GhostGirl walking GhostDog through the very real night.

*

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about finances, about living and traveling on next-to-no money, and what that means for a life. I’ve never believed that money bought happiness, or even ease of living. Of course, there’s such a thing is a middle ground. If you have NO money, then some money can buy you many things, including ease of living and possibly happiness. Too much, and it seems to bring with it a whole slew of issues all its own.

Right now, I’m much nearer to the no-money side at the moment than the too-much money side. This is partly the economy, partly the big changes that have happened in my life over the last year or two, and partly my own choice to pursue my life as a creative creature instead of one who continues to do a money job.

What changes, when you don’t have the money you used to? A lot, I suppose. I don’t have anything to my name, really, except for what matters most. My computer. My phone. A camera. A backpack. Some basic, travel-anywhere, semi-flattering clothes. A good suitcase. Excellent shoes (all bought, of course, when I did have money. So if there’s ever a claim for quality over quantity, this might be it, considering I’m still using and wearing all of the things I purchased at least a year ago.). The biggest thing I miss? Buying books. Ack.

Now, my finances are minimal. I don’t have a car. I don’t have a house. I don’t have a credit card bill. I don’t have much else that costs me money.

How minimal are my finances you ask? This minimal:

I buy groceries and house supplies for myself and whoever is hosting me at the moment: About $400/month.

I’m taking the bus wherever I need to go: About $60/month.

I am addicted to coffee, and I work best at a coffeeshop, thus coffee/”office rental” space: About $100/month

I pay for a gym membership at the moment, because I think prevention is the best medicine and I write and live and eat better when I work out: $30/month.

That means my spending budget is, give or take, about $600 a month. (Note: This doesn’t take into account the other stuff, like the occasional hair cut, business expenses, travel plans/flights, entertainment, etc. Those are sporadic these days, few and far between, but they still happen, they’re just not monthly. But spread them out and they probably become about $200/month.)

Which brings my total spending to around $800 per month.

Is this a lot? I have no idea, truly. And I’m sure it all depends on who you are comparing yourself to. But it’s what I can do right now. Sure, I could cut out the gym and the coffee, but I’ve done that before and I find that both of those are important to my well-being and my writing, and thus are well worth the financial cost.

How else am I saving money?

• Hulu, which has brought me Flash Forward, CougarVille, and various other things to watch, all for free.
• Ted, which offers free lectures from great minds around the world.
• Pandora Radio. Free music is good.
• I use the free internet at Starbucks while I’m there (and mooch from kind friends if they let me)
• Couch-sitting and house sitting.
• Walking and bussing.
• Asking, “Do I really need or want that? I mean, really?”
• Remembering what I really love that is free: Walking, reading, gaming, writing, laughing.

Granted, the nomadic lifestyle is not for everyone. Obviously, it can’t be. After all, who would I stay with if all of my friends were nomads? And I know I can’t do it forever. At some point, I’m going to start craving my own space, a car, something to care for besides the laptop (house plant? cat? pet rock?). When that happens, I’ll have to decide how to live, how to move forward, whether I want to continue to pursue the creative writing in the hope of sustaining myself financially or whether I want to return to the world of freelance writing.

But for now, here I am. Floating along. Remember that scene in the movie, “Ghost,” where he learns how to move things and he slides the coin along the door (I think that’s what he does; it’s been a long while since I’ve seen it.)? Well, that’s how I feel right now. I’m moving like a ghost through the world. Touching little. Barely tangible. Seeing how few waves I can make. Seeing how far off the grid I can get without losing myself totally.

It’s a unique experience, one that I’m glad to be having, glad it’s my choice and my decision. Glad to be ghostly. For a little while longer, at least.

Far and fast, s.

*

“An idea, like a ghost, must be spoken to a little before it will explain itself.” ~Charles Dickens

*

So, the poll is officially closed!

And the winners are:

• Northampton, Mass.
• Asheville, NC
• Ithaca, NY

Of course, as I was talking to my dad during the poll, I quizzed him.

“Did you vote for Ithaca?” This is the town I grew up in, and where my parents still live.

“Noooooo…” he says in that voice which really means “yes.” I can’t imagine where I got that from.

“Really?”

“Really. I didn’t. Your mom did though.”

