A new love for a strange flesh.

I can't sleep. It might be one of the things in life that I am worst at. And, no matter how much older or smarter I get, I will apparently never be able to learn that, regardless of how badly I need or want to sleep through the night, if I go to bed before 10:00pm, I will wake up two hours later, and be up until 3:00 or 4:00.  Which is precisely the situation I have landed myself in, again, this evening.

On top of that, if there is anything that I'm supposed to be waking up even relatively early for on any given morning, just knowing it will cause me to sleep like shit, or not at all, the night before. Which is what happened to me yesterday evening. Which is why I really needed to sleep through the night tonight.

Also, when I have alcohol in my system. That makes me sleep like shit, too. Not for the first two or three hours, of course, but after. Which is what happened to me on Thursday night. Well, not 'happened' to me. It isn't like I wasn't an active participant in the vodka and strawberry consumption, while hanging out on the roof of our building looking at the stars and telling stories, but you know what I mean. Which is why I went to bed early last night rather than staying up late as I normally would on a Friday. 

Basically what I'm saying, is that being an insomniac blows goats. I guess... I can move on now.

We got up this morning and got in to Birmingham, which is a little more than an hour from here, at about 9:30, to take the first of four leather carving classes that we're signed up for at the Tandy Leather there in town. I had gone in there with Josh and Matt yesterday just for something to do, because they both needed some new materials and then got to talking with the three people who work there and before I knew it had happened, we'd made new friends. Funny how that sneaks up on you. 

I was watching one of them work this scrap piece of leather with a whole array of tiny little knives and stamps, and as soon as I saw the way it gave in under the edge he pressed into it, turning from tan to almost red in deep, fluid lines, I wanted it under my own hands. When they told us they gave the classes at 9:30 every Saturday, I was already on board to come back to Birmingham even if the boys hadn't been interested.

At first, the little swivel knife didn't make sense in my fingers. You have to press with your index finger, and steer it with you thumb and middle fingers, while turning the leather underneath it so that you can see what you're doing, and making sure to hold it straight up and down without letting it lean to one side or another, lest you end up with a weirdly shaped line. Not a motion that hands naturally lend themselves to. But once I found the rhythm of it, you could have left me there all day, pressing designs and shapes into throw-away scraps of leather.

It's a medium unlike anything I've ever put my hands on before. Get it wet, and it will mold into pretty much whatever shape you want. Bend, fold, twist and rub on it long enough, and it will only take on more character. Press different shapes and angles into it, and it retains them exactly. The simplest design, while boring on paper, looks magnificent in leather. 

More than that, it's an incredibly sensual experience. It is, after all, skin. And what makes it beautiful, is that unlike materials made from plants or trees or fibers or plastics, it holds on to a characteristic that looks... alive? I can't explain it. It's mammal. It's familiar. It's flesh. It isn't that far off from human in the grand scale of things. And it's the last gift given to us by an animal that we use for a vast array of purposes. 

Carving into it is a throwback to something primal. Something that feels.... like it is supposed to feel. I don't know how better to say it.

I've not had a real chance to explore this place very much. I could say that Alabama sucks, but that would be based on what I've seen so far in my short wanderings between small towns, and that's not really fair. If someone came to Alaska and judged the whole place based on little towns like Glenallen or Galena, I'd tell them they missed the point. 

So, I haven't given up, but I'm still grateful that this new little hobby has landed in my lap. It is pretty perfect timing, because it gives me something more to do on weekdays (not that I've been able to be lazy since we got here. Shit just won't slow down), when I can't really skip town and go any great distance with our only vehicle. And while I'm not sure that Alabama sucks, I am pretty sure that this town... well. It's not my speed, that's all. 

Peace, kids. I'm going to go back to drawing in my animals skins, to see if I can figure out how to make the pencil sketch of the Green Man I drew last night, into a mask. Because I think that would be pretty stinkin' cool.

It isn't glamorous all the time.

Every once in a while, you just fall into the dumps. Or at least, some people do. I used to have the mistaken impression that everyone was like me (as stupid as that sounds). That every once in a while, we all just kind of... hit a rough patch. I certainly do. Currently wading my way through this patch as we speak.

This kind of thing doesn't happen to Josh. Maybe it's genetic for him, I don't know. I used to be convinced that it was impossible for him to just never feel down, and that obviously he was stuffing whatever feelings he didn't want to face way into some deep, dark cavern in his heart and that it'd cause him a damn heart attack when he got older. But now, I think... he's just not the kind of guy who gets down.

