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

Damn, it’s only day 2 of this post-every-day nonsense and I almost forgot. I suspect these “every day” posts might be as regular an occurrence as the “daily” photo. But hey! I come bearing Llama. Lloyd’s the OG quadruped at my friends’ farm outside of town. As far as Big Ll’s concerned, if you can see it, he owns it, and the one next to it, whatever it might be. He’s quite the supermodel, as well, nosing his way into every shot when I went out there on a rainy Sunday morning a couple weeks ago.

It’s funny to shoot in the rain. I had to hold my lens down as much as possible, but I love the colors you get when it’s grey and wet. Maybe it’s just spring, but it seemed like the grass that day was extra full of chlorophyll, putting on an emerald show for me.

The farm is a real working concern, and it feeds a bunch of slow-foody Lincolnites via a weekly organic CSA box. Every wednesday, when people come by Ross and Barb’s house in town to pick up their haul for the week, they tend to stick around for hours over beers and conversation, nourishing the soul as much as the belly. In fact, even though I’m still peeling around the eyes and cheeks, I think I’m headed that way soon for a little neighborly exchange. I’ve got some empty egg cartons I’ve been saving and a cold bottle of rosé I’d like to share. I’m sure I’ll see some of you there; wish the rest of you could join us…

It’s the day of troops and potato salad, of sacrifice and sunburns, and I’ve been thinking about three men in my life who saw hard action in World War 2.

My Mother’s Father

The funny thing is, I know the least about my own grandpa’s service. I wrote this a while ago, as a comment over at coozledad’s place, and it’ll tell you about as much as I understand of my mom’s dad, even though I knew him all my life:

My grandpa was a man with lots of rules. He drank dark liquids in heavy tumblers and never had much to say to the likes of me. I mostly saw him in his leather lounger, watching golf or some other rich man’s game. He was no warmer to my mother, his eldest child; she was too much like his dead wife, a woman he took for granted for years. Although he was a man who knew the worth of things, he never got an accurate bead on her measure, and once he’d lost her, any grief went deep and came out bitter. He was in the great war, but never spoke of it; I’m not even sure where he served, it was that much a secret.

I think those days festered in the young man, and turned him into an old man who could not even be friends with himself. Scars come in every size, and some cannot be seen. We are, as a nation, excellent at both creating and overlooking such wounds.

My Ex-Boyfriend’s Grandpa

He was rough as guts, his wife always said, and as a former digger, he’d seen the toughest service the war threw anyone’s way. He was eager to talk about it, though, spinning stories over strong rum, in a way my own grandfather had never done. By the time I knew him, his wife’s mind had gone walkabout, and they’d just moved down to Tasmania to be closer to Guy’s mum. He was tall, that’s where Guy got his height, and I always imagined him striding along as a young man, all bluff and blokey in that Australian way.

He fought alongside the Ghurkas and they were like ghosts, he told me, slipping behind you in the dark and brailling your service medal before you even knew they were there. “If yours was the wrong kind,” he said, miming a blade along the throat, ”they’d slit you a new mouth below the first, then take an ear as proof of the kill.”

Although he was a man’s man’s man, I’ve never seen a more tender arm at the elbow as he’d steer his wife from room to room, this woman he’d loved his entire adulthood and all the way through her second childhood.

My Friend Eugene

I wrote all about Eugene here, but today I’m remembering how open he was about his service. As a weird kid who obsessively studied nazis as part of my grade school gifted program, I’d always longed for a grandpa who could tell me stories about that time. My own had been unable to engage, dumb before the unspeakable things he’d seen. But the war was part of what defined Eugene, and he was eager to share those days, just as I was eager to receive them.

It strikes me now how much a part of Bernal Hill he was for me. Although it’s finally gentrifying along Cortland Street, with the obligatory winebars and babystrollers, Bernal remains scrubby and a little wild. I lived there years ago, and it still feels like home to me; I miss the library, the little downtown, the walks around the hilltop with its double-bridge view of the city. Betsy befriended Eugene on one of those walks, just as I had befriended her what must have been fifteen years ago now. There’s something to the bond that forms on a hilltop overlooking a hundred other neighborhoods. It packs the long view, along with the close perspective you get from really knowing someone; I believe such connections are made to last.

Although he’s been gone for more than two years now, I still miss Eugene. And although I’ve been gone for nearly three, I’m still drawn back to Betsy, to Bernal.

via

I was there when Hope was born; in fact, I saw her first. Now she’s all stretchy and seven, pulling together outfits out of disparate sparkly items: this glitter belt, those skinny jeans, that scarf strung across her chest like some sort of blingy girlscout sash, these canary yellow clogs that only come in kidsizes. And the lipstick—oh, the lipstick. When I saw her on Tuesday night, I was amazed at its incredible staying power; this cheap, indelible kidshit outlasted any fancy grownup brand I’ve tried. But no. When I mentioned this to her mother, she gave me a look. “It’s Revlon,” she said. “And Hope reapplies. A lot.”