I believed him. After all, this is what children do, yes? Believe their parents when they tell them something. Silly me.

Because about five seconds later, he mentions something about how it only let him vote once. Why am I not surprised?

“Uh-huh,” I said. “I did that specifically because of you.”

So, my parents stuffed the ballot box. It’s true.

*

A friend of mine recently asked, “Are you really going to let someone else decide where you live?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Is that insane?”

Total and complete silence on the other end of the phone.

So apparently that’s a yes.

*

My plan?

I don’t have one.

You shouldn’t be surprised by this.

Okay, okay, I have the beginning of a plan. But it’s all contingent on work and money and how well I can genuflect and beg my friends to let me continue being a tick crashing on their couches. The thought is that once the winter weather leaves the eastern hemisphere (*cough cough hack hack* sometime in July! *cough hack*) — no, really, I’m thinking early next year, I’ll travel eastward, check out the top three cities and make a decision.

In the meantime, I’ve got some plans to bounce around. See some more of the glorious US.

Yes, this really is insane, isn’t it?

*

I started the post with my dad, and I want to end with my dad, even though this bit doesn’t have anything at all to do with travel.

Actually, it has everything to do with travel.

My dad is my hero. You may have figured this out already, just by the way I talk about him. But he really and truly is. He raised me as a single dad (until my fantabulous stepmom came along), he taught me to go after what I wanted (which he probably has regretted doing every single day since I turned 15), he lent me many of his values and loves, and he’s always, always, always been there for me, without question or guilt or judgment (okay, probably he’s had all of those things but he’s kept them to himself, which is really sweet of him and probably required more self-control than I could ever imagine). In the end, he convinced me I could do absolutely anything I wanted to if I put my mind to it (I’m sure he’s come to regret this as well!), whether it be playing on the boy’s soccer team in high school, joining the volunteer fire department, making my living as a writer or traveling the world in the most unconventional way possible.

Happy (belated) birthday, Daddio. You’re not old. Yet. But I’m sure doing my best to make you feel like you are, aren’t I?

Far and fast (and with big-big love), s.

**

Two little girls, on their way home from Sunday school, were solemnly discussing the lesson. “Do you believe there is a devil?” asked one. “No,” said the other promptly.  “It’s like Santa Claus:  it’s your father.” ~Ladies’ Home Journal, quoted in 2,715 One-Line Quotations for Speakers, Writers & Raconteurs by Edward F. Murphy

Rain comes to Texas. Fast and furious and big. Just like everything else here.

*

[There should be an image of a car here. But since I keep forgetting my camera while I'm out walking, and since I'm posting this at eleven at night, I am not about to go out and try to capture a photo. So pretend there is a photo here of the coolest, hottest, most awesomest car you've ever seen.]

*

[Also: Note to parents, siblings, grandparents and other family members who might be perusing Chapter 37. You might want to skip today's post. I get a little -*cough*- anal in my rants].

*

For a while now I’ve been meaning to write about a phenomena that I’m experiencing here in Ft. Worth that I have to admit, I have never, ever experienced before. Okay, maybe once or twice, but it was a very, very long time ago and I’ve either blocked it out of my memory banks or it was all swept away by the fourth wave of feminism.

What is this thing, you ask?

It is the odd (and oddly enlightening) experience of being yelled at out of car windows. I thought this kind of mating ritual and/or conversational tactic went the way of the dodo bird long ago, but apparently it is alive and well in some parts of the world. I have yet to take a walk, be it four blocks or four miles, where someone has not uttered something out their window on their way by at a hundred miles an hour.

So far, the more memorable yells have included:

1. “Hot! Hot! Hot!” (Yes, it was about 97 degrees, and I was sweating profusely as I toted my ginormous backpack around, but the guy didn’t really need to remind me).
2. “Hey! Cut your hair, ya hippie!!” (Yelled at my male friend, whose hair is far above his shoulders).
3. “Woo-woo, girlie!” (Yelled, surprisingly enough, by a girl).
4. “Hey baby. You look tired” (Which either he intended to follow up with “That’s ’cause you been runnin’ through my mind all night” or else I really did look tired. I’m not sure which one would have been the worse pick up line).
5. Ballsack!!! (Yeah, I don’t know about that one either. I’m pretty sure I look like a girl, even in jeans and a t-shirt.)

