I meant to post this weeks ago, but I got a little busy with all the freedom and the driving and the homelessness. Now that I’m freshly arrived back in San Francisco (call me!) it seems like an appropriate time to celebrate being in the Castro for the first annual Harvey Milk Day on May 22nd.

I was not in San Francisco—or even particularly sentient—back when Milk and Mayor Moscone were assassinated by Dan White. But I was there in time for the next wave of losses, and Harvey was—is—still a mythic figure around the Castro, with his toughguy humor and his dogged sense of nudge and push, of right and rights. He wasn’t Patient Zero in the pandemic, but he was the first real breakout hero lost to fear and homophobia, and that makes him a saint, a mouthy MLK for the GLBT crowd and all those who stand with them. I can’t help but connect the two: Harvey’s death with the deaths of so many friends, colleagues, neighbors.

Seeing the movie Milk last year was like reliving those days when I worked for the AIDS Memorial Quilt, in one of the sites of Harvey’s camera shop. I’m pretty sure I bruised my poor companion with all the poking. “See, that’s where I worked!” I’d say, grabbing his arm. “I marched in those candlelight vigils!” I’d tell him, while thwocking his knee. Or I’d grab his shoulder and hiss: “That’s where the Quilt was, but now it’s a seafood place,” holding my hand over my mouth, so the couple behind us would stop asking me to settle down.

When I worked for the Quilt, I spent a lot of time talking to people who’d made panels for their loved ones—all the sad people, basically. One of those people was Scott Smith, his lover, played by James Franco in the film. I also spent a lot of time scheduling speaking engagements for Cleve Jones, played by Emile Hirsch. So the film was a weird reunion for me, like being able to see the crazy youths of people I knew later in their lives. Maybe that’s why Harvey’s so tied with that chapter for me—because even though he was gone before the first deaths from GRID, he was still the guiding spirit in the Castro and all his lieutenants rose up to lead the fight against the disease, the fear, the blinkered attitudes of so much of America.

Milk is not just a touchstone for gay, lesbian, bi, and transgendered people; his fierce spirit taught this straight girl from the flat part of this evolving country a whole bunch about being open to all kinds of people, about taking on the system and making it your own. And just think about all the little Californians who will learn from his example in late May every year.

But then, that’s classic Harvey, still recruiting 30 years after his death.

I’m flying back to Nebraska in 43 hours, and I have 14 hours of work, 6 hours of personal appointments (these ladyparts don’t wax themselves), 6 hours of last-minute friend catch-up, and as close to 16 hours of sleep as I can manage before then. This gives me approximately 1 hour to pack and get my ass to the airport, but does not leave me much time to blog, so please accept these recent images with my love and apologies:

They say you can tell a lot about people by where they choose to point their camera.

I wonder what these shots say about me?

Walking through the Mission, it’s impossible to miss all the ass. It’s just booty, booty everywhere:

And for those who can’t fill out your jeanshorts, THERE IS HOPE FOR YOU, LADIES.

Of course, I find that a diet of thigh-sized burritos does the same trick without resorting to special ass-pantalóns:

Patti commented on my last post, saying: Oh, and my wish is for a healthy boy. If you are ever in that garden again, would you post this wish for me?

And I was, so I did:

I also posted a tanabata wish for everyone:

Hope all is well, Patti.

So, I’ve been thinking about how and where I want to live. (You had to figure I was doing something more than moaning about breakups and real estate or soothing myself with pictures of small furry creatures on the internet.) And I’ve decided not to decide, at least not right away. All open questions will remain open for now, which—as it turns out—is kind of the point. But here’s what I have decided:

Make no big decisions. Just let it all unfold.

This doesn’t mean no choices, of course; it just means I’ll decide nothing monumental right now or nothing precipitously going forward (and hosanna and hallelujah for that, right, dad?). I envision this as an active unfolding, one where I push myself more into the world, get better at leaning on people, try to build a bigger, bolder life—one that takes into account my restless nature but also gives me safe havens to rest and regroup.

Essentially, this is a year of travel for me, even if I stay in one place for a time. I want to experience wherever I’m at like a person who might not be back for while, as someone who wants to see the good stuff, have the large experiences, encounter the natives at work, rest, and play.

