot more color here but a lot less green. Black men actually stop and acknowledge me as a Black woman as I walk down the street. They make eyes as I stand in line at the store. Crack boyish-like smiles as I turn around to confirm what my intuition was telling me.

Black men rarely looked at me in Portland, let alone utter a compliment. But here, on the corner of S. Portland and Fulton you would think I was the next best thing to air. That may skin was made of stars and my afro rivaled the intensity of Saturn’s rings judging how these brothas gaze at me. Not too far away from this intersection, a man took my hand into his while introducing himself and I was tempted to tell him my name was Venus.  

The air quality may not be as good here but I breathe deeper. My stride moves at a quickened pace but I don’t miss much. I notice that people look down to peep your shoe game, but not to avoid eye contact. I haven’t ran into many hipsters in this area but I’m sure they’re somewhere not too far away sharing a case of PBR amongst themselves while trading tips on how to style the most unique mustache.  

From what I’m told, this neighborhood has changed. Caught up in the hurricane of gentrification with pockets unfamiliar even unto itself. I just pray that when the figurative dust settles that this place in Brooklyn never starts to feel like Portland. Never sheds that thing that makes it Ft. Greene in exchange for dressing up in the uniform of Every Gentrified City, USA.

On this street named Portland in Brooklyn may something familiar, genuine, sweet and rooted continue to live.   

In the last five months I’ve slept in eight different cities. Slept on four futons in four of the eight cities. Taken two road trips. Flown on two red-eye flights. Stayed in two hotels in two different cities and managed to get rest on one out of the two red-eyes. Slept on an air mattress that ended up on lying flat on the floor. Suffered back pains from sleeping in a van after intentionally sleeping on a floor. Had my nerves slightly shot while attempting to rest in a private room at a hostel in a familiar city. But, I’ve been calmed by lying in bed next to my momma for a total of about five nights back home. Felt a sense of peace while sleeping on a convertible couch and a chaise lounge at two close friend’s houses in two different cities. 

I’ve ping-ponged from the Pacific Northwest to the South back to the Pacific Northwest, to the East to the Midwest then North, then West back to the North, back to the Midwest, then back to the Pacific Northwest to the East. I’ve slightly given up on knowing what time zone I’m in unless I have a meeting, a deadline to meet or making a post on a friend’s Facebook wall for their birthday. I’ve woken up and had no clue what city I was in until I walked around for a little bit. Eaten at countless restaurants, sometimes with total strangers, and sat down to a handful of home-cooked meals. Held deep conversations and avoided about three with people on planes. Lost my wallet in a friend’s rental car, which I got back a week and a half later.

I’ve laughed, joked, explored, walked, ran through airports, had a random guy hop on the train to tell me how beautiful I was rode with me to the airport which was going in the opposite direction he was supposed to go then carried my bags to the check-in (all he got was my name, a hug and my phone number. Keep Portland Chivalrous.), sang impromptu karaoke in a friend’s living room, danced, cried, packed, unpacked, been inspired, been drunk, been really drunk, been open, been closed, performed, written, worried, taken in sights I’ve previously glanced by, bumped into folks I haven’t seen in years, ran into someone I’ve only known via Twitter in a part of New York where I thought no one would know me, contemplated my future, sat still and embraced my present, all while attempting to apply lessons from my past.

This is my life. Everyday is new and I wouldn’t have it any other way.