And then tonight, the capper. While I was waiting for the light to change in the crosswalk, this young man (ooh, how old I feel writing that!) pulled up, stopped his car and yelled, “Hey! Can I fuck you?” Now, if I was thinking more clearly (and/or expecting such a question, which I probably should have been by this point), I could have come up with any number of not-so-smart responses, including:

1. I don’t know. Can you?
2. I think you mean to ask, “Hey! May I fuck you?” And since you don’t know the difference and I’m an anal writer, no, you may not.
3. No, but you can go fuck yourself.
4. Sure. I cost $2000 an hour. The cost doubles if you don’t give me an orgasm.
5. Sure. If I can fuck you (ideally, at which point, I would have been able to pull a twelve-inch long dildo out of my backpack and wiggled it at him. I really should get one of those and start carrying it around just for that purpose).

As it was, I did what I usually do when I’m startled, taken aback, or otherwise completely shell-shocked and I said… absolutely nothing… and merely stared at him with an expression that was both quizzical and slightly pissed off.  To which he replied, “Great!” as though I’d just given him the two thumbs up and started pulling down my pants right there in the crosswalk.

Now, why this phenomena here and nowhere else that I’ve lived in the last, oh, thirty-seven years? In Portland, one would be seriously frowned on by feminists, humanists, greenies (you’re driving a car, after all — that’s bad enough; yelling out the window is just asking for it), bikers, the mayor, most dogs, stray cats, your grandmother and your grandfather, the toddler whose mother is pushing him in her racing stroller while she runs her tenth mile of the day, and everyone else you might come across. Not to mention, there are so many people walking on the sidewalk in a place like Portland that no one would have a clue who you were yelling at. It would be like that old SNL skit. “Who you callin’ a hottie? Me?” “Him?” “Oh, me?” “No, him?” “Her?”

I chalk the lean-out-the-window-and-yell culture up to any number of possible reasons:

1. The feminist/humanist/”Talk to her like a human being if you want to have a snowball’s chance in hell of getting her into bed” movements have not yet hit this part of Texas. Thus, your options for dating are Craig’s list, The People of Walmart, or dogging your head out the car window and wagging your tongue at the rare walking human being, rabid raccoon, or wind-blown piece of trash.
2. No one walks here. Thus, anyone who deems to get out of their ginormous truck and attempt to stroll down the sidewalk/lack of sidewalk concoction that makes up most of the walking routes must get yelled at. How else do you show that you are uncomfortable by this person’s bizarre choices?
3. There is some secret service that I don’t know about yet, which allows you to electronically look up the license plate of any car whizzing by you at break-neck speed and get their cell phone number, at which point you can call them up and have the following conversation. “Hey, do you drive a 1978 rust-colored Camaro?” “Actually, it’s black. That’s just a little rust coming up on it.” “Oh. Well, did you drive on Hulen Road earlier and yell “Baby, I wanna’ do you!” at a blond chick with a big backpack?” “Hell yeah. That was me.” “Oh great, so nice to meet you. -giggle- Wanna’ take me out?” “Hell yeah. I’ll drive by you on Hulen again and yell out my home address and you come here and we’ll get it on.” “Sounds great! I can’t wait! I’ll be listening for your yell! -giggle-.”
4. [Please insert your answer here because I'm out of ideas. Completely.]

Now, I don’t want to sound all “too cool for school” and act like I’m not flattered by all this attention. Because, I mean, really, whose panties wouldn’t get all in a knot at the sound of someone yelling “Ballsack!” at them. I  know, I know, I prefer that wonderful old-fashioned and completely yellable “Scrotum!” myself, but “Ballsack!” is a very close second.

When I started this post, I had a way to end it. Some kind of uplifting “good yell out the window” story, but I got so caught up in writing about my future dating prospects that I forgot it. But let’s just say this: Next time I have a car, I’m going to try my hand at this new “speed dating.” I’ve already got my pickup line ready. I’m just going to lean out my window and yell, “Ooh, baby! Want to help me get rid of this new car smell?” Which, I’m sure will sound just as hot, sultry and irresistible at seventy miles an hour as I want it to. Or maybe I’ll just stick with the always-understandable and multi-lingual “Ballsack!”

Far and fast, s.