Wherein I get all aesthetaphysical on your ass
I have some other ideals and world views I’m kicking around these days. For instance, I am drawn to kintsugi, where, as Mr. Jalopy says: “Stuff breaks and repairs are made. It is never again a perfect artifact. But, rather than try to hide the flaws, the repairs are ‘joined in gold.’ The history of the object—including the day it fell off the shelf—is maintained. Not perfect, not broken, but a fascinating object in a third state.”

It’s a way of embracing your scars, of making them part of the person, integral to the pretty. None of us are only perfect or only broken, but we all have the potential to be fascinating, if we let ourselves. And as someone who’s in such a third state—no longer pristine, not in pieces, but put back together again—I feel quite perfectly broken. Can you see my golden seams?

Wherein I consider wishes:
I went to the Japanese Tea Garden with an old friend and her family the other day. We wandered around, looking at pagodas and flirting with koi fish, but my favorite part was all the tanabata trees, where people write out their wishes and attach them to the branches, like vivid, hopeful leaves.

Here are some that really struck me…we’ve got wishes for family:

The plea for friends:

The hope for great days:

And one wish to rule them all…it’s what would make this year, well, awesome:

What are your wishes? (Please, oh please, let visits from lanky strangers be one of them!) Which would you write out and share? And which do you keep closer, hidden in the dark folds of your heart? You don’t have to tell us, just make a note of your deepest longings; it’s important to say them, if only to yourself. I’ve been trying to sleuth out mine, and maybe I’ll even share them here, secreted away in a post about baby gorillas.

Wherein I finally get to the damn point:
In the spirit of all the words that came before, I have a favor to ask. I want to explore new cities in experienced hands: Austin, New Orleans, Pittsburgh, wherever. Not as a tourist, but as a traveler who settles in for a bit and lives low to the ground, going where the locals go and getting lost for hours with my camera and a notebook.

So if you hear of any house or petsitting gigs that will last a while (weeks, not days), please let me know. And if I show up in your town for a time, please take me to your favorite places and let me shadow your life, as I figure out my own. And if I end up in a place where you have friends, please pass me along to them and them along to me. (Surely social networking and the kindness of strangers can be the clay that shapes this unfolding year.)

See, I told you this was my theme song:

I’m new here, will you show me around?

Thank you, thank you, thank you for all of it: for reading, for thinking of places for me, for showing me your city.

And I can’t wait to see where you live through your loving eyes and wandering feet.

kintsugi bowl

I headed out on Friday morning, feeling all stretchy and hopeful, banging my hand on the steering wheel to a great run of music on satellite radio. Often, I’m all about the voices when I drive, but I needed something with a beat and NPR ain’t got no rhythm.

In fact, I spent most of the trip singing along to the radio as I traveled through the Nebraska flatlands of my youth (ours is a subtle beauty, as grandma-at-the-ranch always said), the large scapes and even larger weather of Wyoming (I swear that state has it in for me), the curve and line of Utah (where you begin high and alpine and end flat and salty), the sleepy majesty of Nevada (which always makes me starey and spacey and voted most likely to drive off the road), and the glorious swoop and roll of California (where you move from evergreens to palm trees on your journey west, and I start to smell the ocean from many miles away).

The first day, just after I heard from the title agent that the closing was over and that I was no longer a homeowner, I made a pilgrimage to Ole’s in Paxton, where the meat is charred and the wildlife is stuffed:

And occasionally judgmental:

My dad always speaks of Ole’s with wolfish glee; I think it has a level of tasty kitsch that just tickles him. It’s not greens and quinoa, but it’s well worth a visit if you’re on your way through.

Past Paxton, the Nebraska landscape starts to get interesting, but by the time it actually gets exciting along I-80, you’re probably already in Wyoming. I’m not sure how it happened, but I missed the welcome signage this time. I knew I’d crossed over the line, though, because I came around a curve and saw this:

And then, a few curves later, I saw this:

Followed by this:

Thank god I’m headed west, I thought, looking at the long line of stopped traffic in the eastbound lane. And look what Klassy Multitaskers we are in these parts. So practical: cocktails and clean laundry!

