Gators People Live in the River, 3.3: Who Are You?

And you? When will you begin that long journey into yourself? ― Rumi

When we struggle against our energy we reject the source of wisdom. -- Pema Chodron

My mistake was in checking my email.

I ought to know better. No good can come from reading email or looking at the news before my feet even hit the floor. It's bad practice. But I also suspect I'm not the only one who checks email, checks Facebook before doing something incredibly wise like 1) put on pants or 2) drink a cup of coffee. The first is simply a matter of form; I do not engage with my fellow man while my manhood is showing. The second is a matter of self-knowledge and common sense. Everyone who knows me knows that the world will have a much better version of me after a cup coffee. (Black, please. No cream. No Sugar. If you must add something, add bourbon.)

But because I sometimes use my cell phone as my alarm clock, I've gotten into the habit of putting it in Airplane Mode and keeping it bedside. (This is a habit I need to break.) I know there is nothing important enough I can learn from my phone that won't wait long enough for me to stand up. Humdrum habits.

This particular time, like most mornings, I didn't do that. I took it off Airplane Mode immediately, and once the phone found WiFi signal, I had a new message waiting on me. The subject line: Who Are You?

Hello, Mick:
I'm writing because I found out you were hired to teach composition at the University of Louisville, where I was formerly the Director of Composition.  I have connected with you on LinkedIn but that in no way qualifies as an endorsement of your teaching qualifications or skills.  I am not a reference for you, nor will I be used as one, so I hope you didn't list me as a reference.
Do you have a master's degree in English from an accredited university, and do you have graduate coursework in Rhetoric and Composition?  Be honest and forthright because I will find out the truth and you will NOT be teaching at UofL without proper credentials.

My reaction -- as described by Amanda -- was visceral. 

If he had been in front of me, I could have ripped his tongue from his mouth. And I haven't raised a hand to hurt a human being more than a decade.

I'd nagged and prodded and somehow talked my way into a little work that would allow me to set up a home base in Louisville. The Universe had been kind enough to let me have that, and I was (and am) grateful for it. The whole identity theft issue made me laugh because while some may find my lack of traditional ambition and my politics criminal, I am not one. 

Not yet, anyway. Give it time. We will all be criminals eventually.

My response was immediate and relatively articulate for as livid as I felt:

Hello,
I did not list you as a reference. I reached out over LinkedIn when I assumed (because the website indicated as such) that you were still the Writing Program Director at U of L.
I attended Morehead State University and earned my MA in 2003. I have taught developmental, first year, and creative writing. I have been and still am a writing tutor. I have been a working journalist, and I'm a damn fine poet.
I neither wanted nor asked for your recommendation, and I don't care if you were the the Director of Composition or the Wizard of Oz. I am a fine teacher, a good human being, and you are an ass.
Regards,

That response didn't do much to wash away the waves of hatred and wishes for a voodoo doll in his likeness. You want to be a stick up my ass? We'll see, we'll see...

I sent a second response, in which I gave him my phone number. I told him if he had any more questions that he was welcome to call me and I would be more than happy to tell him off via the phone.

After that, I sent an email to the current Director of Composition at U of L and copied the secretary and departmental HR rep, explaining that 1) I am myself and 2) that somehow, I managed to receive the most unprofessional contact from a colleague since having to interact with that pompous ass of an English Department Chair at Arizona State.

He -- the former Director who emailed me at 7:30 in the morning on a Saturday -- apologized. We have each made our conciliatory gestures. At this point I am more annoyed by someone's breach of professional ethics in disclosing my identity theft debacle to someone outside the university than I am by his reaction. 

Annoyed, but not surprised. Just because I'm back in the classroom doesn't mean I've swallowed the Kool-Aid, Dear Readers. I am there to teach. That some other people are there to maintain tenuous little fiefdoms is part of the minefield we have wrapped higher education in.

Gator People Live in the River, 3.2: Blue Horse

There's nothing worse than being put in a position where you have to explain yourself to someone who may not be worth the time, the effort, or the energy expenditure. I make it a habit to NOT explain myself. I think of self-explanations as the same as having to tell someone why a joke is funny. If you have tell someone why the horse being blue in August is funny, then you've wasted your time.

When I left JCTC after concluding the first half of my HR Paperwork Blitzkrieg, I drove back down Third Street to the University of Louisville. After finding some creative parking, I made my way onto campus and into the Bingham Humanities Building.

