I’m vowing to write again everyday for the next several weeks, much as I unsuccessfully vowed on the initial stages of my travels.
As I was looking out at the world from home in Oakland, I wondered - I’ve always wondered - how does one operate as a travelling artist. Who does that? What is it like? Now, I’m in a funny ol’ position - having multiple homes, multiple stops full of embrace, laughs, sarcasm, and spite - but I can say for certain that I packed too much, brought some of the wrong things, and needed to swap out my luggage for prettier, more functional pieces. I can’t always cling to the things I need in one place; they’re irrelevant elsewhere, but I can leave them in safe places.
What happened in Belfast, though? I did, I nearly got knocked off kilter a bit; I certainly had to face pastness and honesties. Yes, I was very different when I lived in Belfast from what I am now and, at many corners and in the looks on many faces, I had to face Rachel Pasada. But I’m intensely grateful for wisdom smuggled in through the cracks/the craic: when the student is ready, the internal teacher will arise. And, oh dear, she is here, and I’m full of ideas and executions, looking ahead with great wonder/curiosity/fear. “And now I don’t know where I’m going//All I know is I’ll hit the ground running,” to quote Bill Callahan.
And yeah, somehow, I’m breaking past shit I never thought I could and being with myself, being compassionate selfward.
Meanwhile, one of my ongoing hobbies, creating bogus wifi identities, such as the one below:
**** Also, if you’re reading this and were referred here from Facebook, please hit like because, you see, my mum worries that she is the only one reading my blog and actually many of you have verbally mentioned my blogs to me. But my mom isn’t standing there when you do that. And what is Facebook, except another working-out of that Momlationship.