She’s already better at girling than I will ever be.

Time to get ready for work; thank christ for casual Friday. More this weekend when I hope to confront my overloaded reader. Of course, I may opt for a big phototrek with old friends instead. Wish you could come walking with me…

PS: “Daily” Photo is an occasional feature of TSR.com. We’re loose like that.

Bossy is real! Real cool! Speaking in purely technical terms, she’s also real purty, even though I shot her through my patented “accidental tangerine” filter:

Here’s one thing I learned: Bossy may be my secret twin. We’re basically Lanky Bright and Dark: both tall, both the same amount of old but don’t feel it, both hopeful rovers with dogs named Stella (of course, hers is the size of a shetland and mine is more like a shetland’s hoof). It’s a rare treat to meet someone who can be both a mirror and a mentor.

I’d love to do what she’s done—not so much building a blogging kingdom, as bring people across the country together through will and charm and (literal) drive. For me, roadtrips are usually undertaken alone, but Bossy’s redefined the solo trek. She’s put in some hard miles and smiles over the past several weeks, crossing the country and hosting meetups in every city, but I bet when she looks back it’ll all be worth it. I know it was for me, so thank you, sister.

That’s lovely Rita from Surrender, Dorothy behind Bossy, but you’ll have to take my word for it (step away from the bokeh, Subtle Rudder). Rita works for BlogHer, and I have to get around to signing up. One of these days, I’m going to learn how to network like a big girl.

I think I drove the farthest to be there; most of the other women were from Kansas or Missouri. It was a very cool group, and pretty everyone knew each other already, which was a revelation to me. You mean you can make your internet contacts into real world friends? I have got to get out more.

Nimble drove in from Lawrence, and we got to hang together after the larger meetup was over. We figured out how we found each other (through Nancy Nall, via the coozle highway—it’s a dusty, rutted road where the neighbors are strange, the mules are goodlooking, and the writing makes you snort-laugh through your tears) and we talked about the big stuff: how we got to where we’re at, and where (and who) we want to be as the dial slips another season, year, decade. We’ve already decided on one place we’d like to go together: instead of meeting in the middle, Cooz, we want to come and hang with you and Raydell and the whole rurritable gang.

Of course, I had just enough Malbec to take a bunch of unimpressively soft pictures of friendly strangers, as well as some wine-fueled self portraits in the bathroom mirror. As you may know, I’m not comfortable being captured in two dimensions, although Bossy told me to get over my twitchy-grimacy self. I’m not sure this is what she had in mind, though:

I went out with my friend Sara the other day and we took pictures of whatever moved us in the country outside of Lincoln. Apparently, we were drawn to the abandoned, because we spent an hour tromping around this old house outside of town, then got our feet muddy at an empty limestone quarry in Weeping Water, my new favorite nearby small town.

Sara is a jewelry designer and her whole goal for going out was to find new inspiration for her work. Me, I just like rambling around and taking pictures; it’s a way of feeding my eye and enlarging my heart. It’s funny to see what happens when two people shoot in the same environment. Sara went close; she was after texture, and she got amazing abstractions of rust and wear. I took a longer view, capturing scenes. Even when I’m practicing a visual art, I am all about the story.

Like, for instance, who sat here on this broken couch, now returning to earth amid the lush grass? Were they a new couple holding hands? A familiar couple stretched out and spooning, at home against each other’s body, easy in each other’s scent? Or was it someone alone with a book, the chatter of television, his own thoughts, whether vast, terrible, or anodyne?

Yep, that’s me at dinner in San Francisco. And I’m not even shooting into a mirror. This shot was taken by the pretty lady over here, who is in many ways my opposite:

Height: Wee
Bosom: Not wee
Hair: Golden curls
Personality: Not a hider

In fact, Jules is one of those beloved connector types, who brings together the good people of Vancouver—and London and Wales and San Francisco—through wit and charm and baked goods (along with the passionate worship of Boba Fett). One thing we do have in common, though, is the fact that our lives are changing right now in ways we cannot control or foresee or necessarily handle with perfect grace in every single moment (although that last one’s probably just me). I’m glad to know that someone else is on a similar path, and I look forward to sharing sushi and cwtches with her soon; telling each other how far we’re we’ve gotten and marveling at our monumental progress.

I would post the corresponding shot I took of Jules that night, but we were both using our new 50mm lenses, and I think I did the thing I’ve done a few times where I don’t notice that the lens is set to manual focus, which means every picture I take is as crisp as vaseline. So I guess I’ll have to head off to Vancouver for a visit soon, so I can taken another portrait of her to share.