The building is built in the shape a rectangle. This would lead one to believe that the building is easy to navigate.  Once inside, however, the combination of knock off Frank Lloyd Wright minimalism, asynchronous office numbers, and Dantesque signage is clearly designed to confuse the first time sucker rather than inculcate him with a sense of warmth similar to the last stage of hypothermia.

After stepping off the elevator and walking far longer than I thought thought I should have needed to down off season academic hallways, I found the right office. But Linda, the person I was supposed to talk to, wasn't there. Instead, I was greeted with a Post-It note informing me that she was in some room in the basement.

Fuck me, there's a basement to this place? Is that where they imprison failing graduate students and abandoned developmental writing programs?

My intention was to try and find Linda in the basement. Except that I couldn't find the elevator again. It was as if the wall had simply swallowed it up, along with any hint of a stairwell.

Salvation came eventually in the person of Linda, who said she was glad she hadn't missed me.

Is there really an exit, I asked, or is it just an existential concept?

Linda blinked the way a dog blinks after being told to stop chewing on a slipper. I have been told before that I should not tell jokes because my delivery stinks. I reject this criticism, however, based on the fact that humor is as much about context as tone. And within the context of being new to the university, being new to Louisville, as a matter of fact -- something that was very much known to my new soon-to-be bosses at U of L -- and being a last minute hire to teach a class, I figured that I'd have a shot at a chuckle. Sartre references almost always work, and secretaries are not immune to the malaise of academic idea entendre.

And she blinked.

I have the utmost respect for secretaries and janitors because they run the world. The people who file your W-2 and the people who clean public bathrooms are more important to the overall running of the world than any administrator, politician, or cop. And I had no intention of confusing or upsetting Linda. I was merely trying to relax, be friendly.

We rolled past the awkward beginning and into the paperwork. When we got to the I-9 I produced both my Ohio Driver's License and my passport card -- the latter of which should have been enough (as per Column A.)

She blinked.

I think I need your social security card.

I don't carry it. The passport usually works.

She blinked.

I'm pretty sure I need your social security card.

I don't carry it. It's ragged. It's my original social security card. You're not allowed to laminate it. It's as thin as toilet paper.

She xeorxed a copy of both my driver's license and my passport, but would not let go of the social security card.

Fine, I said. I'll bring it with me to orientation.

On my way to U of L, I had decided to tell them about the criminal background check snafu at JCTC.  I considered it a form of professional courtesy. Though my initial face to face contact with Linda had given me some reservations about following through, I ignored that instinct and went on ahead with my well-intended disclosure. After all, it was funny. Right?

She blinked.

I explained it again.

She blinked.

I asked if I needed to write a note to HR or something, just to keep on file.

She blinked. Then she sat down at her computer as if she intended to write an email to HR herself. She offered to let me write an email myself. But, she pointed out, the HR person was gone for the day (after 2pm on a Friday) and would not see it until Monday anyway.

I told her I'd send it over the weekend or some other time. I had her lead me out to the elevator --which, magically appeared not 20 steps from her office door.

Once I escaped, I made for a nice well lit place with cold beer.

Gator People Live in the River, 3.1: The Question

Americans may have no identity, but they do have wonderful teeth. -- Jean Baudrillard

The moving finger writes, and having written moves on. Nor all thy piety nor all thy wit, can cancel half a line of it. -- Omar Khayyam

Apparently 1996 was a good year to be me.

Or, it wasn't, depending on your point of view. To be honest, I remember very little of 1996. There was a lot worth forgetting. I had somehow managed to talk myself back into school, with the intention of finishing my Bachelor's degree. My only intention was to get out of the Blue Ash, Ohio pillow factory I was working in. The job itself wasn't bad, but I was tired of leaving at the end of my shift looking like I'd been tarred and feathered. Moreover, I was tired of FEELING like I'd been tarred and feathered.

The late 90's for me were mostly a matter of trying to untangle myself from the decisions of the early 90's. An early marriage that had turned into a bloody fucking divorce. Attempts to drown unanswered grief, self-loathing, and anger in cheap beer and even cheaper whiskey.  Failed attempts at college in spite of having every tool and reason to succeed. I was socially awkward, a secondary character in my own life, and I felt overshadowed by the large personalities around me.

My life was turning into Bret Easton Ellis novel -- which, if you've read him, is bad on every narrative and aesthetic level.

But, apparently, I still had one thing going for me.

My credit rating was still good. 

