tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11326253683770146262024-03-12T20:40:34.733-07:00Elon Bondvag·a·bond
ˈvaɡəˌbänd/
noun
a person who wanders from place to place without a home or job.
adjective
having no settled home.Vagabondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03039342534221544704noreply@blogger.comBlogger73125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1132625368377014626.post-88472545771413416892017-10-30T11:09:00.000-07:002017-10-30T11:09:11.914-07:00I love telling people I’m just passing through.<div class="MsoNormal">
He spoke of being a vagabond in past tense, through the
distortions of my memory. His eyes were calm, though I romanticized them to be
wild. The best night we had was when he took control. I would stay up watching
him breathe, and all I could do to save myself was to walk the suburb on the
phone. I wrote poetry and dreamed in words that weren’t solely mine. I wanted
everything in front of me, my vain heart reaching out to call something mine.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I knew then as I know now that I am not done. This vagabond
lifestyle still fills me with hope. I have far too much to see and to many existences
to relate with. I pack up my backpack with the knowledge only experience can
give.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Months of calling myself a vagabond has filled me with joy
when I hear others say the word. Each song I hear with the word fills me with
joy. Rod Stewart singing Forever Young has played on the radio twice in the
last week. Maybe I’m a romantic, but it feels like he’s singing to me. Bob Dylan
tells me to Don’t Think Twice, It’s Alright. Dave Loggins sings along with my
soul as he talks to his love, a woman who wants a much different life than he,
but he still asks her “Please, come to Boston”.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Jess tattooed my knuckles this summer with the handle I have
given myself. It’s on my stamp, it’s the name I use for domain, and now it’s on
my hands forever. I regret nothing. My four top left knuckles spell a name that
I have taken over my given name. My chosen name is Elon, a name that happened upon
me, but I feel suits the current person I have become.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So here I travel yet again, for however long I made need to
keep moving. Tonight, Portland, tomorrow, Eugene. After that? Only time will
tell.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Travel on.<o:p></o:p></div>
Vagabondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03039342534221544704noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1132625368377014626.post-78914106678702322112017-07-11T14:38:00.004-07:002017-07-11T14:38:54.042-07:00<div align="left">
<div dir="ltr">
Your lack <span style="color: black;">of knowing what to do in social social situations defines who you are.</span><br />
</div>
</div>
<div align="left">
<div dir="ltr">
<span style="color: black;">I cannot recall who has told me this, directly or indirectly.</span><br />
</div>
</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br />
</div>
<div align="left">
<div dir="ltr">
<span style="color: black;">I sit and an apartment that isn't mine, closed off to a city that I wasn't born in. What makes someone belong? Is it blood right, or the knowledge that one has put their name in the city they sleep in? What makes us call someplace home? If I said the people I love, I would be referring to so many different places. If I were to say the money and resources I put into a city, would I feel I belong to anywhere? From the depths of this depressive cycle, I cannot say I feel content with the energy I put into one single place. I would tell you I should keep trying and traveling. "I can do better", I would tell myself in the mirror.</span></div>
</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br />
</div>
<div align="left">
<div dir="ltr">
<span style="color: black;">I do not want a home, yet I feel compelled by every commercial to build one. How can I buy this product if I have in a place to store it? I could not buy the product, because I have decided I do not want job. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<span style="color: black;">My head swirling with my accomplishments and failures, I considered trying to make it through this modern era without money. Remove the convenience of immediate gain from my grasp. What would have to be done to find myself consistently alive and well? What would bring me joy, what habits could I break with very little to my name and being? Could I create sustainability in the constant change of my being?</span></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<span style="color: black;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
<div dir="ltr">
</div>
<div align="left">
<div dir="ltr">
<span style="color: black;">So I'll write new beginnings, and start the month of August, the month of my birth and return to a place i fled two years ago, with no want for money. I will work in trades and barter, and go off hope alone on days I have little to offer. The voice in my mind sounds so feeble on this leather couch I never bought. All I want is to eat, be safe, and travel as much as I possibly can. That's been done before, by myself and countless others, It can still feel scary. I look at the captions on the muted News Channel and see death and fear from every corner. I wonder what made Gloria Steinem scared. I think about Cheryl Strayed shaking in the passenger seat. I imagine Amanda Palmer walking into stranger's arms.</span> I know I can do this, and I don't want money, I just want help.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div dir="ltr">
</div>
<br />
<div align="left">
<div dir="ltr">
"I hope you find what you are looking for" left of the lips of my brother, and though I knew I had no idea what I was looking for, I smiled and said "thank you" all the same.</div>
</div>
Vagabondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03039342534221544704noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1132625368377014626.post-8836140409692108782017-06-05T12:49:00.001-07:002017-06-05T12:49:19.707-07:00we lose so much <span style="color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;">What of love, a child might ask</span><br />