*

“In less enlightened times, the best way to impress women was to own a hot car. But women wised up and realized it was better to buy their own hot cars so they wouldn’t have to ride around with jerks.” ~Scott Adams

Why is it that things which are bad for you must always look so damn good? Here, homemade pizza has just enough cheesy, meaty, doughy badness to make you drool — and clog an artery. I ate some anyway.

*

One of the movies that I never watched — even though friends kept telling me that I should, even though I knew I would enjoy it in that appalled and horrified way that is the proper reaction to most good documentaries, even though I was interested in the subject — was Super Size Me. I’d describe it, but something tells me that the majority of the world has already seen it and is on to pondering other things, like Obama’s new Peace Prize and their strawberry cow on Farmville (and, oh gods, can you tell I’m back in the U.S., with access from everything from the Internet and Netflix to the New York Times and Rolling Stone?).

Point. I’ll get back to it eventually. Or, rather right about now. So I saw that YouTube has started doing movies, and when I realized that Super Size Me was one of their movie options (along with, oddly enough, Cutter, which I actually could not stop watching. I have no idea why, considering it’s a movie about… uh…. mowing the lawn ala Best In Show.), I decided I would watch it. (Also, another note: I just opened up YouTube to get the link for Cutter, and what should be across the top, but a banner ad for Wendy’s Fast Food. Go figure.).

Yes, I am the Queen of Segues today. You may call me Queenie.

Back to what’s bad for me. Fast food is, apparently, very bad for me. I knew this already and have mostly boycotted fast food places ever since my first semester of college, when I wrote a paper on how McDonald’s was killing the rainforest (raising cheap cows + cutting down trees for grazing land = buh buh rainforest. yes, this was the whole extent of my paper. What do you want? I wrote it at two in the morning.). Not walking is bad for me. I knew this too.

But the movie got me thinking about what else I do that’s bad for me. How would it affect me if I gave them all up for a month? (Because I’m not about to imbibe in them solely for a month). And, it got me thinking about education and fault, since much of the movie asks: Whose fault is it that we’re fat? Ours? Our parents? The companies? Can you sue a company for offering something that you want? Can you sue them if they target toward children? I mean, really, Facebook is making me fat. Don’t I get some kind of monetary compensation here?

But in truth, I’m a smart, educated, aware person. And yet, I do things that are bad for me. Things that I KNOW are bad for me. My fault? I have to say, “Hell yes!” If I have all the facts and I do something anyway, then I am the only one that can be held responsible (Okay, not the only one, but I do think that most of the onus falls directly into my lap — or my stomach, as the case may be).

My list of things that I know are bad for me, but which I do anyway:

• Sitting on my butt for a job. I love writing, but I was a much healthier creature when I was tending bar. Okay, maybe not healthier — second-hand smoke – odd hours – strangers grabbing my ass + all the walking I was doing = high stress levels + bad lungs + really great legs.
• Guilt. See the rest of this list.
• Internet surfing. What a gloriously bad waste of precious time.
• Caffeine. I love my coffee and the occasional glass of diet soda (ack! ack! chemicals).
• Dairy. I gave up dairy once, to see if it would help my rosacea. It did, but it also made me an insane person, the kind who would call friends up and say, “Hi! I would kill you for a cookie! Or ice cream! Oh my god, I would kill the whole world for a lick of Ben & Jerry’s Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough ice cream!”
• Dairy+. Ever notice how dairy goes best with things that are bad for you? Sour cream on nachos. Cheese on pizza. Ice cream on, well, anything and everything.
• Meat. Oh my god, I love me some meat. Especially, dare I say it?, pork. Mmm… pork. (Notice I started this blog at 5 pm, and you’re not seeing it until now? That’s because in the act of writing pork, I remembered that there was said pork in the fridge, marinated in Jack Daniel’s sauce, and I went off to cook it and eat it. And now my fingers are sticky on the keys and my teeth are full of whiskey-flavored meat.)

Things I’ve given up that were bad for me:

• Smoking. And breathing second-hand smoke.
• Most drinking.
• Stress. How can you give up stress, you ask? Well, obviously, you can’t. But I’m working on making my life as stress-free as possible. As one of my favorite people says, “Is it a little rock or a big rock in the rock-filled jar of life? Because you only get to stress if it’s a big rock.” (Only she says it much more articulately that I just did.).
• Venomous people. They are gone, buh buh. Just like Micky Dee’s rainforests.
• Watching TV. See: Internet.