At the time this didn't seem like anything worth celebrating. Someone else felt differently, however, because he (or she?) promptly stole my identity only to be arrested and convicted in New Jersey for felony conspiracy. (Case #96000890)

Sometimes life shifts whether you see it or not. And even though I wasn't aware, my life had gone from Less Than Zero to The Sopranos. Better writing, to be sure. There's always that.

I was blissfully unaware of this shift, however, until last week. I discovered my felonious status thanks to the Department Chair at one of my new The-Universe-Is-Kind gigs at Jefferson Community and Technical College. Thanks to some last minute shuffling, a class needed teaching and I nagged enough to merit consideration. Stacy, the Chair, hired me on the merit of my CV, which, I admit, makes me look pretty good.  I have a lot of experience in spite of appearing to do very little. A criminal background check is part of the screening process. This is nothing new -- I've signed off on plenty of these forms over the years. Most of the time, they look for felonies, which I have personally never been arrested, tried, or convicted of. On the tediously repetitive HR form I always indicate that I have never been convicted of a felony. Sometimes I get the job. Sometimes I don't. When people don't hire you, they aren't really obligated to tell you WHY. Generally, this is a good thing. If you screwed up the interview or if you smell or if they just aren't that into you, it's not always something you want to know about.

When I came back from visiting The Kid in Virginia, I packed a few things and drove down river to Louisville for an HR Paperwork Blitzkrieg. Two institutions. Two sets of paperwork. I also wanted a sit down with the chair at JCTC, and she wanted one with me.

The English Department at JCTC is housed in the old Louisville Presbyterian Seminary... an interestingly gothic structure that I would not have thought a Presbyterian would want to house anything in. There are no water fountains or snack machines in the building because that would make the hallways too narrow to conform to city fire codes. But it is an architecturally interesting building.

from hellolouisville.com

I knew I'd get along with Stacy because she was wearing jeans and because she has a nose ring. I realize those things, in and of themselves, seem superficial. But sometimes superficial details can offer a wellspring of information about a person.

We chatted for a bit. James, the Writing Center Coordinator (where I am also getting some work hours) sat in for a while. Then he left.

Then Stacy brought up the criminal background check. She was a bit uncomfortable. She referenced a conviction in New Jersey. A felony conviction.

Now, Dear Readers, you probably remember when my travel journal and ID were lifted in a Minnesota casino. Identity and being able to prove who you are is increasingly important in these, the early days of the Nationalist States of America. Even Facebook (the free market arm of the techno-fascist empire) requires that you use your "real name" on your profile. And I won't go into detail about the various ways in which the NSA has the ability to invade our privacy and track everything from the color of our socks to the consistency of our bowel movements.

So when I heard that I was apparently convicted in New Jersey -- a state I have never been to, unless the train rolled through it at night once -- in 1996 of felony conspiracy, I laughed.

Stacy told me she looked at my CV when the check came back and saw that there was no way it could have been me -- I was in Morehead, finishing my BA. Which, of course, I was. We had a chuckle about it and moved on. James wandered back around.

Oh, so I guess you asked him the question?

We all had a chuckle. And I took some solace in knowing that when I was the least interested in being me, apparently someone else felt differently.

Not bad for my first day of living in Louisville.

Southern Jaunt / Indigent Persons / Numeratus Ergo Sum

Divorce: a resumption of diplomatic relations and rectification of boundaries. - Ambrose Bierce

That ain't me, that ain't my face. It wasn't even me when I was trying to be that face. I wasn't even really me then; I was just being the way I looked, the way people wanted. - Ken Kesey

The English language is both verbose and reductive. The OED (That's the Oxford English Dictionary in case you didn't know) recognizes more than 1 million words. Granted, one of those words is muggle (half-wizard/ half human bastard, a la Harry Potter)  -- the inclusion of which  I object to on the grounds that frooping (taking a dump and masturbating at the same time) is not also included. To be fair, though, I haven't been as assiduous in updating the PDOUWP (That's the Parsons Dictionary Of Oft Used Words and Phrases) either. Writing a dictionary is a massive undertaking and not to be done lightly.

Or with a great deal of sobriety.

Divorce, as a term, tends to have more of a connotative meaning than a denotative one.

Connotative: what people say a word means in a personal, emotional, situational context, whereas denotative is the meaning of a word that's fit for a dictionary... and quite possibly, either verbose, or reductive. Or both. For example: "Me: I need to hurry up and file for divorce in order to avoid disingenuous Facebook information."(denotative) "County Clerk: "Oh, you need to file for [divorce].(Word mouthed but not actually spoken aloud." (connotative.)