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;">
In a city rebuilt by the wind</div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;">
Laying new foundations becomes a repetitive task</div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;">
The hearts of the citizens on the mend</div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;">
What of pity, a man may say</div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;">
A glare in the corner of his eye</div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;">
Every hour he spends each passing day</div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;">
Worried what may come out as a lie</div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;">
What of life, a person contemplates</div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;">
From the floor of the corner cafe</div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;">
Scrolling through their phone for perspective dates</div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;">
I will see you later, they do not say</div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;">
What of death, the roses frost over</div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;">
Funerals take on a a humble tone</div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;">
This is not how we dreamed we would prosper</div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;">
Every person rushing to not die alone. </div>
Vagabondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03039342534221544704noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1132625368377014626.post-84935458641914598232017-05-04T20:14:00.005-07:002017-05-04T20:14:45.006-07:00recent unedited poemsIt's easy to find ones worth<br />
in a culture with no soul<br />
built on pop music catering to<br />
the uniqueness which you seek.<br />
<br />
------<br />
<br />
Of men who aim to take our essence<br />
to place in jars and study<br />
the movement of severed body parts<br />
taken in our sleep<br />
of women who fight to keep standing<br />
between the stanzas that fall at their feet.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
------</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
I look for you in a sea of<br />
people I'll never meet<br />
I smell Tamales on the lips of<br />
the man sitting next to me<br />
though his touch ill never feel from<br />
the three feet we sit away<br />
there may be something to learn from<br />
his continuous look-away.<br />
<br />Vagabondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03039342534221544704noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1132625368377014626.post-65496847447565773742017-01-22T08:10:00.001-08:002017-01-22T11:19:37.073-08:00mineRainy days without the haze of how others wished me to be<br />
A pot on the stove and a coat at the door<br />
So many gifts I could forever cherish<br />
Finally feeling healthy miles away<br />
An idea of my independence<br />
So I reach for my phone to send you a message<br />
But this time I will honor as mineVagabondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03039342534221544704noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1132625368377014626.post-56427995428144042212017-01-16T09:21:00.002-08:002017-01-16T09:42:08.556-08:00Where are you now? (written on 12/18)<br />
<span style="font-family: "helveticaneue"; font-size: 12px;">The pockets of the backpack are invaded by my groping hand. I check each fold franticly, knowing what I seek will be in one of the many black creases. I am aware by now that if I were to only place what I seek in a consistent location, I wouldn’t go through this dance so often. I had already said goodbye to each co-worker, mentally noting the reality of my physical state yet again. </span><br />
I have woken up in not only the same city, but the same bed for over two months now. I am not sleeping in a hammock to awake with the sun, to steady myself on a bike for the bearable hours of the day. That is in the past, and I am here, in what was the future. A white bike awaits me just outside the glass door, beyond the logo of the company that currently employs me. I knew I shouldn’t have ate those donuts, the abundant amount of sugar in my blood starts a small ache in my left temple. The present situation I am in overwhelms my mental state, and I take a deep breath, closing my eyes to focus my mind on the task at hand.<br />Where the fuck are my keys.Vagabondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03039342534221544704noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1132625368377014626.post-36423739839486789142016-12-31T17:38:00.003-08:002016-12-31T17:38:37.890-08:00New years<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Times; font-size: 16px; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">I awoke, fully clothed, on top of a bed that wasn’t mine in the Queen Anne neighborhood of Seattle. My shoes were tied, and the lights were glaring into my sleepy eyes. A bouquet of roses lay next to me on the bed, pieces of paper containing a positive message wrapped around each neck. The box of wine I bought for myself sat on the counter, laughing at me in our shared silence.</span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Times; font-size: 16px; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">It was 3 in the morning on the first day of 2016 and I had slept through the new year. I had fully intended to walk down the few blocks towards the Seattle Center to watch “New Years at the needle”. I sighed and poured rest of my glass into the sink, swishing water until it ran clear. I refilled my glass with the tap, and began to remove the layers I had meticulously planned for the event of celebrating my new year solo. I found the ability to laugh at myself as I pulled someone else’s covers over myself, sleeping until the sun woke me up.</span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Times; font-size: 16px; line-height: normal;">
-<br />
