I made it out of TX and then my back got a cramp. So I’m laid out on a bed at the Econolodge. About $48 for the night and not a bad setup. King bed, free wi-fi and a continental breakfast. Clean enough. Definitely cleaner than I am.
Time to sleep for exactly 8 hours!
I made the mistake of letting myself relax. I moved all of the furniture that matters to anyone. 90% of my things are either packed or thrown away. I even did laundry so all the clothes I pack are clean. Continue reading No Rest for the Weary
My official last day in Memphis is February 1st. I’m getting a tattoo (I hope) and then flying home the next day. By the time I say goodbye to Memphis I need to have something to turn towards. I’m facing West now, but it still feels a lifetime away. When I get on a plane with my cats and I have no more reasons to be in Memphis… I’ll probably cry a little.
Triumphant, I will only celebrate when there is truly a reason to do so.
I’m actually leaving home. The idea of How To Leave Home started as a simple thought while I was in Seattle for a pizza party. Circa May 2014. I wondered to myself, what exactly is the process of changing everything? With all the joy and optimism I could muster, I threw myself into a project I did not fully understand. My gut knows. When I follow my gut, the story progresses. Gut-wrenching though it may be. Speaking of that, here’s the actual map of my road trip across the United States.
I’m doing some research on stopping points and days on the road but I’m going with an optimistic 3-4. 44/8 = 5 8-hour shifts plus 1 4-hour shift. Stop off in Santa Fe. Watch the sun rise over the Grand Canyon. Sleep near Sacramento. I doubt I’ll stop in Portland but you never know.
How much does FedEx charge to overnight cats?
Dear Congressman
Driving down the street
I witnessed a most horrific thing.
Not sure if you know about this,
Given the ails of our once great nation.
A small trifle, about some lost souls.
Pardon my shock
I believed the barbaric ritual
Of vigilante dissatisfaction
Fell out of style, like
Wife-beating and electroshock therapy.
Needlessly inflammatory attacks
Implying terrible things
At the entrance of businesses.
dedicated to the care of ladies
and all their parts.
(I’ll remind you, son
All women are ladies.)
The words they use
In the clever URLs
Or loosely rhymed phrases
MURDER
WRONG
KILLER
I don’t blame the words. Never do.
I’m concerned for these poor zealots
Standing in the cold
In the heat
In the wind
In the rain
Not in the snow.
Memphis shuts down when it snows.
As a registered voter, I wonder
Isn’t there something we can do?
Let’s do them a favor. Be humane.
Help end a pointless poster board vigil
Come up with some legalese way
To curb this stark blind spot
In the tentative American agreement
To agree to disagree.
Frankly
I’m appalled that we still ALLOW
This sort of bullying in the streets
of this once-beautiful city.
I, like King, have a dream that one day
Intolerant people will shut the fuck up
And mind their own damn business.
Judged on content of character
and found lacking
In public decency, at least.
I apologize.
My opinions don’t fit into a #.
As a life-long citizen, I’m concerned.
What if a child passing by sees these gangs
Of pamphlet-weilding soul sucking saviors
And accidentally believes them?
Don’t go in there Mommy. They are murderers.
It’s okay. I’m here for a yearly checkup with a doctor to make sure I stay healthy.
No murderers?
No dear.
Why did that sign say the doctors are murderers?
Because freedom of speech is legal.
So, I get to say whatever I want?
No, dear.
Why not?
You have a sense of empathy.
Oh, good.
The name’s Chelle. Ro Chelle.
I’m watching two sexy women salaciously roll around on top of each other in front of moderately attractive dudes playing hardcore music. There’s a submissive in the corner doing some strange form of masochistic yoga in-between songs/lashings. The mosh pit is a haze of beer, sweat and glitter. There was a time I’d feel insecure even watching this show. Now I’m wondering if I should join in. I was offered glitter before the show by an Amazon in thigh-high black vinyl boots and a shiny rainbow bikini. I politely refused while slowing inching away. I’ve been glitter-free for almost a year now. I’d like to keep it that way.
The party is kind of lame. I know why and can’t say I expected different. I showed up for appearances and stayed for the show. Though wearing my tits-on-a-platter garners less notice each year, it’s still the best method of avoiding eye contact with strangers I’ve found yet.
Doing the rounds, I find myself sitting outside smoking at the side entrance. The wristband theater alone makes it a great seat. The award for Most Patience on South Main goes to man on the door next to me. The way he carries himself is a testament to not giving a fuck about it.
Everyone cycles past, as they’re aught to do. I stay still enjoying the soft glow of my shields, perpetually warding off the unfamiliar. Some pretty faces stop. Then they go. I just sit and think of Michelangelo.
A clown stopped by. He and his tall friend made quite the entertaining pair. Impressed I decided to stare. I saw under the mask a dark indifference tinged with whimsy. The best attention I get is often unsolicited.
Slouching home with no burden left to bear. Pawing my emotions like spiderwebs in a tomb. He takes joy in my lack of composure. Enlarged heads all around. I know what I want. I’m coming to peace with not having it. But I won’t hide the desire in my face.
I hate the condescending nature of anti-depressant commercials. Most of them have somber-looking middle age white women with plaintive eyes reciting “depression is serious medical condition”. Then a soft, nurturing male voice calmly explains that these pills will balance your brain juices so you don’t feel tired or stressed out anymore.
It’s okay. This is something you can’t change.
It’s out of your control. Take these.
It’s like a diabetic taking insulin. Nothing to be ashamed of.
Soon you’ll be normal. Everyone will like you. Continue reading Depression