It's a hard thing to explain to him and it used to drive him nuts. Being as fond of me as he is, it's natural that he'd go looking for a solution to whatever it is that ails me. The result of that being, that I try to explain why I'm sad, and he gives me an answer to my problem and then more or less expects that there isn't anything else to talk about. Age old man/woman issue. I don't want an answer. I generally know what the answer is. What I really want, is for him to tell me it'll be ok, give me some love for a minute, and then make me laugh. It's taken some time, but he's a sharp guy. He's pretty much got it down to a formula now, and for that I applaud him. But there are still some times when I just feel too shitty to be cheered by his Dracula voice or sneak attacks from behind a closet door.

I am not sure I'll publish this blog. Maybe. In the pursuit of being truthful, I ought to give out the highs and the lows as they come and not cherry coat my life. Actually, maybe it would be nicer of me. I often get this sense that people think my choice to go running off with my lover to see the country is this glamorous and pearly existence in which we are always having fun because... why wouldn't we? We're young, free of responsibilities, etc. And, most of the time, yes. My life is fun. But nothing is shiny and perfect all the time.

This country really isn't built for people who want to live the way we are living. I tried to get us both on my insurance policy for the truck, and the lady was completely confounded by the fact that I couldn't tell her what state we were 'living' in. To me, it's fairly simple. Alaska is home, but for a while, we'll be all over. And insurance rates are WAY cheaper down here in the states than in AK... but only if you pick one and stick to it. Small example, but it's something that we run into a lot. Apparently, you have to have a stable address. And I get it, that's the world we live in and we just have to play by the rules... but we don't want to. Ugh. Anyway.

I miss my mom. And sitting around Jen and Lars' table. I miss... being around girls. We're currently in an apartment above a doctors office, and the only other apartment in this building is currently occupied by Josh's friends/co-workers, Donnie and Mohawk Matt.

They're both incredibly easy to be around, and have made me feel so welcome. They're funny guys. I came upstairs the other night to grab beers for those of us hanging out on the porch, and there was Donnie... drinking his rum and root beer alone in the kitchen, bobbing and weaving and singing, eyes closed and deeply engrossed in the Frank Sinatra playlist he had blasting from the stereo. I mean, he was feeling it. If I'd had any doubts before I saw that (I didn't), I loved him instantly when I did. That's a real man, right there.

Donnie is a clean cut looking, ex-navy, super laid back, very American dude, for lack of a better way to describe him. And then, there's Matt. I think he's in his early thirties. He's half Jewish, half Mexican, does not give a FUCK about what anyone thinks, and will tell you anything and everything as straight as he sees it. He built his motorcycle from scratch. He has a septum ring. He makes knives for a living, when he's not digging up old bombs, and they are fucking beautiful (See? Look!). He's an artist, really. He's the one who taught Josh how to make the knife sheaths out of leather that he's been obsessed with for the last few months. He has more tattoos than anyone I've ever met. And, as you might have guessed, he has a very substantial mohawk.

It has been nothing short of interesting to be around these two gentlemen the last few days. To look at them, you'd never guess they have a thing in common, but they apparently met working a contract a few years back, and were fast friends. That and they both love guns. I pity the person who walks into one of those houses looking for an easy target. They're rowdy, crass, sharp as tacks, and they get along with Josh famously. It makes me happy to see him with kindred spirits, so to speak. Especially when, for a long time, Josh only had my friends to hang out with, because his had all gone back to Afghanistan, or weren't otherwise in Alaska when we were.

And... I'll just say it... this part of the country isn't for me, and I'm going to be spending a lot of time here... alone. Except when the boys are all home... and even then, a girl like me can only talk about knives, guns, leather, and booze for so long before she starts to feel out of her element.

It'll be fine. I just have to push through it.

But damn... I really really miss my mom.

Hang onto your butts, kids... this is gonna be a long one.

When last I checked in, I was on the outskirts of Jonestown, Pennsylvania. Even if I hadn't been out in the sticks, it would have been 'rural' by most standards anyway. It did have a Subway, but that was about the end of modernity. There were more cows, horses and wild lilies than there were people. It was a good place to start this new life. Quiet, pretty, friendly. A gentle easing into the world of... having no friends and no company on most days.