The last day of the year I awoke to Prince telling me exactly how he was going to party. A few messages came through my phone, one of whiched buzzed an "I'm sorry you have to work" at my concience. I was so excited to be able to wish so many different people a happy new year, and I dawned my clothes for the day. Every song that played over the speakers at work kept me dancing and laughing with the workers and frequent line-to-the-door patrons. As I biked home in the rain, I didn't care how wet I was getting to be.<br />
-<br />
I'm happy that I'm close to 4 months sober in a city that loved me from the day I rolled through it. I get to celebrate with new friends that are so happy to be getting to know me, and I them.<br />
I'm so happy<br />
I want to be here<br />
I want to keep moving forward.<br />
<br />
I love you. I hope you have a safe and happy new year, you glorious human.<br />
<br /></div>
Vagabondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03039342534221544704noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1132625368377014626.post-24873830858359294452016-12-29T11:29:00.001-08:002016-12-29T11:29:54.068-08:00on the Lafitte greenwaybricks tumbled from the wall<div>
crumbled on the ground</div>
<div>
construction hats turned my way</div>
<div>
telling me to give the wall a lot of space</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
this wall must come down for something new</div>
<div>
give something else a chance, a part of me said</div>
<div>
but the graffiti cried out to me</div>
<div>
"what about us?"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I move forward</div>
<div>
though it may strain to look back,</div>
<div>
we must remember what we have come from</div>
<div>
what we have gone through to get here.</div>
Vagabondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03039342534221544704noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1132625368377014626.post-35945722240534538722016-12-26T12:10:00.001-08:002016-12-26T12:10:59.716-08:00what does home mean to me?<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
<span class="gmail-Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The thick mass of tangled branches lie against the temporary orange plastic fence, quite like the trees we keep as ornamemnts in our homes for a few days near the end of the year. A famillar smell hit me as I parked my bike awkwardly in line with the vehicles that would carry home full trees. for their dressing, lighting, unwrapping, and timely disposal next to the plastic can once the festivities were over.</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
<span class="gmail-Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>My cowboy boots squished in the mud as I slowly approached an attendant who was inclosed in a small box. The windows were open, but the heat fans were audible over her conversation with a paying customer. She turned to me quickly, asking what I needed before even making eye contact. I fumbled with my words as I slowly asked if there were any branches I could take, but she cut me off as I mentally noted my nervousness. "Take all the branches you need" her mouth moved as she forced her thumb in the direction of the trimmings. I wanted to inquire if she was too stressed by the season, but hesitated, and quickly thanked her as I moved towards the pile.</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
<span class="gmail-Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>A bundle of branches repeditivly hit my back tire, loosly tied to a backpack my roomate has been letting me use. The zIppers have lost their pulls, and the cord used to secure loose loads has formed lumps. Stains splatter the bottom of the white pack, and I consider what a treat it is to have such a kind person in my life. He bought the backpack in 2005, like most of his other possessions after Katrina took all he had.</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
<span class="gmail-Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Pine needles began to litter the carpet as I tore branches apart, tying them in a clumpy circle. I only had an old shoelace to secure it together, and I laughed when I imagined what an awkward shape this wreath would form without a base. I found myself closing my eyes, recalling a previous Christmas- lying under the tree, looking up through the branches at an array of different lights. </div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
<span class="gmail-Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>On Christmas Eve, I disassembled the wreath. Plastic ornaments clinked together on their way back to the ziplock they were purchased from Goodwill in. As I sat down to respond to a text, my face met my hands with sobs. The wreath, still wrapped in beads thrown at me by a drunk girl in the french quarter, hung above me on the corner of the door frame. The scent of pine had died with the drying brambles, but It still felt like a little piece of home to me. </div>
Vagabondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03039342534221544704noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1132625368377014626.post-71921077967522796242016-12-18T20:35:00.000-08:002016-12-18T20:35:15.126-08:00What say youChaos<br />
The word to describe my current feelings towards myself<br />
I feel like a hurricane<br />
Maybe the south really is the place for me.<br />
I feel like a whirlwind<br />
The heat of desire mixing with the chill of loneliness<br />
So comes the rain with the flood, and my screams.<br />
I can't tell if I have a place<br />
Though I know I have left many places<br />
Searching for something more<br />
(maybe, if I go just a little bit further...).<br />
At least I know I won't find you here<br />
It's only taken years of breaking my own heart to understand<br />
No being can tame the weather<br />
One can only brace, and accept.Vagabondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03039342534221544704noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1132625368377014626.post-21117114368133991832016-12-03T13:41:00.002-08:002016-12-03T13:41:45.091-08:00a haikuhere you are again<br />
yearning for all the treasure<br />
forgetting the huntVagabondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03039342534221544704noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1132625368377014626.post-13793498572126533282016-11-28T20:02:00.000-08:002016-11-28T20:02:02.647-08:00I didn't see you today. Some days I feel exhausted, and I lie in bed hoping that when I open my eyes, you wont appear. Maybe if I hold my morning yoga pose longer, or pick my music just right, you wont come into view.<br />
