Today, I saw the perfect field to park in. It’s an enormous vacant field next to a grocery store, a Rite Aid and a funeral home. It’s got several trees, part of which forms a canopy in the middle. The rest is just wide, open space— all green, swaying grass.
All I could see was me coming out of my trailer in the early mornings, swinging on the branches, doing pull-ups, meditating, praying, playing guitar, starting breakfast. I could see myself hula-hooping in the middle of my field, watching everybody else—all of the normal people with houses and bills and car notes and bad little kids surrounded by take-out litter— driving off to their jobs and schools and other places. I could see myself swinging in a hammock, looking at all the stars and listening to all the crickets. The sedan and motorcycle I’m going to buy is gonna be parked next to it.
The life I’m thinking about living is going to be strange, different, and an errant turn for someone like me. My parents aren’t going to understand, and neither are my friends or the people I worship with— at my old or new congregation. But I think that with the change, I might find something that eludes so, so many of us in this hectic, strange, fast life in a digital and turbulent world— a semblance of peace.
I’ve thought briefly about what men will think of me when they realize what I’m going to do (namely, evict myself out of my parents’ house), but then I realized that they’re going to have to love me for all of me. They’re going to have to love me and my peasant skirts and my trailer/love-van and my running-water-is-a-luxury-attitude. They’re going to have to get used to the scents of Bohemia— the incense, the food cooked out of doors, the old fabrics, the scented candles, whatever else.
I’m not a flower child, honest. I’m not “tuning in, turning on and dropping out”, Timothy Leary style. I have full intentions of bathing everyday (even if it’s at the gym), preaching like I have been and going to medical school. I’ve just got this feeling I can’t shake. I’ve been a bit of a vagabond all of my life— always poor, always wandering, even if it’s only mentally. I feel like I need to do this.
And today, I scouted out the perimeters of my dream. And even if this doesn’t come to fruition, it’s still a lovely feeling.
This is pretty, but I like the other one better….overall, you don’t seem as brooding and heartbroken as this photo rather looks. The other one is SO YOU—smiling, a little shy, bright, with a dash of coy and a heaping spoonful of beautiful!
Thank you; I like the way you describe me; I hope that when we meet I live up to that evaluation :) The other one *is* more indicative of how I am, at least around other people. The me in this photo is a different side of me. The brooding,heartbroken me is the me I usually keep to myself. My family never sees this side of me. Only my very closest friends see that me, and it’s still very rare.
I used to live here. A couple of my friends still do. It’s just as blighted and miserable as they say. Beyond my friend Julia’s house is a huge, empty field where packs of wild dogs roam underneath moonlight and unusually bright stars. It’s so dark there that I’m reasonably sure in five years, you’ll be able to see the Milky Way. Most of the houses have been burned down. My old house is one of the few on my old block that still remains.
“Love is not a token of affection. It’s not even a real thing, it’s a word. So don’t you try to but it out with a ring, ‘cause it’s a verb, to love someone. Open up and let them in, just don’t be afraid to set them free again.”—Jason Mraz, “Common Pleasure” (via giaface) (via fuckyeahhlove)
“How did it happen that their lips came together? How does it happen that birds sing, that snow melts, that the rose unfolds, that the dawn whitens behind the stark shapes of trees on the quivering summit of the hill? A kiss, and all was said.”—Victor Hugo (via kari-shma) (via quote-book)
Goodness, you can even write beautifully about MOVING. You’re awesome. Can’t wait to buy that novel. I expect a signed copy, madam.
D’aww, shucks, thanks, love! I got sudden inspiration while lying sprawled on the floor feeling washed up and burned out. And you will get a signed copy of that novel, doll; I’ve just gotta figured out what that novel’s gonna be about…
too-early alarms, 100 pound boxes, yellow rubber gloves as you scrub the top of the oven; slurred speech and battle cries, ruined plaster and a larger-than-life television from the 1990s; annoying mothers yelling out insults and commands and upsetting the entire crew; finding out your best friend has a great body and languishing futilely in your car; soaked books and cheap wooden furniture; light-hearted taunts about the Italian and longing for food, water and sleep; pats on the backs and hugs around the waists and broken song and dance; cat-calls from the neighbors and a caravan of pick-up trucks; disheveled hair, clothes and lives all resting in a papasan chair in a dingy basement eating Swiss cheese and ham at the end of the day.
Moving is hellish frustration mired in nostalgia and aching backs.