I keep waiting for that to catch up to me. It's been a month now, since I left Alaska and... I feel alright, surprisingly enough. The two or three week mark usually gets me. But, this trip out is very different than my past wanderings. A) I'll be home soon. We don't even bother to think of this as having 'moved away'. It's temporary, however long term it will be. B) I have Josh and it's hard to be lonely with a person like him around. C) Putting myself in all these weird new situations is going to change me as a person. I'll grow up some more, get to know myself better, meet a ton of new friends, and have a crap ton of new experiences to write about, so... I'm just thinking of this as my job, and we all gotta have one.

Anyway. When I last wrote, that's where we were. Josh took the truck back to the mechanic the following day and, just as I expected, got a far different reception from the dudes in there than I did. By the time he was finished with them, they were agreeing to pay for the labor to take it apart again and fix it up, and promising to have it ready in time for us to leave town. We were in Harrisburg, going to the leather shop to buy some more tools (Josh has gotten into making these bad ass leather sheaths for knives) when they called us to say that, while the clutch had in fact been bad, the real problem was that the transmission was shot. And because Chrysler teamed up with Mercedes in '06 when Sheila was built (Sheila is what we've named the truck, for those of you that didn't see that on facebook. That, or 'Fat Bottom Girl'), it has a Mercedes transmission, and those are about $5,000 new. In the end, they got us one at dealer cost, which was closer to $3,000, because they had essentially told me it was good to drive to Alabama even with the rattle, and would have sent us off like that into certain engine failure because they'd fucked everything up so badly the first time we took it in. In any case, we both sat in our dinky rental car and didn't speak for a long time, trying to absorb THAT nice little... financial kick to the stomach. If anyone knows much about used car laws, get a hold of me. The dealer that Sheila came from is, now that I'm settled in again, about to get a fucking earful.

(Here's Sheila's backside, for those of you that have never met her)

Our 'Fat Bottom Girl'

So, with the truck fixed, and because I'd already bought tickets, we left Jonestown Thursday after Josh got off work and drove straight to Philadelphia, to go see Foster the People in this big, awesome outdoor amphitheater. Driving a fat truck on narrow, cobblestone streets is fucking freaky... but we were on cobblestone streets!!! I've never seen one before then. I was super excited. Once we got to the show, it seemed like we were the only people there not smoking weed. It made me a little nostalgic really... Alaska and Philly aren't so different in at least once sense. And it was an ok show. Josh has not been to a lot of concerts, and I have, so I was hoping for something mind-blowing, and that didn't happen, but it was still fun. I don't think, unless it's a band that I'd give an ovary to see live (the Black Keys) or it's at a small, intimate place like the Bear Tooth (because that is a whole different animal than a big show), that single concerts are worth the money to me anymore. $300 for a hundred bands... or $40 for one. Simple math really.

Foster the People

Philadelphia is great. It's one of my new favorite cities. It had that feeling. Awesome little bars in the Old City part of town, tons of character, great food, interesting people, lots of music pouring out of doors and windows, and more history than can really be absorbed in a single day.

We saw the Liberty Bell (through a window. The line was outside and around the building and we were too hungover to stand around that long waiting, but it was still a trip to look at it in real life). One of the single most recognizable symbols of the Human right to Freedom known in the world, cracked, fragile, and revered in it's humble little enclosure. It was quite beautiful, really.

And then, damn near right next door, was Independence Hall, built in 1753. Where the wealthy, white people of the late 1700's forged, onto a piece of paper, their malcontent with being ruled unfairly by a distant monarch (paper made out of hemp, in case you didn't know that. It was the single most useful fiber that existed for thousands of years. 12,000 at least, that we know of. The oldest hemp relic that we have is a piece of canvas that dates back to 8,000 BC, from Mesopotamia. It was grown by George Washington himself, it made the clothes worn by the first American settlers, it made the ropes and sails for the Nina, the Pinta, and the Santa Maria that brought Christopher Columbus across the oceans to ruin the lives of the Native Americans in the New World, who were still wearing animal skins and making string from sinews. Hemp facilitated our movement across the globe, it (the fiber and seeds part) does not contain enough THC to cause a high, but the alcohol industry didn't like having competition and in 1936, it funded the creation of Reefer Madness; a propaganda film that made all kinds of wild claims about marijuana having 'soul-destroying effects', claiming that it would cause the loss of all moral compass, a voracious appetite for violence, rampant sex, and murder, and irreversible insanity. Most people didn't have a clue that hemp and marijuana (which was a name that was invented for Reefer Madness and the push to illegalize hemp) were the same plant. And suddenly, the most useful, abundant, and easy to grow product on earth was banned. Sorry for the long sidetrack, but I can't even explain how monumentally stupid it is that we STILL believe marijuana should be illegal). Anyway, it was fucking awesome to stand there, where our forefathers started a revolution against bullshit rules and tyrannical dickheads. I wish my generation had half the balls.