I didn't miss you, I barely even thought about you-and it was incredible. The weight on my chest that you put there was nearly gone. I'm not sure where it went, but I hope that it merely dissipated; I would hate to transfer that emotion on to somebody else in order to save myself.<br />
Oftentimes I'm conflicted between missing you, hating you, and cherishing you. You've changed the way the world looks to me, and am able to open up to complete strangers. We find solace in our shared romance with you, and we smile and roll our eyes at certain thoughts, and shake our heads looking at the ground on other memories.<br />
You can be so cruel to the unsuspecting, jumping around a corner and latching on so quickly. Why do you feel so heavy? Like a wool coat soaked by a torrential downpour, or a roof bending under a winter snow.<br />
Though you may be crippling, confusing, and dark, you have changed the view of the world for many. You have taken lives and destroyed households, but in your wake, you have left the light on for others. The art you have inspired is countless and diverse, and one could argue you are a rival to love, death, and faith.<br />
Despair, depression, my dearest darkness that has been called so many things, I did not miss you today. I fear, however, that you have missed me. I am sure you will soon be back, and each step I take will drag you like a shadow behind me.<br />
But until then, I shall dance without you.<br />
Good night.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Vagabondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03039342534221544704noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1132625368377014626.post-10526789447294386732016-11-26T21:22:00.001-08:002016-11-26T21:22:16.876-08:00Stop focusing on what you don't have and focus on that which you do. Stop wanting, thinking and shoulding.<br />
-<br />
Lately the most I can write are journal entries. I'm starting small, and keeping it simple. I'm not going to revise these, I'm just going to get out what is bursting from inside me.<br />
-<br />
I am sitting at District Donuts in Lakeview. It's confusing, because you may think I'm near Seattle, when in reality, I'm on the outskirts of New Orleans. I'm waiting for my soon-to-be manager to walk through the doors and start my orientation. I was nearly late to the set time, but he was caught up, and is still on his way. I was able to get a chocolate milk donut and a tart lemonade. I'll be cashiering for this lovely company that is extremely community based and full of lively humans.<br />
-<br />
Two weeks ago, my Birthday Buddy sent me a box full of clothes from Tukwila. Some of the items were ones I had loaned her back in February. Two items that have quickly become my favorites (besides the glorious Thriller sweater my Possum Friend gave me) are a jean jacket and some glorious geanie pants. My Soul Sister also sent me a package of clothes I had left with her, and It's such an odd feeling to have a full wardrobe. I didn't believe others when they mentioned I lost weight, but no when I try on old clothes, I just sigh and nod.<br />
-<br />
I changed a flat tire on thanksgiving, and I now laugh at my annoyance. Comparing patching a tire inside a house with a floor pump, to the side of the highway after a long day and only a hand pump is worlds apart. Though it may difficult, it's worth looking past what I want and what I have. I want impenetrable tires, but i understand reality, and I have a warm house with a roof and all the supplies I need.<br />
-<br />
Keep changing your viewpoint. Question your moods and frame of mind. Love yourself more. Sleep well.<br />
JenniseVagabondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03039342534221544704noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1132625368377014626.post-19258775576894010192016-11-09T07:41:00.001-08:002016-11-09T07:41:22.934-08:00There are so many ways we can become divided in this life. There are so many moments we are afraid and worried for what may happen in each minute of each day. The fear of the unknown can be far more crippling than the reality we may face.<br />
Though it is easy to feel separated and scared right now, know you are not alone. You were never alone, you had so much help. Help isn't just a hand up when you're feeling down. Sometimes you need to be lower than you ever were before in order to see the changes you must make so you may not fall this deep ever again. Fear can be crippling. Sadness can make you a still body beneath sheets, wishing the bed could swallow you whole.<br />
Remember that you are simply a human. Just one being on a spinning globe with over 7 billion others. You have made it passed obstacles and hurdles you never imagined, and there are still more to come.<br />
Live each moment fully. Judge others openly and with a kind heart. We do not know what others have been through to make them the person they are today. Love others, love yourself, stay brave. Keep moving forward.Vagabondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03039342534221544704noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1132625368377014626.post-65822143368477262812016-10-26T17:21:00.000-07:002017-01-22T11:26:35.765-08:00I'm still so much talk with not enough action<br />
I can ride the length of this diverse nation<br />
but I can't recall what I promised to others<br />
In old cities that have never seen my face<br />
A small token of this generation that desires to do it all-<br />
and maybe I'm not so much a flawed person as I am confused<br />
Trying to make better use of my time<br />
As I mend my past and come to terms with my chaotic state of mind.<br />
Maybe it's just a part of this life<br />
It's just part of this age<br />
But I cannot help but feel that no matter what I do<br />
I will not find the voice to explain that I am real.<br />
Well, actions are stronger than words, they say<br />
and I've seen it proven in many ways<br />
It's so hard to move past your fast moving lips<br />