Now, on to the important list. The things I do right now, at this very moment, day-to-day that are good for me:

• Morning cocktail: multi-vitamin + good bacteria + cranberry pills.
• Orgasms. Oh, yes, these are so so so very good for you. Trust me. I’m not a doctor, but I play one on the Internet.
• Walking for pleasure.
• Writing. It’s good for me. I can’t explain it.
• Floss.
• Fruit and veggies. Nom nom nom.
• Talk to friends, really really talk to friends and tell them that I care about them. Hokey? Yes. Good for me (and for them)? Hellz yes.

And you? What do you do that’s good, bad or ugly? Surely I can’t be the only one who’s beating up my body and mind, even though I know better.

Far and fast, s.

*

“I think the saturated fats are cutting off the blood flow to his penis.” ~Morgan Spurlock’s girlfriend, as quoted in Super Size Me.

Couch-hopping. Or, rather, couch-lounging. I am more lounge lizard then jumping toad, it would appear. (And, no, that’s not my underwear hanging out. That’s the boy short that’s part of my skort. I swear it.)

*

Have you ever surfed? I don’t mean the kind that starts with a board and an ocean and ends with you face-planting in wet sand and swallowing six gallons of sea water and an unsuspecting starfish (or at least it did for me). I mean couch surfing. The sport of traveling around, crashing on people’s couches (or extra beds), seeing a lot of the world without having to pay for hotel rooms while gaining the opportunity to spend time with interesting, kind people.

I’m couch surfing right now. I tend to couch surf with friends, instead of with strangers, mainly for two reasons: 1. It gives me a chance to spend quality time with said friends and 2. Crashing with friends means that I can say things like, “I really need six or seven hours today to write, but I’d love to hang out with you tomorrow instead.”

Traveling this way also means that you get a guide to wherever it is you’ve landed — someone who lives in the area and knows all the ins and outs (as in: “There’s a Saturday Market every Wed. and Sat., but you have to go early because everything sells out really fast” and “Oh no, you do NOT want to eat at that Mexican restaurant. No, no, no, no, no.”). You’ll also have the opportunity to learn some cool new things from your host. If you’re staying with an artist, check out their work and working process. If you’re staying with a gamer geek, step up to the microphone and try your hand at Rock Band (for the record, I suck at Rock Band. I cannot sing worth a damn and my hands do not want to do the button-button-button-strum thing. No, they do not.). Share your favorite recipes and learn theirs.

I think the true way to be a good couch surfer, whether you’re staying with friends or strangers, is to set some parameters ahead of time, and then to stick with them. The parameters I set tend to have to do with time (“I really, really need x number of hours per day of alone time in order to write. Is that okay with you?”), with money (“I’m happy to chip in x amount of dollars toward the monthly groceries/rent/utilities, etc), and with your way of being (Don’t be a slob, pay attention to the way that your host keeps his or her home, if you use something up (toilet paper, paper towels, a light bulb) replace it without squawking, pick up your shit (!!) and generally help out. The house I’m staying at now has a ginormous, energetic dog — as it turns out, it behooves us both if I take her for a long walk while my host is working. We both get exercise, she doesn’t pee on the rug, and I feel like I’m being useful around the house).

Couch surfing isn’t for everyone, of course. You’re in someone else’s house, on their schedule, smack-dab in the middle of their life. You’ll need to decide (ideally before you land somewhere) if couch surfing is going to be the ride of your life, or if it’s going to dump you and your host face-first in the ocean and leave you with a truckload of sand inside your bikini.

So far, so good. The waves are high, the water is warm and the only face-planting I’ve done has been on the couch, to sleep.

Far and fast, s.

*

No, I don’t know what’s so funny either. Probably listening to someone in the house sing along with Bon Jovi on Very Drunken Rock Band (TM)

*

“For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the daffodils.”

~William Wordsworth

Texas turtle tries to traverse the transom. Takes a terrible tumble.

Say that ten times fast. I dare you.