Independence Hall, and me, rocking my super cool Alaska Roots tank (shout out to Krystal! Check out her website http://alaskaroots.com/)

From there, we drove past DC. I was sad to miss it, and will return when I have more time, and when I have a motorcycle instead of a fat dually, because the traffic snarl surrounding that place was enough to make both of us hate everyone in a 10 mile radius. Good thing we had a new clutch to burn up in traffic. Ugh. We went briefly through Baltimore, and then down to Roanoke ("Rock me mama, like a wagon wheel"), where we crashed for the night. Woke up early, and drove through the rest of Virginia, part of Georgia and Tennessee, and into Alabama. The whole while, listening to Joe Rogan podcasts and learning all kinds of cool shit.

I made Josh listen to my all-time favorite, which was the podcast Joe did with Graham Hancock. He's an English historian, and a beautiful speaker, and he basically single-handedly convinced me that the Great Pyramids of Egypt and the Sphinx have been around way the fuck longer than generally accepted academia tells us. Not only that, but it should be compelling enough to all of them to get some attention, and instead it's getting a lot of resistance. I just think it should be fully explored, whether what I subscribe to turns out to be right or wrong. There is enough evidence to at least warrant some more scrutiny. Who are we if we don't understand our roots? I did a lot of research into this after hearing this guy talk, and it's what I believe. You can believe whatever you want. But, here are the two whoppers that got me interested.

1.) There is a ton of water erosion on the Sphinx enclosure. Geologists are mostly in agreement that that is what it is. Archaeologists and Egyptologists say it's wind and sand... but they have the most to lose, and rocks/erosion isn't their field so, there you go. Also, if you look at photos of it... it's fucking water erosion. Go look for yourself, if'n you feel ambitious. Check out Robert Schoch's  website. He is the highly respected geologist at Boston University that first pointed this out, and it's super neat. The reason this is controversial, is that in 3,000 BC, when we are told that the Pyramids and Sphinx were built, Egypt was as bone dry as it is right now. The last time there was significant enough rainfall to cause the deep crevices of water erosion that there are on the Sphinx, was in 10,500 BC. And THAT means, that there was a pretty spectacular technology around to have built these structures WAAAAYYYYYYYY the hell farther back in time than we used to think, and probably that the pharaohs and the Egyptians that we recognize may have moved into the pyramids and painted all over them... but they didn't build them. This pisses of all kinds of scholars, archaeologists, etc. And it seemed like a serious stretch, until we started finding other civilizations of this age around the world. Go look at photos of Gobekli Tepe in Turkey. That one is from about 10,000 BC also, and contains megaliths (big fucking stones) that astonished everyone because of what it had to mean about the technology and brilliance of people long before us.

2.) What is also interesting about 10,500 BC, is that if you were to lay the stars down like a map over the Giza plateau at dawn on the Spring Equinox, the Nile River is directly under the Milky Way, the three Giza Pyramids are directly under the three stars that make up Orion's Belt, and the Sphinx (whose head was obviously not originally the head of a pharaoh because it's way too small in proportion to it's body, someone came along later and carved it's head up like that. fucking humans) is facing directly at the constellation Leo. Graham Hancock is the guy who came up with this one, and he's gotten A LOT of shit for it. But... we know that people all over the world were accomplished astronomers thousands of years before us, and I don't think it's such a stretch, in combination with the Sphinx erosion stuff. But hey, that's just me. What Joe Rogan pointed out while talking to Graham, which gave me serious shivers, was that it's kind of silly to believe that we've made it from caveman (50,000 years ago) to today, without a hiccup. The hiccup being, as Graham Hancock believes, that at one point, some kind of cataclysmic event shook the earth, and wiped out some very advanced civilizations, that we are only now beginning to find evidence of. Give it a listen, you will not be bored. Here's the podcast link. It blew my mind.