Your heart full of hope that you can ease the pain<br />
Though you can write in eloquent phrases<br />
You still get caught up in the words flowing out of your mouth<br />
Reaching and grabbing but hands cannot catch<br />
That which has already been given.<br />
So here I lay in pieces on the floor<br />
Tempting to get me back<br />
I'm not trying to change the person I've become<br />
I'm still searching for the things I lack.Vagabondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03039342534221544704noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1132625368377014626.post-2873164955727277992016-10-23T11:34:00.002-07:002016-10-23T11:34:30.554-07:00Every step and push to propel myself forward this past year has brought me places I could have never imagined. Outside influences could see where I was going and what may come of it, but they were difficult to listen to. As I am experiencing new moments, I have a difficult time looking at it from the outside and feeling comfortable.<div>
For about a week now, I have been a pedicab for the city of New Orleans. The feelings I have found for this are overwhelming as well as strongly calming at times. Yesterday I was able to take the cash I have made peddling across this town countless times, and hand it to my new roommates. for the first time in what feels like a long time, I have a dependable bed to call mine- mine for now.</div>
<div>
There is beauty in the things I used to find chaos and fear in. Maybe from the outside it was obvious I would one day be here. I still find uncomfortable feelings in my stomach when others predict what may happen in my day to day routine. Some things still make me want to pack up and keep moving, and others make me want to settle down just a little more. </div>
<div>
I have faith I can accept the things I cannot change, and support those in my life without a judging tone. I will continue work on myself everyday. I will find comfort in my aching body. I acknowledge that I have a support system I can depend on as I give back.</div>
<div>
Keep moving forward. Keep giving back.</div>
Vagabondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03039342534221544704noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1132625368377014626.post-18847801725502839492016-10-20T12:57:00.000-07:002016-10-20T12:57:05.201-07:00hello you beautiful creaturesPlease accept my formal apology for my significant lack of writing as of late. I could use excuses such as "writers block", "I've been so busy", etc.<div>
<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-yD49f5RJVyY/WAkhX413DAI/AAAAAAAAHIY/_NvsnHGx0Eo_0a5pfk5MDivimThu4dQ1wCLcB/s1600/20160927_133854_HDR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-yD49f5RJVyY/WAkhX413DAI/AAAAAAAAHIY/_NvsnHGx0Eo_0a5pfk5MDivimThu4dQ1wCLcB/s320/20160927_133854_HDR.jpg" width="180" /></a></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
On Sept 27th 2016 at two p.m. central standard time, I reached the "end of the road". The sight of the Mighty Mississippi was out of reach, hidden behind a "no trespassing sign" and a water treatment plant. Though the sight wasn't as glorified as the mouth of the river, her soul welcomed me with open arms. </div>
<div>
I danced, I cried, I stuck a button on the sign and took pictures, and cried some more. Queen's "Don't Stop Me Now" was in my ears, and I snacked on the closest thing I had as a desert- a twinkie from who knows how long ago. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-aR_6_woe-p0/WAkhShWG1ZI/AAAAAAAAHIU/Qh_gSFLvQ4YW7mlDrK6Z9eFa61KbPZS4gCLcB/s1600/20160927_133454.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-aR_6_woe-p0/WAkhShWG1ZI/AAAAAAAAHIU/Qh_gSFLvQ4YW7mlDrK6Z9eFa61KbPZS4gCLcB/s320/20160927_133454.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div>
That's the short version, the long version is much more enjoyable and incredible, but nearly impossible to put into text on a blog. I plan on writing more about this incredible journey whenever I can sit myself down.</div>
<div>
I've decided to stay in New Orleans for as long as her gorgeous buildings, kind people, good food, and pot-holled streets will have me. I have picked up a job pedicabbing, and am depending on Miss Zippi to still get me around everywhere possible. It may be some time until I own a car again.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Thank you all for the support you have written, spoken, and thoughts you have sent. I could not have done this without each and every one of you cheering me from near, far, and helping me along the way. </div>
<div>
I love you all so dearly. I am dedicating more time to writing, and aim to post much more frequently than I have been.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
May your days be cooling down but your hearts full of warmth.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ISZFNossubk/WAkhYItHvoI/AAAAAAAAHIc/QukaA94AdGAIKpq9dUtmxyaQp5zjvx1mgCLcB/s1600/20161001_110200.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ISZFNossubk/WAkhYItHvoI/AAAAAAAAHIc/QukaA94AdGAIKpq9dUtmxyaQp5zjvx1mgCLcB/s320/20161001_110200.jpg" width="180" /></a></div>
</div>
</div>
Vagabondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03039342534221544704noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1132625368377014626.post-5996176466169895492016-10-02T06:58:00.001-07:002016-10-02T06:58:15.829-07:00The talk of saints fall off their lips<br />
In a city built on sin<br />
Around every corner is a person to fear<br />
The way you hold your glass makes it clear<br />
You're not here for forgiveness<br />
But strictly for love<br />
And you'll rip through the fabric just to get above<br />
But the chains around your ankles hold a different fate<br />
You're an artist with your fragile soul on display<br />
But you walk with your shoulders held back, square and taught<br />
Putting up a front that you won't be bought<br />
Hold onto your ideals and remember your name<br />
In a city filled with "do not enter" or "one way"<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Vagabondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03039342534221544704noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1132625368377014626.post-75079525292872838142016-09-19T07:39:00.002-07:002016-09-19T07:39:13.156-07:00Brain matter.What are you worth to yourself?<br />