I was aiming for Rock Springs that first night, which was as much of a sweaty ballsac as before, although the Econolodge has gone downhill since my last stay. I can hang with a certain funk and slop, but even I don’t want to sleep in the stink of strangers who’ve left scuff marks on the wall above the bed. And I don’t want to discover someone’s else’s used tampon applicator next to the toilet. And although I know what it is to travel with road-weary dogs, I do not want to have to think about the legions of incontinent poodles who’ve come before. Also, the microwave was busted, which meant I had to make tea at the Flying J before I could get on the road the next morning. Luckily, I had my traveling snax along with me, so I was set for breakfast:

This was better than the sort of trucker fare that’s available on the road, although at least these delights have a sense of humor:

But that’s not all I saw on my many stops. Before I left Wyoming, I confirmed that my plain single-syllable first name is ridiculously out of fashion in a world of Madisons and Makaylas:

The best part of getting on the road super early is that you’re five hours in before you’ve really woken up.

And on Saturday, that meant I was crossing the Great Salt Lake, my absolute favorite part of the drive:

As you can see, there was plenty of high-speed cellphone photo snappage through the bugdirty windshield.

I stopped at the Bonneville Flats rest area to go tromp on the sand and take some pictures with my big-girl camera, but unfortunately (for posterity and my poor shotglass bladder), my key decided not to come out of the ignition until Elko, Nevada (because every proper trip needs at least one check engine light on or suspicious rattle near the passenger door).

I did do a quick strafing run to the john in Wendover, leaving the keys in the ignition and the window cracked. (A girl has needs, about every 150 miles or so.) On a later stop in Puckerbrush (a name which inflames my inner 11-year old), I found I could get other needs met, as well:

You know, in case I want to avail myself of the Lord or kneel for Jesus or commune with my longhaul brethren around the Good Word and the Epic Drive.

Now that I find myself homeless, I’ve been thinking about how I might want to live. Suddenly, a little camper doesn’t seem so grey-hairs-on-tear anymore, especially if you could feature your spirit animal on the back. Here’s mine:

Don’t mess with this bitch. The bunny’s got my back.

I ended up in Truckee at the end of day 2, staying with an old friend (hi, Tari!) and meeting a bunch of her friends (hi, Evan, Josh, Marc, Amy, Harrison, Zeb, Abby, and that very nice girl whose name I’ve forgotten! I blame the rose´and the road). I came at just the right time for the inaugural rinse in Tari’s new shower. But really, we could all fit in there together:

Next party, perhaps. I have a bunch of great shots from that night, but I’ll save them for another post. Staying with friends was a much better way to welcome myself to this next phase of my life. Being with people over tri-tip and wine kicks the ass of a skeevy room by myself at the Reno Motel 6; really, there’s no contest.

I woke up on Independence day and did a little hanging out, then was on my way down the mountains by 9 am, still singing along to the radio. Then I finally rolled into SF just after noon, where I promptly took a nap with the kitties I’m sitting for the month of July. (Life is short, people—be sure to get plenty of rest.)

There’s probably more to say about this journey and where it’s taken me, but that’s another post on another day. For now, I leave you with all my love and this big white az:

Fearsome warrior rabbit via

One month ago I was in San Francisco—in the same apartment I’m headed back to today—when I posted my house on craigslist. It was a whim, just something I did to make Fannie Mae think I was serious about selling, when all I really wanted to do was walk away.

I never dreamed it would work.

Never dreamed.

But it worked.

And now, four weeks, a home inspection, another appraisal, a shockingly successful garage sale, way too much packing, not enough blogging, a bruisey week of moving, a final walkthrough, and one giant check later, today’s the day. The buyers sign my freedom papers at 10 AM this morning, but I’ll already be on the road, headed west for the next month or two. The title agent will call me when it’s all over—perhaps I’ll be as far as North Platte by then. I’m bound for Rock Springs, Wyoming this evening, where Stella and I spent three snowbound days during the shock and awe campaign, what seems like a hundred lives ago.

It seems appropriate to spend the night passing through a place I’ve gotten stuck before, because that’s exactly how I’ve felt for the last couple years—psychically snowbound, with only war and weather on the tv screen—and it’s the last thing I feel right now. I’m all coltish and hopeful these days, ready for some room to run. Today will feel sunfree, I hope, with no shocks, only awe.

Thanks for all your support over the last months and years—you know who you are, you know what you mean to me. Thanks, especially, to The Subtle Parents for loving and putting up with The Subtle Pups while I wander (and for loving and putting up with me in all my evolutions). I’ll miss you all. And thanks to my sister and the neph for giving me a reason to come back. Thanks to my Lincoln friends for the growing sense of community: you make it hard to leave here. And to my San Francisco friends, put your walking shoes on, we’ve got miles to cover and pictures to take. I can’t wait!

