Everything Flows: The Dirty, Sacred River of the Soul

One of the things I like about traveling is the reaffirming sense of my place in the world. Riding the bus out here from River City, barrelling through the night the cement slipstream through Tennessee into West Virginia and Virginia, I thought about all the other times I'd been through those places. Tennessee -- Knoxville in particular -- continues to leave a bad taste in my psyche.  There was so much promise, so much denied, and, looking back, the foundation of my second marriage's eventual failure has it's roots somewhere in that haunted little city overshadowed by a large state school and the unrealized hope of the sunsphere... remains of the 1984 World's Fair... and the nuclear warhead manufacturing facility in Oak Ridge. 

I found myself feeling increasingly cynical and bitter as the bus rolled through the Volunteer State, even though I was generally happy to be back out again. The academic year is finished. I got most of my list of tasks completed. I scribbled a few lines in the first entry of a fresh travel journal about the leaving and about looking ahead to the sun I am perpetually chasing:

So long to the bean counters.

So long to the nit picking biddies.

So long to the dirty sacred river.

(Your memory courses through my veins.)

So long Beloved, until my promised return.

(Your love courses through the marrow of my soul.)

I would have prefered to bring The Traveller's Angel with me on this jaunt, like I would prefer to have her with me on every jaunt.  I've mentioned before that she travels well and how I appreciate her observations, her quick wit and insights about the world. It is important to be able to see the world differently when you are out in it, even if you are travelling to a place you've been before.  

And even though she couldn't come out with me in person this time, I carry her with me, anyway.

I was asked recently by a friend and fellow Wob, J.P. Wright, how I managed to find a woman who understands my need to be in my head... which sometimes means I need to be out and on the road, moving.  

My only answer is that sometimes the universe is inexplicably and unjustifiably kind. Though it's possible to reconstruct the timeline of our relationship (which, in all honesty has roots that reach back almost 20 years) I am mindful of the words my friend George Eklund told me on one the many times he and his wife Laura have welcomed me into the warmth of their home: 

"You know," he said, "there's someone for everyone. But the chances of actually running into that person are so against us."

This is one of the ways I understand grace,and am learning to accept faith.

Travelling without her in the seat next to me is hard; but there is magic and a miracle in loving someone and in being loved by someone who understands that I need to get out and stretch my legs from time to time, if only to meditate on my place in the world and see what there is to see.

My eastbound jaunt takes me once again to Virginia and the Atlantic Coast. The weather is better, and The Kid is living on her own (with her boyfriend, who I'm starting to like inspite of my deep and intense desire to not like anyone who dates my daughter.*), working, and going to school.  I have spent most of her life trying bolster her up across large geographic boundaries, and I was never able to visit as much as I would have liked. Now that I dedicate time exclusively to being on the road, it's easier for me to drop in and check on her, if only so she knows that I am in her corner regardless of my current zip code.

Travelling as I do, sometimes visiting friends, I run back into my own footsteps from time to time. But with each new visit, I am aware that the footprints eventually wash away, that even familiar places are always a little new, a little beautiful, a little sad, a little dangerous. 

And though I stand by my assertion that Norfolk is the UNFRIENDLIEST CITY I HAVE EVER BEEN IN, I have always had an affinity for the water, and I like the North Atlantic coast.  I never get tired of staring out into the horizon, focusing on everything and on nothing, feeling myself saturate and be saturated by the place in the distance where the water meets the sky, and everything merges into one thing. 

This is the only way I can grasp what sacred means... that place where all things merge, where the Traveller's Angel's soft touch reaches out to me in a sunbeam carried by North Atlantic winds, and I can watch my daughter and marvel at the adult she is becoming.

More later from down the cement slipstream...

Culpeper Tells, Winter Talks Back

The Traveller's Angel and I jaunted east of the dirty, sacred river, barrelling up I-64, through the deep Appalachian darkeness of  the West Virginia Turnpike at night. We left River City Friday afternoon on a warm and sunny afternoon in order to make for the second day of Culpeper Tells!, a brand new storytelling festival in Culppeper, Virginia.