So at last, I am here and getting settled. Here being Fort McClellan, Alabama. About halfway between Birmingham and Atlanta, GA. This is about the deepest into the South I've ever been. You can say Texas is 'the South', but that's kind of iffy. Texas is really it's own animal. Half South, half Southwestern, a little Mexican, a little American. You can see how a girl like me could get confused... Texas to Alaska... that was a culture shock and a half at 12 years old.

Anyway, it's alright around here. Hot, but very green. There is Ivy growing on EVERYTHING. I can't even see how half these trees get any sunlight, their trunks are so wrapped in Ivy. I'm in a 'lodge' which is really a hotel made for longterm stays, for contractors on this base. But it's quiet, and there is a little kitchen. I have the woods on one side of me and a park on the other.

Currently, there's some kind of training going on near here, and all but 5 or 6 of the rooms are occupied by cops from all over the place. Makes me SO nervous. No offense to cops in general, but most of them that I've ever met are dicks. Sucks for the nice guys, too, because... I ain't the only one with this impression. And before you go thinking that only people who get into trouble have 'dealings' with cops, let me correct you. I've never been arrested or even close. In any case, they can't do anything to me here. This is out of all of their various jurisdictions. Still, it's instinctual, I guess, even when I'm not doing anything illegal.

I know there's got to be some Civil War type history around here, and some... other cool stuff. Of some sort. I just have to find it. But, this town is like most others I've come across in the lower 48. There are the same chain stores, the same chain restaurants, and the same chain hotels. In fact, in our first couple of sweeps around town, I can't say that I've found a restaurant that ISN'T a chain. That part kind of annoys me. I can't even tell  you what I'd give for a Moose's Tooth pizza, and a Glacier Brewhouse beer. And a chance to see my parents and my friends.

Won't be forever though, I just gotta remember that. My love, big wide world. I'm going out to the pool to read about Ancient Egypt.

My freckles are back!

I think it's been more than a year since I had a good swath of freckles. Missed them. You have to take what you can get when 'tan' isn't really something your skin understands or wants.

I never expected to like Pennsylvania much. I'll make the best out of landing anywhere. There is always cool stuff to go and see in a new place, if you really look. But as it turns out, the forests, farms and history in this place have damn near won me over.

We went to visit the state capitol, which was built in 1902 and is domed with iridescent green tiles that look very much like dragon scales (to those of us with that sort of imagination anyway). It is a spectacular structure. They wouldn't let us in because we forgot to leave our pocket knives in the truck, and wouldn't keep them for us at the door. I made the mistake of jokingly suggesting that we just go stash them in the bushes while we were inside (which I fully meant to do) and all that did was illicit suddenly aggressive body language and get us crowded out the door with a quickness. As if I meant to break loose from the tour and run through the halls of the Capitol looking for the Governor on a Sunday to stab him with my tiny little pocket knife. Ridiculous. 

On Friday, we went to the National Civil War Museum. And... what I came away from that with was this; The South was vastly outnumbered, General Lee was far more skilled as a strategist, the Rebels were better soldiers, and Ulysses S. Grant basically decided that in order to win, he would have to grind the South down with numbers, where he could not beat them in skill or heart. Meaning, sacrificing thousands and thousands of young men's lives in each battle. Gettysburg alone wrought 50,000 casualties. That's more people than live in my home town. That's how many troops total we lost in Vietnam. All in 3 days time. In all, 700,000 people died in the Civil War. And, despite all the flattering things I just said about the South, they fired the first shots, and it was for a shitty reason (obviously), so... both sides in the wrong. But that's war, isn't it.

On a loosely related side note, we watched the VICE Guide to Liberia last night and I learned lots of things I didn't know. Liberia is a country on the Western coast of Africa that is the United States only real venture into Colonialism in the region. It was established by us in 1820, as a place to return freed slaves to their home continent. But a bunch of those freed slaves, being at least a few generations down from African natives and never having been to Africa, showed up there with very American ideals about racial supremacy... and immediately started enslaving the locals. What remains in Liberia today, is a country which is the 4th poorest on the planet, whose capitol city is one of the worst slums on Earth. Most women there have been raped at some time or another. And... some of them are cannibalistic. Not because they have no other food source, but because they believe that they derive power from eating the hearts of their enemies, and that eating innocent babies will make them immune to bullets. They did a long interview with a guy who was formerly known as General Butt Naked because he and his soldiers fought nude. I just have this to say, after watching it; before you make any broad statements that humanity is something that resides inside all of us... you should really check out how the other half lives. I don't care what arguments exist about... nature or nurture or culture or whatever else. Humanity and eating babies are not compatible ideals. So... there's the only country in Africa that has the U.S. stamp on it.