More later, from the road.

Image is Michael Crawford’s deconstruction of Rauschenberg Minus Nebraska by Chuck Close

I just spent an hour trying to resize this neph photo on my iphone, so I could post it here with some just-enough message to satisfy the terms of nablopomo, but I finally said fuckit and went down to get my laptop, where it took about 2 clicks. Sigh.

Anyway, now that I’m here, I’ll say more—and there’s a lot more to say about my last couple of days. I’m back from seeing the second night of prelims for the Miss Nebraska pageant, where my lovely cousin did not make the finals, mainly because she’s always had better shit to do than exemplify glossy youngwomanhood, and those pageant girls—the ones who’ve been competing since they were Ford’s age, back when they were still trying to eat the rocks they found on the ground—are like tensile little machines, all sateen and quadriceps, with their white teeth, their bikini tape, and their high-heeled stride. When dad called to tell me Mariah hadn’t made the top seven, I asked if he knew who had. He couldn’t remember any names, but said: “They were all tall and skinny. Except for the one who was short and skinny.”

And so it goes; blonde will out. While I don’t want to make (many more) easy-mean jokes about the contestants, I will say that the crowd there to cheer on the pageanteers this weekend was an oddball mix of Cornhusker homefolk, with their regular hair, their expansive waistlines, and their unchecked signs of aging, and a sleeker, sharkier crew all duded up in lady armor worn with amazon heels and purchased tits and tans. I often feel like I don’t fit here, that I look different, but compared to the pageant crowd, I am just homefolk, one of the herd.

I have more to say on the topic of pageantry, along with a raft of pictures I’m too weary to deal with tonight, so meet back here tomorrow for more glitter and gossip, and maybe even a little redemptive arc about being the difference.

My boss is doing one of his endless blah-blah-blah live edit sessions where I watch him change my text in real time via the magic of shared desktops. (For every advance technology brings, there’s a giant leap back in terms of privacy or productivity; it’s the snake biting us in the ass). Now, most people who edit business copy just track their changes in word and send you the document—easy, offline, unfettered. But this guy needs an audience; he loves the thought of me sitting there as he types, a well-compensated vessel for his “wit” and “vision” and the occasional “bold” statement that smacks of racism or sexism or stupid americanism. My job is to act as a mirror and reflect back his brilliance. It’s all part of the gig.

But today, I just can’t keep still. I’m due out to my sister’s house in 25 minutes, packed and ready for a couple of days away. But my camera cords have gone missing and I haven’t had time to go through my tank tops and other summer gear to find the stuff that reveals the right amount of fishbelly flesh to stay cool, but not enough to blind the neighbors. Oh, and we’re taking Ford for a swim in the hotel pool. A swimsuit; good crikey, who knows when I wore one last. Morocco? That Turkish bath in Madrid? If I recall correctly, it was Madrid. I bought the suit at El Corte Inglés, and it’s very chocolate eurovamp, with highcut legholes and a plunging neckline with a gold buckle across the chest. Just perfect for the kiddie pool at the Quality Inn in North Platte, Nebraska.

Whither North Platte, you ask? Oh, child…where to begin. We’re all packing up the cars and caravanning west to wear buttons with my poised and confident youngest cousin’s face on them, and to cheer her on as she struts around in gowns and a no-doubt more carefully selected swimsuit for the Miss Nebraska pageant. Pictures to follow, you can count on that.

Happy weekends, everyone! Shoulders back, hand up, dazzling smile—now work it.

Image via

Here we go again: One post every day this month on the topic of NOW.

And since I got up at 4 am, took a dazed series of flights back to the midwest, and have been stuck on a work call for  114 minutes so far with no end in sight, I’m going for the obvious NOW, which is that:

After two weeks away, I can’t wait to see my dogs and my nephew.

One of my big themes this month, beyond NOW, is what The Subtle Mother would call “filling your bucket,” by which she means bringing enough into your life to make your own self happy, and having enough in reserve to roll with the inevitable shit that keeps coming. Relationships are a big part of that for me, and the ones I have with Ford, Stella, and Archie bring me a deeper ease* than pretty much any of the others. Dogs and babies will do that for you.

So I’m off to see the neph and scritch the mutts.

See you when the next now rolls around…

*The insight, however, is sorely lacking.

Vessel via