Culpeper is a pretty litttle town that has, over the past gfew years, built itself back up from devestation. The town has survived four earthquakes in the last year. The Big One, though, happened in August 2011. The town of Culpeper  built itself back from a 5.8 magnitiude earthquake. 

We had the opportunity to see some tellsers we've seen before, and to hear a few we haven't. Naturally we signed up for the story slam. But time ran out before the Kentucky contingnent could storm the stage.

We left Culpeper Sunday morning and rolled down VA 17 towards Norfolk to visit The Kid. And, as is almost always the case when I travel, winrter was at my back. The storm warnings blew up behind us, ad we hit the coast a good couple of hours before yet one more last hurrah of winter rolled through dropping ice, snow, and sleet in a wide swath from Loiusville to the coast. 

The North Atlantic coast may not seem the most romantic of destinations in March. Even without the interminably long winter  weather, it's still chilly, windy, and rainy.  But it's been a while since I've seen The Kid's smiley, shiny face. It's also been a while since I've seen Will, the boyfriend -- who is a nice guy, in spite of the fact that no one will ever be good enough to date my daughter.

We're staying at a Super 8 -- the same one I managed to stay in when I was here in January 2012. That trip was a very different one. I was here then to deliver bad news, among other things. I was convvinced that I was on my way to disappearing, convinced that, with the dissolution of my marriage that I most certainly would disappear, because I had convinced myself that no one weould see me the way my ex had seen me. 

I didn't know that I was on the road to put myself back together. I didn't even know I was broken. 

Amanda travels well. She's smart, pays attention to her surroundings, and drinks up new experiences. She wants to see everything she can,learn everything she can, experience all that she can. Although we've known one another for nearly 20 years, I like to think it has taken that long for me to get back to her. That it's too me 20 yeasrs to see myself in a proper enough light that I could allow her to see me. Some processes take longer than others.

And now I am here, with her, visiting The Kid -- who isn't really a kid, I guess -- and even though the North Atlantic winter is lingering outside, I am basking in the wearmth of a deeper, lovelier and more permanent light. The light where all the stories and poems and songs come from, where road unrolls under our feet and there is blue sky ahead.

Porkopolis Outbound: East By West Slingshot

Drink wine, my darling, and stop chattering. - The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam

If you don't like my peaches

Don't you shake my tree.  -- Sitting on Top of the World, Doc Watson

Morning will come early in suburbia. Mi Madre and I  are loading up and heading east on Ohio State  Route 32, winding through Eastern Ohio to the West Virginia border. Somewhere around Charleston, we'll pick up I-64, which will take us all most of the way through Virginia and back to Norfolk... still top of my list as the single most unpleasant, unfriendly and curse-ed place I have ever been to.

The sheer shittiness of Norfolk is salvaged by the presence my one and only lovely daughter, Stella.

Not my old car. This actually looks much nicer.

Add to that the fact that we won't be staying IN Norfolk proper. Rather, we'll be staying at Virginia Beach... a place I have positive memories of. The last time I was in Virginia beach was the summer of 2001, when I spent a month or so camping around Chesapeake Bay and visiting the kid.

I drove there in my primer orange Subaru. It leaked oil and almost overheated driving through West Virginia. The two back quarter panels were in the process of rusting off. The exhaust pope and muffler were gone and it sounded like a tank. There was no radio. The back two doors were fused shut and one of the back windows was permanently rolled down. The heat didn't work unless I kicked the blower motor, and sometimes I had to hit the alternator with a hammer in order to get it to start. I loved that car. I loved camping along the south side of Chesapeake Bay. I loved that Stella got to camp with me on the weekends and that I got to see her most everyday when I was there.

This trip will be nice because the kid's on Spring Break, and will actually have time to hang out. The only real downer about this trip is that I will, once again, not be able to meet The Boyfriend. This, I must admit, I'm really quite disappointed about. Because although I am the genitor and pater primo, I don't get to meet the boyfriends.... since I am the non-parentis pater, she doesn't live with me and hasn't since her mother and I split up. This means I don't get to meet (scare) the boyfriends -- which, as far as I'm concerned, is a parental right.