Yesterday I filed for divorce from my soon-to-be ex. Since I am mostly broke, I went through the spectacularly outdated Illinois Free Legal Aid website. I had to do this because the County Clerk's office only had the divorce paperwork for marriages lasting 5 years of less.  Apparently, they don't expect anyone married more than 5 years to file for divorce... guessing, I suppose, that both parties are either deliriously happy or sufficiently apathetic enough that the problem -- like marital passions -- never arise.

After I was finally able to open the documents (the website required the use of a web browser I will not use, will not download, and am fairly convinced is nearly as evil as Ol' Zuck [see below]) I found that my 9 years of marriage -- 11 years total together -- was easily reduced to 20 or 30 questions covering everything from the last time we lived in the same space to whether she is currently knocked up. Also in the State of IL(L) among the reasons cited for divorce are certain stipulations.

Irreconcilable Differences (also a bad movie) means you have to both agree that you REALLY REALLY mean it.

Physical Abuse requires a pound of blood, accompanying photos, and the short skirt that potentially caused the beating in the first place (so the judge can determine whether the beatings were warranted.).

My favorite, though, was the stipulation for filing due to Mental Cruelty. If filing for divorce on the grounds of Mental Cruelty, YOU HAVE TO PROVE IT WASN'T DESERVED.

Really. I don't have to make this part up. I read the question five times to make sure I was reading it correctly.

And because I am primarily unemployed -- having not held steady employment since January -- I qualified for what the state calls  "Indigent Status." This means that I can petition on my own behalf and the usual filing fee of ($120) is waived. I still have to pay for the postage to send a copy of the paperwork to the Fayette County Sheriff's Department so that they can serve her... this, apparently, can't be avoided. I got the feeling though that the whole process would have been quicker had she remained in the area long enough to file; but whether it's next week or next month, before I pack up my rucksack and leave Mount Carroll yet again, I will no longer be a married man.

I do not expect a line of excited women to form any time soon. 

Actually I would have posted a change in status to my Facebook page, except that I'm convinced that Mark Zuckerberg, Gazillionaire Techno-Fascist, would somehow require proof of my real status... I can only suppose that he needs to know in case he wants to try and date my ex. I can only assume, however, that since she and I are both into girls (FINALLY... something in common) that Ol' Zuck would strike out again.

I did manage, in spite of myself, to get my driver's license replaced. I was hoping to get my picture taken... the beard is growing out nicely... but alas, I was denied. But I am an organ donor. When I die, some poor beardless schlub can have my righteous face rug.

But not Ol' Zuck. That baby-faced ideologue can buy his own.  

Playing the Name Game, Leaving Porkopolis (Again)

I shall traverse the States awhile, but I cannot tell whither or how long... -- Walt Whitman



Here, have another cup and forget about the dime
Keep it as a souvenir, from Big Joe and Phantom 309. - Red Sovine



After a nice visit with My Dear Sweet Ma, I'm on my way to Chicago, having caught a ride with my friend Paul H. He makes a weekly run up to Bloomingdale, which is about 27 miles from the Ogilvie Transportation Center


View Larger Map

-- where I'm meeting someone else who will help get me to Mount Carroll late Monday night.

Once I'm back in Mount Carroll, I plan on visiting some friends, finding some way to build up the Travel Fund*, and get my Southbound excursion planned. By the time I get there, or soon thereafter, a copy of birth certificate will arrive at my as of yet un-relinquished P.O. Box address there, and I will be able to trade in my recently arrived OFFICIAL TEMPORARY DRIVER'S LICENSE (that, according to the large type double bold capitalized notification at the top of the page... just below the Official State of Illinois page header... IS NOT VALID FOR IDENTIFICATION PURPOSES) for an actual photo identification.

I can drive right now... but I don't have a car, having signed (somewhat happily, somewhat sadly) the blue station wagon... the appearance of which, I believe, foretold my soon to be divorce. So I will have an ID with the moniker My Dear Sweet Ma bestowed upon me during that blizzard in the Year of Our Lord 1973.

Several people -- friends, family -- have asked me about my name changes on various social networking sites. I have tried explaining. I have had to explain the reference to Ozymandias. And here... for you all, Dear Readers, to see... it is:

Ozymandias

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: `Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear --
"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.' 