We went to see Prometheus. Stunning to look at. There is so much H.R. Giger in this movie, it's like having a flashback for me. I don't know if he did the design for these creatures or their structures, but I would not be surprised. Other than that, it confused the heck out of both of us, and left us feeling only more ripped off because it had the potential to be something so mind-blowing.

Saturday, we picked up the truck. It'd been in the shop for a full week, and I'd been driving this stupid little Kia with no get-up-and-go at all, with blown speakers and a seat that wouldn't recline back from straight up and down. I gotta admit, that big diesel is a pain in the ass to drive around crowded, small city streets... but I realized how very much I missed it the first time I pulled into a gas station and did not attract everyone's attention with my 6 tires, burly, growling motor, and Alaska license plates. We were actually getting a little used to people pointing at the truck all the time and exclaiming, "Alaska!" Makes you feel a bit like a celebrity. Anyway, we got it back. We'd put $1,700 into it, had a brand new clutch, and made it about 15 miles down the road to the brewery we were en route to visit when the grinding rattle that we'd taken it in for in the first place started again, and was twice as loud. This morning I took it back to them and said basically, "We paid damn near $2,000 including the rental car, you had our truck for a week, and the problem is worse." And, true to form, rather than treat me like a competent customer, the guy told me, "Noises are tricky. I don't feel that I misdiagnosed it, the flywheel was wrecked. It didn't make that noise when I drove it before." (which is complete horseshit. Since it started making the noise, it's consistently made it whenever we drive it. What that really means is, "I didn't drive it out of the parking lot.")

I'm so frustrated with all that right now, I don't even want to think about it anymore. I hate being treated like I'm stupid. And maybe it has nothing to do with the fact that I'm a woman, and I'm young. Or maybe it does. Because it seems like most of the time, men don't get treated like I get treated when dealing with mechanics. (Except for AJ and Beverly at Accurate Import in Anchorage. My family has gone to them for 17 years and they're the most stellar example of what you'd want in someone taking care of your car. They didn't pay me to say that either.)

Yesterday, we rented a canoe and got dropped off 10 miles north of here on the Swatara River. It runs parallel to the Appalachian Trail for some distance, and the stretch we went down is almost all right in the middle of undeveloped State Park. No roads, only hiking trails. Giant old spruce and maples and willows draping their leaves over the water and sometimes down into it (which caused the near upset that somehow drowned my phone inside it's waterproof bag. $400 later... ugh). Despite the 90 degree heat and cloudless sunshine, it was cool and very pleasant down on the river surface. We brought lunch and a 12 pack and made fair work of both. We didn't see or hear another human being for almost 4 hours, which is something that Josh and I both need as often as possible in order to really recharge. All perspectives on life are better after some time spent in the woods, I like to think. About halfway down, we came upon a family of ducks. I think there were 6 or 7 of them. We startled them pretty good, so they took off flapping and running over the top of the water and then settled in about 20 yards ahead of us and kept paddling. We stuck behind them like that for 2 or 3 miles, and eventually they let us draw up almost right next to them. It was one of the best days we've had down here so far. Makes me miss him right now, while he's at work.

We'll be leaving this town on Thursday after Josh gets off work. I have to have the house packed up by then, grab him from the job site so we can run home and he can shower, and then we're bee-lining it straight to Philadelphia to go see Foster the People in concert (Yay!!! Both of us love those guys). Friday, we'll go check out the Liberty Bell, and Independence Hall, where the Declaration of Independence was signed, Saturday, we'll head over to D.C. to the Museum of Natural History and the Air and Space Museum (MUMMIES AND SPACE SHIPS!!!!!) and to see our country's capitol for the first time in both our lives, and then Sunday we'll drive down to Alabama where we'll be for the next 8 weeks.

Promise to check in again soon :)
Peace everyone!

Looking for a sign. Or something.

I don't know a whole hell of a lot about soccer. I know some. I know Wayne Rooney is a genius and a liability, I know Cristiano Ronaldo is fucking HOT, I know what a bicycle kick is, and I know that there's something magical about a sport that everyone on the planet can play, and adores.

The World Cup in 2010 got me up and out of bed before 6am to get to Humpy's on more than one occasion, to watch the U.S. team play, and once to see Portugal, because of their aforementioned star player.