*

I’ve always loved things that creep and slither and crawl (minus, of course, spiders and, most recently, ticks). Snakes have always held a special appeal to me (except for garter snakes, but that’s only because they smell so incredibly bad when you handle them). When I was living in the dorms while getting my two-year degree, the guys down the hall from us had this gorgeous and gigantic snake. Of course, snakes (and every other pet except, apparently, ants and bees) were prohibited. The only time anyone cared was when we had fire drills. Which we had A LOT. The snake couldn’t stay in her cage, because the firemen could possibly notice this eight-foot, big-around-as-my-thigh, bright yellow creature curled up in a dorm room. So, what did the boys do with her? Typically, they wrapped her around my body beneath my winter coat. It would be two in the morning, and I’d be standing in the parking lot in my pajamas and my long winter coat, this slithering creature coiling herself around my torso and arms. It’s one of my favorite memories of that particular college, actually, even better than the four a.m. watergun fights (yes, our rooms locked, but you could pick them with your student ID card in about half a second) or my roommate’s boyfriend teaching her how to drive a stick shift (they weren’t in a car at the time, FYI. I’ll leave the rest to you to figure out).

Turtles are a close second in the slithery/crawly competition. When I was a kid, it seems like we always had a couple of turtles living in a kiddie pool on our porch during the summers. We fed them live snails we collected from the ditch, which they ate with a relish that always amazed me, the way they’d pull them from our fingers and crunch them down. We let them go sometime in fall, although I can’t remember where now, come to think of it. Probably in one of the many ponds that were nearby.

*

Turtle who got in the way of the road. Notice the blood on the upper right hand corner of his shell. Poor thing.

*

A few days ago, while Friend R and I were out walking, we noticed something odd in the road. A turtle, all shelled up, that seemed to be getting very very lucky — while we were standing there, at least fifteen cars drove over him, not once actually hitting it with a wheel. “We have to get him,” I said. “He’s going to get squished.” But at the moment, the traffic was too crazy — flying by, fast and furious. I flinched each time a car went over him, fearing that he really was going to get crunched by a huge wheel while we watched. But then there was a break in the traffic and I ran out into the road and picked him up.

Only to discover that he’d already been hit — his shell was bleeding (I have to admit, I didn’t even know turtle shells could bleed), and that his right foot was at an awkward angle, as though it might have gotten run over as well. I carried him over into the nearby field, and laid him down beneath the tree. I don’t know if he’ll survive, but I sent him off with a silent good will and a lot of hope.

I have to admit that I feel even more kinship with turtles now, after having traveled around for more than half a year, while dragging my “house” around with me. There are days when I, too, feel like I’m trying to traverse a big, scary highway with lots of cars whizzing around me, hoping that I make it to the other side without getting crunched. When I feel like I’m moving slower than everyone else and it’s just a matter of time before I get hit by something insurmountable, and find myself spinning around like a top, bouncing from danger to danger. And on those days, I sure could use a couple of kind hands, reaching out, helping me up and putting me in a place that’s soft and cool and safe.

Kiss kiss bang bang, s.

*

“Looking for peace is like looking for a turtle with a mustache: You won’t be able to find it. But when your heart is ready, peace will come looking for you.” ~Ajahn Chah

A streak of thunder through a night sky, somewhere in Texas.

*

It’s funny how often you don’t realize you’ve been missing something until you return to it. There are things you notice and miss right away — for me, when I moved from NY to Oregon, I instantly missed the rolling hills, even though it only took me about a day to fall in love with Oregon’s glacier-capped mountains. Moving to Scotland, I missed the evergreens. Now, I miss the ocean — the sound, the salted smell, the rhythms of it — more than I can begin to describe.

But other things I didn’t even realize I missed until I returned to them, and felt that deep pang of wonder and despair that comes from a sudden understanding that something you love has gone by the wayside and you didn’t even realize it.

The first time this happened to me was with lightning bugs (which, for some reason, we called fireflies. I think they’re the same creatures, but I’m not entirely sure). I didn’t even realize that the west coast didn’t have fireflies until I went back to NY for the first time, and was driving back to my parent’s farm in the middle of nowhere late at night. I turned a corner on this country dirt road and there, in the field in front of me, must have been thousands of fireflies. It’s an image that will never leave my head, because I actually pulled the car over, my mouth hanging open. Both at the beauty of the sight and at the fact that I had forgotten, completely forgotten that such a thing as fireflies existed.