Percy Bysshe Shelley (published 1818)

There. Now you know. It's one of my favorite poems. It's always made me smile, just a little.

My reasons for getting another state sanctioned official (for the purposes of Identification) ID are two fold: I want to be able drink when some child working in a bar or restaurant would otherwise deny me booze without some proof that I'm nearly twice his or her age; and I want to be able get a passport for next year's anticipated European Jaunt. 

I'm still not sure what's in a name. Echoes of the father, the grandfather. The obligations of a son. The identity attached to that name by The State, by marketeers, by the various institutions that have been digging into us from the moment we're even let out of the house to get on a school bus. Once you start unraveling and tearing off the cultural appliques, you begin to realize that most of the reductive nouns people use to self-identify ... cultural, ethnic, political, religious, spiritual, philosophical... and all the ontological delusions begin to crumble and you begin a journey through the world without the apparatus that binds you to those self same rotting institutions that nothing more than the crumbling visage of some megalomaniac with a bank roll and a need for psychotherapy.

Eastward-ish: (Another) Whim of the Great Magnet

If you don't know where you're going, any road will get you there. -- Lewis Carroll


Sometimes it's necessary to go a long distance out of the way in order to come back a short distance correctly. -- Edward Albee

As you might recall, I walked into the Little Six Casino Mick Parsons and walked out divested of him. Nice enough guy, I suppose; but on the upside, I figure his identity is being used by some undocumented worker to stay in the country. On about the same level of an upside, part of my psyche hopes that some poor stupid bastard is, at this very moment, trying to acquire a hefty bank loan for an extravagant house, car, boat, or some other overpriced tinker toy, based on my credit history.

The peels of laughter from the loan department will be audible in a five state area. Really.

Beyond losing my ID, I lost my journal and my mode of travel. The loss of my notes and the bits of poetry hurt. The loss of my mode of travel -- the Discovery Pass that allowed me to travel from Ashland, Kentucky all the way to San Francisco, California, and had enough time on it to get to Cincinnati, Ohio before it expires on July 5th -- was more that problematic. Not only was I worried that I might be stuck, indefinitely, in Minneapolis, but I was pondering what that meant for the end of this particular jaunt. If it meant anything at all.

I was trying to figure out a way to get moving again, worried that I would overstay my welcome with my dear friends here, worried that future traveling might be complicated by my new minted non-person status, and worried that I would have to depend on my friends in a way I did not want to. I depend on them enough for a soft landing shelter, and food, and a ride to and from the bus station; they seem willing enough to help in these regards, seem to enjoy my company, and most of them even want me to visit again. In no way did I want to mess any of that up.


But it turns out, I stressed out all last week for nothing. I finally called Greyhound's Customer Assistance line to see if there was anything I could do short of waiting for a new picture ID to come in the mail or hitchhike.

DO NOT CALL THIS NUMBER UNLESS YOU WANT TO LISTEN TO SCOTT JOPLIN.  I LIKE SCOTT JOPLIN AND EVEN I THOUGHT I MIGHT GO INSANE WAITING TO TALK TO A REAL PERSON ABOUT MY REAL PROBLEM.

I found out that all I needed to do was set up a password when I purchase my ticket online. When I pick it up at the ticket counter, that password will work as an ID.


Perfect. Absolutely perfect.


Add to that a kind donation or two to the travel fund, and I was able to purchase a ticket. I'm headed out of Minneapolis at 1 AM July 5th and arriving in Cincinnati at 8:40 PM that same day. All in all, just shy of a 19 hour burn to get from here to there.


And I have enough money for a bottle of water and even (gasp!) a cup of coffee.

Gawd Bless America. And Gawd bless those of you who contributed. May your children grow up smart and good-looking and not at all resembling the mail carrier.

The universe smiles on me yet again. A little crack of a smile, to be sure. But a smile nonetheless. And I'm grateful for it. As last minute changes in plans, go, it could have gone a lot worse. For example, I could've had the experience of the Roving Northern Englander and been mugged In Omaha, Nebraska.

I'm still unclear as to how that happened. I'm not blaming the victim, but I do suspect, based on talking to him for several hours, that he said something to someone and got unwelcome attention. Maybe he was talking loudly about how thieves should have their hands cut off, and how Americans don't know how to spell color. (He prefers "colour" even though I pointed out it was a French influence after the Norman Invasion. I thought he was going to spit at me. Talk about a grudge.)