I can't fully understand how others view me, or what they see when I enter their vision. I don't always see myself as the strong fighter I need to be, or understand why I can't be a soft pillow, awaiting someone's heavy head at the end of a long day.<br />
After cycling through a small chunk of the south, I've found it difficult to be as hopeful as I was at the beginning of this trip. I'm so close to done, but still have so far to go. Each person that asks me what I'll do when I'm done, what my mother thinks, or why don't have a man only sends me deeper into a shell. I see them glare at my tattoos, and I smile as another brick is added to my defense wall. Somebody tells me how a husband, school, or kids would make my life more meaningful, and the fight to tell them off while still spreading peace and love continues.<br />
I know what I need, and it's not these words that give no encouragement. If I simply ignore these people, what am I showing? What am I proving, or is that the point? There's nothing to prove, there's no one to help. It's only me, and myself alone that can make myself happy.<br />
I don't believe that, because I know it isn't true. Every mile I have had support, Every comment and text and encouraging phonecall proves I'm not alone. There are many kinds of people in the world, and not all of them will be as loving as Maranda, or as kind as Cassie, or as supportive as my mother.<br />
Some places are just not what they're cracked up to be. This is not my kind of place, but there are some people that want to help and support me wherever I go. I've made so many friends, and may not see some of them ever again. I may not be back through here, but I'm here now. I can push through the mental block I have found myself in, I can take these next few hundred miles and find my happiness in the difficult mental, physical, or emotional hills. I've got this, and I can keep writing encouraging words when all I want to do is scream and cry and disappear.<br />
Nothing great is ever easy. You don't owe them anything. You can keep moving forward. You are strong. Thank you for your hard work. I love you, and I want you to be happy.Vagabondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03039342534221544704noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1132625368377014626.post-69082876440888024152016-09-14T11:27:00.001-07:002016-09-14T15:57:27.958-07:00Writing when I should be ridingThe human mind can be a gracious gift. Sitting on a bus for hours on end, it's easy to find the imagination spinning to completely different locations, placing recognizable faces around every corner. When I feel too stuck in the reality of right now, it can be effortless to open a mental door and walk into a comfortable or uncomplicated daydream.<br />
But with this gift, reality can become bothersome. I feel that one can slip into striving for moments of intense emotion when we aren't capable of having it at that moment. On the contrary, being on a bike in extreme heat for hours until I am in a safe location to stop, I find it more difficult to remove myself from reality. I can almost count the corn stalks and see the cracks in the dry earth as I plead for my legs to move a bit faster, yearning for the calm sway of my hammock.<br />
Before travel, had fallen into a cycle of only striving for the beauty and the precisely over-emotional moments in life. Moments that should have brought me happiness or pleasure left me in a mental state of craving more. Conversation felt like arduous small talk, little moments of sharing a smile made me search for longer interactions, only to be disappointed by the reality of extended human connection.<br />
<br />
I've been immersed in a constant state of ever-changing scenery and acquaintances due to travel. I was in Illinois on a road mostly tractors and local traffic used, and I couldn't even pronounce the next towns name. As I fumbled with my trail book, I searched for any sign of my next turn. I had read that there was no sign, but couldn't recall what the text said about landmark to guide me.<br />
I had pulled off by some mailboxes, flipping through the book, shuffling through ripped out pages and not being able to find the context. A man on a seemingly tiny motorbike made his way around a patch of grass behind me. I turned to wait for a break in engine noise so I could inquire about the campgrounds. It was obvious to me he was working on the bike with how he was eyeing and listening to it.<br />
His black button up, short sleeve shirt had a reoccurring print of full beer glasses, and his greying hair was still in the lack of a breeze as we chatted. A butterfly circled him and landed on his skin, yearning for the salt in his sweat. He had a joyously loud voice that made every thought easy to read as he talked. I found it easy to trust this stranger, who knew as much as myself with the location of the closest campsite.<br />
John introduced me to his wife, Becky, who offered me more zucchini and cucumber that humanly possible to eat in one sitting. Her blonde hair was pulled back, bright eyes, and patience for her ever-joking, sometimes forgetfully excited counterpart. After a few bites of cucumber, I realized making the next campsite was far less exciting than listening to their interactions and watching the chickens and ducks they owned chase each other. They kindly agreed to let me stay, if I was okay with running errands with them.<br />
Oquawka, Illinois, is a small town not unlike many that I roll through. It happened to be John's birthday, and his day consisted of more fun than work. He was on vacation from his train conducting job, and his errands drove us east to the bigger city of Galesburg. Before our errands, they took me to the gravesite of Norma Jean, an elephant that had been struck by lightning as the circus was rolling through town back in the 20's. We stopped at the gun range, the beer brewing store, the local grocer for berries to brew, and Lowes. Though I was exhausted from the ride, I had a fun time as the passenger, watching the grey clouds threaten moister from safely inside a vehicle that moved ten times my bike pace. We had dinner at a pub that offered delicious burgers, as well as a great salad bar. I slept on their couch, across the mantle of their fireplace that held several different kinds of lava lamps. Saying goodbye in the morning, I rolled away with a few extra pounds of produce, their kind faces fading from view.<br />