Most recently, this has happened to me with storms. I forgot how much I loved storms. Oh, don’t get me wrong — Portland has storms in the fact that it rains, pours, pizzles, pisses and can generally soak you in about thirty seconds. But thunder and lightning? Forget about it.

And then, here in Texas, land of the huge skies and the, apparently, even bigger storms. Thunder is loud and crackling and booming and it makes you jump and cringe just a little even when you aren’t outside. The lightening is fast and furious and purpled with energy, jumping and streaking and cloud-hopping. You can feel the energy in your hair when you stand outside and let the wind whip you and the grass and the crickets into a frenzy. All of it reminds me of Dorianne Laux’s fantastic poem “Late October” (if you haven’t read it, I recommend that you do — it’s one of the best poems I’ve ever read).

To think I’ve been without thunder storms in my life for so long, and didn’t even notice makes me sad.

To stand beneath the ginormous Texas sky and feel the heat and light crackling through me hair makes me feel alive.

Far and fast, s.

*

Lightning jumps from cloud to cloud over Texas.

*

“The difference between the right word and the almost right word is the difference between lightning and a lightning bug.” ~Mark Twain

The results are in! Kind of…

These are the places you suggested for me. Actually, I had more than a hundred people respond to my plea for assistance between Facebook, email and this blog. Which is…awesome! And it left me with a whole lot of cities to look into. Now, I need help narrowing it down.

I’ve made a poll listing every city that got at least two votes from you guys and I’ve decided that based on the results of this poll, I’ll visit the top three cities that you pick for me, and see which one of those I want to live in. You can pick up to two of the cities listed, or you can write in your own if you like.

So, vote now! Have your say on where I plant myself for the next…who knows how long?

…ok, wow. I just realized how scary this is, putting my future in your hands! Don’t send me to Tallahassee or anything, please. Pretty please?

PS — I just realized that if you write in your own city, it just shows up as “OTHER” on the poll for some reason, so feel free to throw your city of choice in the comments after you vote. Thanks!

PS2 — Also, if you haven’t been playing along, you can see my list of criteria for a city here.

Lightning over a Texas highway.

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Vagabond no more! Well, once a vagabond, always a vagabond, I suppose. It’s hard to get wanderlust out of one’s system, I think.

But… but…

I would like to settle down for a while. Try my hand at a new American city. Traveling and couch-hopping and mooching off friends (ahem) is a ton of fun for the moment, but I know that at some point I’m going to run out of friends and couches (not to mention money and time), so I’m looking for a place to land (and live) next.

So, here’s my dilemma: I’ve lived in Portland, Oregon for the past twelve years or so, and I really, really loved it. But it’s time for a change — Portland has gotten too big for me, too crowded, too commercial and too focused on the external for my tastes.

So, it’s off to a new area of the country for me! I know many of you are well-traveled, and have lived all over the U.S., and this is where you come in. Can you help? (For incentive, I’ll even put together some sort of prize package for anyone who suggests the city where I actually end up. Hehe. Couldn’t resist that!)

Here’s what I’m looking for:

–Small to mid-sized town or city (Portland has 500,000 and is just too big for me at this point)

–Green sensibilities / local and organic food options / bikeable and hikeable / public transportation

–Cultural options and activities / college? / libraries / literature / coffee shops and book stores

–Open-minded / GLBT friendly / A liberal lean

–Ideally semi-mild climate. Sun is good, rain is good, snow is fine. Tons of heat is bad. Freezing my ass off year-round is also bad.

–Semi-affordable to rent and to live in (I keep hearing Santa Fe, Calif. would be perfect for me, but then I look at the cost of living. Ouch.)

–An airport within an hour’s drive (at most)

What doesn’t matter to me:

–Anything kid-oriented, since I don’t have them

–Religious options

–Job market, since I’m self-employed and can work from anywhere

I’m sure there are more than that, but those are the big ones for me. People so far have suggested: Eugene, Ore.; Corvallis, Ore.; Middlebury, VT; Northamton, Mass.; Portland, Maine; and a few others, so I’m looking into those. But I would love to hear your thoughts and suggestions!

Thank you thank you thank you!

Far and fast, s.

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