There have been more than a few last minute changes. For example, the shift in Louisville that led me to St. Louis, then to Hannibal, Missouri and inevitably to Minneapolis on my way west... and though South Dakota, Wyoming, and Montana, some of the most beautiful and heartbreaking landscapes I have ever seen.

Truthfully, I could have done without the bedridden wildlife in Billings. But otherwise

I was planning a quick stop through San Fran and onto Oroville; but lingered in on the wharf a day longer and saw a wonderful city that I very much want to spend more time in.

Then there was the ill-fated trip to Salt Lake City, which led me to Colorado, meeting Cousin Mary and my Uncle Dan for the first time, and getting a glimpse into a side of the family that know next to nothing about. And I am planning on going back in October, Dear Readers, to learn more. I also got to see Cripple Creek, drive through Victor, and see the beginning of the Waldo Canyon Fire.

At every turn where I turned control over to the universe, I was not led astray. The trip became more interesting, took on additional dimensions.

A significant part of traveling -- of truly traveling -- is being prepared to adjust, being open to new roads, new possibilities. To be prepared for the unexpected. This most recent bit of the unexpected has not only freed me in some very important ways, but it reminded me that instead of moping and going into panic mode, that I need to follow my own advice. It showed me that instead of trying to re-establish control over event I may not have any control over to begin with, I need to breathe.

Simply breathe. And let the universe do the work. It may not always turn out so neatly. But a wise man -- which is what I hope to be one of these days many, many, many years from now -- will be steady,  live in the present, keep on walking, and be consistent whether his fortunes are good or bad.

I have so much to learn.

But I'm working on it.

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Eastward-ish: Farsickness

"It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out of your door," he used to say. "You step into the road, and if you don't keep your feet, there's no knowing where you might be swept off to." - J.R.R Tolkien

I used to have a friend. Well, I believe he's still my friend, so there's no reason, I suppose, speak in the past tense. It's just that I haven't seen him in going on 8 years or so, and even then it was accidental. I don't remember the context of the conversation, only him laughing, the way he did at everything, and saying

"You're exactly like Bilbo Baggins!"

"In what way?" (I hadn't read The Hobbit  yet.)

He just laughed and shook his head. "You just are. Trust me."


This was long before I even aware of the itch that has since taken hold. My Dear Sweet Ma, and others, often refer to my itchy-footedness as wanderlust, which is loosely defined as "a predilection or desire to travel." The word itself is from the German, a turn of the (20th) century term that means "to enjoy hiking." There's another word... another German word, Fernweh -- which means "farsickness" or, more directly translated, "an ache for distant places" -- that might seem more appropriate. Maybe. 

Though to be honest, it's not so much far off places I am sick for as much as I am sick for traveling for it's own sake.

This is often a difficult concept to explain to people, and one that, even when they grasp it, few people really understand. And to be fair, I'm not sure I completely understand it myself. There's a certain amount of fluidity in the way I live, that's true. As time goes on, it becomes increasingly fluid and separated from general expectations of culture. And though my Dear Sweet Ma, and a few select of my closest friends who worry about my future, my safety, and (maybe) my sanity, keep telling me that I have to stop sometime... if even to make more money in order to keep traveling...

I keep thinking about how much more expensive it is to settle down than it is to keep on the move. To stay someplace, for more than a few days (a week at the most) requires:

1. A Domicile. That usually means paying rent, unless you're effective at squatting.
2. A Job. To pay for said domicile, and all that may entail.

Both of those things require an inevitable perpetual maintenance, a tithing, if you will, which means that the travelsickness becomes something altogether more malignant, cancerous. It becomes a TRUE sickness, a dissatisfaction that plays out in any number of ways. For me, I get mopey, I get surly, I become a lousy drunk. I quit jobs. I get fired from jobs.

In short, I begin to work against myself -- in spite my own intentions, which, believe it or not, are sometimes noble.

These are things on my mind as this particular jaunt, the Westward Expanse, comes to a close. In short order I'll be returning to the Ohio Valley for a bit, and then up to Northwest Illinois. It will be good to see familiar places and friends whose warmth and company I've missed. 

I'm not sure though, whether the road hasn't spoiled me, to some degree. And recent events, which include losing my ID, and the weighty thinking about identity, and what a name truly means -- not only to me, but to my friends, my family, and in the larger context of a culture in which people's lives are expected to be transparent so that The State doesn't have to be -- make me think that the only place for me is everywhere.

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