A few days down the road, I was passing fields of corn and soy when a cyclist passed me. After an hour or so on his return trip, he slowed and talked with me. After a few miles of conversation, he mentioned he worked for the railroad, and just so happened to know John. Greg has been training for cycling races, and was counting calories. He kindly took me to a buffet, where I enjoyed a few plates, apologising that he was only able to watch me. The conversation flowed, his interest in art and good movies similar to my own. We watched True Romance, and gushed (the gushing might have been one sided) about Richard Linklater's Before trilogy.<br />
The details, when written down, don't feel as thick and amazing as when they were happening. I can easily compare it to wanting a rich meal when I can only afford dollar store tortillas. It's still satiating, but not as satisfying. The words I use may paint a picture in your mind, though I'm certain there is a lack in my communication.<br />
<br />
Thank you for keeping up though I've been in a persistent writers block. Onward and upward, my dear.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Vagabondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03039342534221544704noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1132625368377014626.post-7704709783685985782016-09-11T20:29:00.001-07:002016-09-11T20:29:22.464-07:00I am all that holds myself together<br />
I am the glue and the breaks others cannot see<br />
I can contain the feelings inside me<br />
Though they were not put there thoughtlessly.Vagabondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03039342534221544704noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1132625368377014626.post-89508656004061728382016-09-05T17:18:00.001-07:002016-09-05T17:18:53.864-07:00When the time comes for you to take your last breath<br />
I hope you go with a smile on your face<br />
May your regrets be overshadowed<br />
By the moments that made you breathe in deep.<br />
I hope that as the sun arose and filled you with hope<br />
The movements you made propelled you forward<br />
And your mind aligned with the soul you possess.<br />
As you move onward, accept the changes<br />
Like the Autumn welcomes the colors of leaves<br />
And maybe when you feel the cold chill of winter<br />
Your memories of summer will fill you with warmth.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Vagabondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03039342534221544704noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1132625368377014626.post-36392167348409939142016-08-27T09:21:00.002-07:002016-08-27T09:21:51.598-07:00So you got caught with a flat<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qD8SsjAPa4w/V8G95ohTvcI/AAAAAAAAGJs/CQydvZPP3kc0nCXbbQSoA2rjBfPG4NwnwCLcB/s1600/20160827_082127.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qD8SsjAPa4w/V8G95ohTvcI/AAAAAAAAGJs/CQydvZPP3kc0nCXbbQSoA2rjBfPG4NwnwCLcB/s320/20160827_082127.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
Well, how 'bout that?<br />
<br />
Flop, flop, flop<br />
<br />
That would be the sound of a flat tire. I was just entering the town of Lake Providence, Louisiana, thinking "I could keep going". My break line my tire found had other plans.<br />
I looked around to see if I was near anything besides corn and cotton, to see the Cotton Museum about twenty yards away.<br />
One of their picnic tables was conveniently shaded from the brutal August sun. I had pulled my tire off, and was pressing the patch on when a voice called over to me. "We've got a tour goin' honey, if you want to join at the end of the line." I looked down at my blackened hands, noting I need to clean my chain soon.<br />
The Cotton Museum has old buildings taken off of local plantations, including a church, Gin, and shacks used as homes and stores. I was looking at an old iron when someone besides me said "you're probably too young to remember one of these." There were about 25 retired couples all wearing red vests and matching Louisiana state shaped bola ties with their names on them. As the tour progressed and more people asked what I was doing, they asked if I could stay after to share my journey with them.<br />
While looking at the repainted cotton gin, one lady came up and requested that I join them for lunch. "My name is Janece" she said, and I sputtered back my surprise as I spelt my name to her, not hiding my excitement about meeting someone else with my name.<br />
Lunch was at a restaurant called The Dock, where we ate local seafood and they took turns asking me the usual questions I get from kind strangers. Most of the group headed 25 miles west to their campground. Janece and Louie, her husband, drove me back to the museum with another couple from their group. After some help getting my tire back on, we exchanged numbers and hugs, and my heart was blessed a few times.<br />
I went in the office to ask about camping, and spent a few hours out of the hot sun talking with Barbara and Katherine about the town. Barbara is about four foot ten and full of laughter. "When you get this age, you don't care all too much about being sophisticated no more."<br />
She called all around town asking if anyone might have two trees I could use, since this 80 mile stretch of trail has all but nothing. "This town ain't all that safe" Katherine told me as Barbara called the preacher, priest, and sheriff's detective "and lots of us is old people who are well set in our ways". Katherine's laugh could fill a room, and I left with stomach pains from how contagious it was. Barbara got an old of a woman named Geneva, who let me stay in her RV campground in Transylvania, 6 miles south.<br />
<br />
In the morning I stopped at the gas station, and filled my tire back up to 85 psi, which I've been at for the past 2 months. I refilled my water where Olivia, the owner of the quaint little Farm House Store, traded me a sausage patty for some stories. I was aiming to get on the road as early as possible to beat the heat, but couldn't get away from the surprised people that wanted to get my number and hear more from me.<br />