Other than that, I am not an expert. But I was sitting in the laundromat this morning (where I currently spend at least an hour every other day), and I happened to pick up an ESPN magazine and start reading about Mohamed Aboutrika who is the most loved, respected and revered soccer player in Egypt. So much so, that the Egyptian government came to him, begging that he address the hundreds of thousands of people that had gone to Tahrir Square in Cairo to overthrow Hosni Mubarak, and ask them to go home. People still say, that he is so adored, that had he done so, the revolution that jump-started the Arab Spring may very well not have happened. 

It was a beautifully written article about this man, and what he's done for his country, and why it is that the people there carry him high on a pedestal. Even for someone that truthfully doesn't know a whole hell of a lot about the sport he plays. 

Now, it has me thinking. THAT is what I want to do. To take a subject that is of only vaguely interesting to most people, and make them read the whole story. So... what story? Soccer? I don't play it. That hardly seems fair. Politics? That might have been my answer 4 years ago. But currently, my political philosophy is that every single one of those cocksuckers is spewing shit out of their mouths as fast as they can come up with it, just to keep us distracted from what's going on behind closed doors. Their pockets get lined fat, and we're still talking about things that absolutely don't matter. It's so infuriating I'd almost rather not know it was going on. Art? Music? Travel? Umm... all of them? Can't that just be my answer?

The very next question I am always asked after I tell people I want to write is, "What do you want to write about?" And inevitably I freeze a little and don't really have an answer because... what's the answer? I want to write about whatever I think is interesting at the moment. Isn't there a market somewhere for that? Does any person want to read about just ONE topic all the time? Maybe I do occasionally want to write a story about a passionately revered soccer player. Sometimes, I like to write about MMA and the fights. Sometimes, I want to rant about a global corporation like Monsanto who is basically a government sanctioned mafia. Sometimes I want to write about a person I met, and what I learned from them. Or a place that I visited and the history it contains. Or some weird new discovery of science or physics that totally blew my mind.

Why do I have to pick one in order to get anyone to pay attention to me? Because writing is a business, and you have to play within the rules of that business to get your fucking foot in the door of that business. I don't like it. I'm not good at that. 

Before I left, a series of events very perfectly fell into place for me that made me feel like I had a shot at this. I know that feeling will come back if I keep trying. Doors open for you once you start walking down the hallway, really. I am just so confused about where to start that sometimes I get discouraged. 

Oh well. I'm going to drive back into Harrisburg and go to the Civil War Museum. See if I can learn a thing or two. Or at the very least remember that my life is not only awesome, but exponentially easier and way more fun than it would have been 200 years ago when you had to shit in a bucket and write with quills by candlelight.

The power of having a pocket knife

I've never owned a pocket knife before now. What I've always had was a boyfriend who carried one and who appeared at my side whenever beckoned. That may be the short version of why none of them have persisted thus far in my story, now that I think about it...

This year, for my birthday, in addition to the beautiful tattoo I am now sporting on my back left shoulder, Josh bought me a pocket knife. It's small enough to fit in the pocket of my jeans (which are little), the clip is sturdy enough to hold onto them even when I drop them on the floor before bed, it's sharp as fuck, and it has a little safety on it, so that I can be sure that I, in all my clumsiness, won't be able to somehow open it in my pocket and severe my femoral artery while I'm hunched over the tomatoes at the farmers market.

Let me make a side note here about gifts from guys; I usually hate them.

I do not wear jewelry, except for a few very simple pieces, that are worth nothing, but yet mean everything. If you put a thousand dollars on my finger, I will drop it down the sink. If you put it around my neck, it will get yanked off by a tree somewhere. When that happens, I will completely freak out. NOT because the stupid thing meant anything to me, but because it cost so much, and I inherited my family's Catholic guilt complex. Conversely, I lost one of my favorite earrings somewhere between Alaska and North Carolina, on my way to see Josh in the Outer Banks. They cost me 2 dollars. I bought them at a street market in Saigon, Vietnam, the same day that I crawled through a network of tunnels dug under a small village close to there, by it's people, who refused to leave when the Americans blasted their way in during the war, and so just moved underground. They reminded me of little solar systems and I would have paid 100 times what they cost me to find the missing one after I lost it. Broke my heart. See the difference?