Unless, of course, we extend out stay there by a day... and then... and then... maybe... I might get to meet some kid who I know, without even meeting, isn't anywhere near good enough.

Hey... at least I'm honest about it.



[Thanks for reading. And remember, if you like it,

1. Pass the link on. Copy and Paste. Go ahead. 
2. Click the donate button and help keep me traveling. I'll be heading west through Kentucky once this visit is finished.  ]

Thanks again for reading and for your generous support.

Wayward Sacredness, Intermezzo: Regarding The Peripatetic Peregrination

The problem with traveling is that it's addictive. At least it is for me. My time back in Mount Carroll is nice, and it's good to see friends. But the itch has kicked into hyper-drive. Again. The full body sensation is a disconcerting experience I liken to an asthma attack. 

(And yes, I know of what I speak. I was diagnosed with asthma when I was 5 and dealt with it until I was 18, when I finally outgrew it.)

One of the things I realized on this last 6 weeks out is that I am my most content when I'm mobile. Please note, I did not use the term happy. There's a  large gulf of difference between happiness and contentedness.The former is a term describing a temporary state of being based on short term emotions and the release of certain chemicals in the brain -- which can be physiological or imbibed, snorted, or injected. The latter describes a deeper, more fundamental state of being that remains after the chemical/hormonal rush of happiness fades. (And it always fades.)

And while I'm still getting things lined up, planned, and taken care of, some evidence of future forward momentum has occurred...

which, while it doesn't completely still the itch, does help. Enormously.

For one thing, my new rucksack arrived today. 

Easier to carry, and will hold a bit more. BOO-YAH! And yes. It's blue. Deal with it.

For another, I've made part of my travel plans... which, as of yet, do not include me breaking the Mississippi River Barrier. 

First things first: I'm working on getting my stuff out of the house on Pumpkin Hill and down to Cincinnati. This way, all of my books can be in the same place for the first time in 7 years. 

After that, I've decided to take a road trip  (driving) with my dear sweet Ma back to Virginia to visit my singular progeny and bona filia, Stella. This time, the busy child will be on Spring Break. This time, too, dear sweet Ma is springing for better accommodations in Virginia Beach... which is on the more attractive side of Chesapeake Bay. 

Once mi Madre is back, ensconced safe and sound in the Queen City, I will be heading down to Kentucky for a promised return visit to Willow Drive and my friends, George and Laura. 

And after that, I'm planning a short trip through Louisville to visit college chum Amanda -- where I'll meet her hubby, enjoy her amazing culinary skills, maybe take in a horse race or two, and fine tune my plan to break through on the Great Mississippi River Barrier and head on into the Western Lands.

(Thanks to Amanda Connor (nee Hay) for her gracious donation to the travel fund.)

[Thanks for reading... I'll be hitting the road again soon... VERY soon. Not soon enough for some, I'm sure... likely those here who saw my leaving as some grand sign of things to come... like blind local media and a return to the usual graft and nepotism that makes county politics here so great.

If you're enjoying this at all... or if you have... please contribute to the travel fund. You can also use the Tip feature on open.salon.com, or go here to buy a dirt cheap copy of my short story collection, Living Broke. 

And don't be afraid to pass the link on... really. Your friends will thank you for it. Or disown you. Either way, you win.]

Eavesdropping in Spanish

Fragments instructing the children to behave;
Family gossip about Tio Louis;
Presidential Politics. Reactions to Jack Kennedy's new girlfriend.
La Historias. Admonish the boy: Quit fidgeting! Silencio!
No candy! No pop! You wanna be a fat gringo?
The children speak perfect English, look like
They're struggling with Abuela's words.
New world Hispanics. Old world Abuela.
Waiting on a train headed for Miami.
Where there are more people for Abuela to talk to.
More candy and pop, too.

