story

I don't know where this is going, and it needs massive editing, but just felt like posting...

It’s a long story.

How I got here, crammed into the back of this 20 year old Mazda Protégé with a 10 degree sleeping bag and a host of pillows while a hot, humid Houston rain pounds on the roof. The gluten free bread in the food bag next to me is moldy, I just know it. There’s some strange rotting scent mixed with cinnamon. (I always have cinnamon when I travel, although I seldom remember to use it. Good for maintaining a healthy weight, I’m told). I should throw that out. I’ve had that thought at least ten times in the last week and keep forgetting.

But anyway, the story. I mean, our stories always go back to birth, don’t they? Or maybe before, depending on your religious understandings. That’s not interesting though and I’d like to begin somewhere else.

And I’d like to start telling it because, honestly, I am lonely. Somewhere along the way, my life has started to sound absurd. It doesn’t feel absurd necessarily, living through it. It feels magical. But when I start to try to explain even some small corner of my current existence, I lose people. Their attention wanders, quickly- usually within 20 seconds- and conversation moves to a TV series related to something I said and we spend the next 30 minutes discussing the show. And that's good, and fine, and has a delicate, treasured place in my heart, but it's left my experiences feeling... undigested.

There is a handful of folks in this world who actually know the details of my life, or what’s currently going on. Mostly my parents, come to think of it. And perhaps 4 friends. Considering how many folks I am blessed to call friends, and how many new people I meet a day, that’s a really small percentage. And I don’t mean to be completely self-centered by wanting to tell my story, but... I am. And I have found that all this not-talking is taking a toll, not just on my sense of peace, but also on my health. If I can't be verbal, at least I can write and it doesn't matter whether or not it's read.

How far to go back? I mean, what was the pivotal point, and in what direction are we considering the main thrust, the biggest theme? Maybe gypsy. The Gypsy-Theme. Its impact is huge, this one. It’s (mostly) why I am not married or have children… or have a garden with chickens, something I’d really like. Or a wine cellar, something I'm starting to really need. It’s also why I am paying off a huge credit card debt and am so scrappy (as in a quilt made of scraps). I have not been in a rent-paying situation for about a year now and have been living solely out of this Protégé since October- that’s 6 months. I have a bag of food, a bag of supplements, a box of random things I seldom use but can’t seem to part with (markers, a Tibetan singing bell, a series of books I’m not reading, jewelry, hair ties and clips, several journals I’ve filled halfway). Then there are the pillows, blankets, tent, sleeping pad, clothing for every occasion and toiletries. And always some strange assortment of wine, either for me, for my next host or for the author I work under. I think that’s about it. I’ve been trying to live an above-normal life within this set-up. For a brief few months, I was worried about what I wore and had to change three or four times a day, sometimes in the backseat of my car at a fancy hotel, shimmying in and out of the correct underwear, pulling knee-high boots from under my tent in the trunk to work them over my 2-day worn smartwools, so I can walk into the Four Seasons wine bar with my head up and beam through my ignorance.

Not that this story is just about me, by the way. None of this would have been possible without the help of what feels like endless compassionate hands. Friends, and strangers-cum-friends who have taken me in, let me use their hot water, washer/dryer, stove, refrigerator, couch, space and privacy, asking nothing in return. The most embarrassing part about being homeless is the inability to return the favor. Receiving is really uncomfortable to me, like a shirt who’s armpits are too tight. It can look okay, but it never really feels right. I am so grateful for this opportunity to cultivate gratitude and I can’t wait to be out of this situation.

digesting...