I do not wear perfume. I forget to put it on. Also, it doesn't matter. That way, I smell good to the people I am supposed to smell good to, and I don't make the others nauseous. It's all pheromones anyway. What smells great on me might smell noxious on someone else. And, I especially don't want to wear a perfume that you (a man) "really like" the smell of. I am not an idiot. You don't go to women's perfume shops sampling them all until you find a perfect one. Your ex-girlfriend wore it, and that's how you know about it, and maybe it smelled great on her, but she was a skank and I am insulted when you want me to wear it. Don't drop 80 bucks on a bottle that will sit in my medicine cabinet until I move, and give it away.

I do not want something that you spent hours building me, regardless of how beautiful it turned out, if that was time that you should have been spending with me and not out in the shop. In fact, claiming that you built it for me is kind of manipulative. Handing me the product of hours of playing with your tools while you couldn't be bothered to spend real time with me doesn't count as a genuine gesture. You did not pull the wool over my eyes on that one.

Do not show up at my work and sing songs to me, I will be embarrassed. Do not record them and put them on the internet either. I will be even MORE embarrassed. Do not buy me flowers. They die. Do not buy me chocolate. I don't really like it that much. Do not buy me stuffed animals. Do I fucking look like I want a stuffed animal to you???

99% of the time, my internal response to gifts I receive from men is, "You really don't know me at all, do you." (Wow... that was a long side note.)

And then this guy rolled around, and he's just bagging brownie points left and right. He hasn't bought me a lot of presents, just good ones. We spend a lot of time out on the boat in Seward. Bam! Pair of brand new, steel-toed, Xtra Tuffs. Dry, warm feet! Less misery for me, more fun for everyone. An E-Book Reader! Because he knew that eventually we'd be running off, and the shelves upon shelves of books that I own won't all fit in my backpack. A bad ass tattoo! I had been planning to get it for myself before I left, because I wanted the same artist that did the one on my hip. How he came up with that one his own, I have no idea, because I dropped NO hints. What a guy. And, last but not least, this sweet, little Kershaw knife that's in my right pocket as we speak.

It's done more for me than open stubborn things. When Josh's mom first saw it, a barely concealed startled expression came over her face. I am, after all, a girl. But, being the sweet and all-accepting saint that she is, when Josh's pile of nieces all got bubbles to play with from their aunt at a barbeque, Gloria turned right to me and asked me to cut the seals off of them with my new knife. It was a small thing, but I loved all of those little ladies, and it gave me one more in to make them like me. I can be the weird aunt that carries a knife. That's ok with me.

We're more or less moved into this little cottage here in the country, but it looks to have been raided for dishes and kitchen supplies before we got here. It's hard to make good food when you have nothing to cut up ingredients with.... except that I do. I have made every one of the dinners we've had here by cutting up veggies and meats and cheeses with this little knife. To those of you who think that sounds gross... well, I probably have a higher tolerance to germs than you do. And besides, I wash it regularly.

And lastly, I am a very timid person. I get anxious even getting out of the car in new towns, even safe ones. This comes from a culmination of life experience that says that if you look like an easy target, you will be targeted. It's sad, really, but I am half terrified of strangers. Or at least, I was. This sounds grisly, and it's overly paranoid and will almost certainly never be an issue... but it changes the way I approach situations that make me wary, now that I have this knife in my pocket. Because I will, sure as shit, stab you in the side before you manage to hurt me, and I will not warn you that it's coming.

I had to go find the laundromat in this town we're in, in rural Pennsylvania. Of all places to feel insecure, this more than likely isn't one of them. Poverty rates are low, crime rates are too. Or at least, the best I know they are. But that doesn't put my mind at ease until I've really walked around and gotten the feel of the streets in a new place. And I'd mostly... planned on doing that when I had Josh with me. He drastically reduces the lingering stares, creepy smiles, fake requests for help, etc., that I get when I'm out somewhere on my own. However, dirty laundry can't wait forever. And... I have a pocket knife!

When I pull the truck up to a new spot and I'm not sure if it looks friendly or not, I just undo the safety, put it back in my pocket, and do a mental practice on grabbing it and flipping it open quickly if I have to. Statistically, it'll never be an issue. More than likely, I won't ever have to do that. But, if I need to, I can. And it's made everything that I have to go and figure out on my own much easier to face. Because in my own head, I now, officially have at least one real claw to go with all the figurative ones I've been packing all this time. And I can open my own damn laundry soap, thank you very much.