An Ohio Valley Yankee in Virginia, Part 2: Overnight Train Station Updates

"Your trip was  long,illimitable, you came to this raindrop called your life, and it call it yours -- we have purposed that you vow to be awakened..." -- Kerouac

Not pictured: butt receptacle that looks like a free-standing dildo .

Good morning, Dear Friends:

My night in the Richmond Amtrak Station * passed peaceful and quiet, with no real problems. I was able to stretch out and get some sleep, though I was jolted awake by some commuter businessmen who turned the television up to catch their fill of last night's disasters on the early morning news.

I try not to watch or listen to any news when I first wake up. This is not out of apathy. It's out of survival. Early morning news is either:

1. A verbatim rehash of the news from the night before; or
2. A litany of disasters and death that occurred over night that no one can do anything about.

There's enough time in the day to hear about all the things beyond my control, and hardly enough to hear about the things I have control over. I choose, when I have control over it, not to expose myself to the news of the weird, the tragic, and the stupid until I choose.

That notwithstanding... I was actually able to get some more sleep until the snack shop opened and I paid $2 for a $1 cup of coffee.

As for overnight excitement, there was an instance where the cops were called. At first, I wasn't sure what they were here for. Two showed up and walked purposefully out onto the tracks, where a train -- that was already 30 minutes late -- was preparing to pull out of the station. It was the southbound train, final destination - Miami. When the announcer finally called the train, the waiting area cleared out -- everyone's heading south, it seems. Them. The birds. I was going to head south after visiting my daughter, but the fare would, at this point, cost me more than I want to spend.

For that reason, I'm thinking of visiting Washington D.C. and then New York. I have friends in both cities. Also, I haven't been to the capital since I was 13 or so. And that was on a church choir trip. (Yes. That's right. Church Choir. We all have a right to be a dumb ass when we're 13.)

But when I expected to hear the train roll on out, nothing happened. In a few minutes, a THIRD cop arrived and walked -- this time in a slight rush -- out to the tracks. What sort of problem, I thought, could they have that it required three cops?

Well, Richmond is a small to medium sized city; could've been a drunk, or drugs. Maybe a fight.

But wait... this IS the south. And not the south like people sometimes mistake Kentucky for.Virginia is historically and geographically, The South.

And what problem required three white -- did I mention they were white? -- cops, all with similarly douche hair cuts with the slightly upturned bangs? (I guess Richmond has metrosexual metro cops. Who knew?) 

The problem that was holding up the train?

A scrawny, pissed off black woman.

Yes.

The cops were easily a foot and a half taller than her. And no, they didn't man handle her or treat her badly. They seemed amused by the entire thing. Apparently this grandmother -- seriously, I think she was --  had rubbed the conductor the wrong way... the conductor being taller, broader, and substantially heavier than any one of the cops. And I remembered at one point, the conductor waddling in, asking about someone's seating arrangements. 

The woman wanted to simply board a different train; but since the conductor booted her, she was welcome on none of them. The cops had to talk her down a little, because she was talking loud and saying she might (gasp!) call to complain. They gave her the train station version of "You don't have to go home, but you can't stay here." Eventually, they found her a cab that would take her to the Greyhound Station for $15. This amount seemed like a favor on the part of the cabbie.

After that, I was able to sleep.

Next stop: Norfolk.

*While it is more comfortable to travel by train, amenities cost more. Not only did I have to spend $4.95 to have access to wireless in order to communicate with you all, but if I wanted wireless on the train, I'd have to pay for that. This doesn't put me off train travel. But it does make me appreciate the customer care Greyhound Bus Lines takes in offering free wifi.

[If you like what you read here, you can help by:

1. Passing the link around.
2. Graciously donating to the cause using the button on the right hand side of the screen;
3. Contact Catherine Sellers at Greyhound, 415-331-6049. Tell them you are asking about a sponsorship when the operator picks up. Show them what happens when I don't write about them. Exert pressure. Remember: you are The People.

Thanks for reading.]