I was out at my bike and pulling away when the familiar flopping noise came again from my tire. As the music from Rocky Horror Picture Show looped in my head, I pulled off the inner tube to find an inch long split. I pulled out my already-patched-twice spare and worked it on, only to find it wouldn't hold air.<br />
The hole ended up being right next to the valve stem, a pretty impossible spot to fix. As I talked with the firestone employees, Percy took it upon himself to be the hero for the day.<br />
"I will fix this tire" he repeated, after the 4th patch didn't work. He ended up pulling a tube off his bike, when Olivia's husband offered to drive out of town to pick up a new tube for me.<br />
In writing this, I'm still in Transylvania, awaiting the tube from the kind stranger that wants to help a traveler. I hope to make it to Vicksburg tonight, where I'll have to take tomorrow off. I have a package at the post office, and I'll be aiming to get it early Monday, in hopes for an early start.<br />
<br />
Things don't always go exactly as planned, but it always works itself out in the end. Let's see where today takes us.Vagabondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03039342534221544704noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1132625368377014626.post-59055313476322833672016-08-25T13:50:00.001-07:002016-11-01T06:58:39.316-07:00SonderWe don't always get to see every detail. The world isn't full of vague background characters, and continuous shots of breathtaking views.<br />
We are all flawed human beings, and that's what I love most about us. Maybe we won't experience the movie dramatized version of perfection, or the complete happiness we felt as children. We as people work so hard to achieve so little, and for a long time, I hated that. I fought with the fact that love isn't always the storybook you read countless times. Love comes in so many different forms, and can't be shared like a picture. Trying to explain how I feel about one person won't be understood fully, because they have such a different view.<br />
Families aren't perfect, and I am aware I'm not the only one to tell you that. Siblings grow up, parents divorce, and so many tiny things can happen to pull people and change them.<br />
My parents divorced when I was 12. My brother was 10 and my sister 14, if my memory serves correctly. Each of us felt confusion and grief, but it wasn't the same form shared between us. Each of us took it differently; we grew and changed in our own ways.<br />
We could sit and decipher who handled it how and why, but that's not the point I'm aiming to make. We were all sitting in that same living room, and we all cried. We grew up in the same house, with the same parent's, and we shared so much. We grew, and we dispersed, and we ran.Those few minutes the living room were just a small fraction of my life, but it is one of the moments that make me who I am today.<br />
As I meet more people along this journey, I realize how many little moments make up each and every person. We are so complex, and we use such simple explanations for ourselves.<br />
I want to forever feel this excitement when I hear about each person's moments. Some days I'm so tired, and I fall asleep before I hear the story. Some days, the people I meet don't want to share.<br />
We have so much to offer and learn from one another, and it both terrifies and excites me. I hope I can always love these strangers, and accept the parts of us that make us who we are.Vagabondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03039342534221544704noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1132625368377014626.post-8583235293643803072016-08-18T08:57:00.002-07:002016-08-18T08:57:35.064-07:00Losing and gainingI can't tell you exactly where or when I misplaced my extra micro usb cable, sunglasses, or unused write in the rain journal. However, I can tell you how I did misplace two of the most used items I own.<br />
<br />
I woke up on the pews of the baptist church in Tiptonville, TN. The rain had been coming down in a steady stream for the last few days. This southern storm doesn't look like it's dissipating anytime soon, and I'll only be riding deeper into it. After a prayer from the preachers wife for my safety, I started following the MRT book directions south.<br />
The street signs that tell me where to go for the MRT have aged in Tennessee, and it's easy to miss their faded green arrows. I was in Ridgely when I looked down to see my tire find a groove in the poorly paved concrete- and before I knew it I was on my back cursing at the sky.<br />
"Are you okay?" a feminine voice with a mid-south accent called to me. Besides my pride of not falling off my bike for 1500 miles, only my elbow was scraped and my thigh bruised. I was offered to dry off, but I felt it was a waste of a perfectly clean towel on an extremely wet day. After some quick maintenance on my front tire, I went to the Family Dollar and bought some AAA batteries for my headlamp. In leu of a light on my bike, I turn my headlamp to flash and strap it around my helmet for those speeding past me on grey days.<br />
My ride down 181 was a mix of wet, bumpy, and humid. The rain kept on, and through my drop-speckled glasses I kept an eye on my mirror to wave and thank drivers who gave me as much room as they could.<br />
Looking further south, there wasn't another town for over 40 miles. I had only gone 26 miles, but my shoes were full, my water-resistant pants and jacket had thrown in the towel, and my conscience was screaming at my pride to give up and ask for help already. I passed the I155 ramp, which I knew I wasn't legally allowed on (or insane enough to attempt on even the driest of days). I thought about waiting for a truck to stop and help me across to Missouri, where there were more towns heading south. A mile down the road, I gave in, and made my way back to the ramp.<br />
I didn't count the amount of people that drove past my thumb and hopeful smile during those 20 minutes, but I was determined to win the help of strangers no matter how long it took. I was already soaked, what's another 5 minutes of rain going to do?<br />
The pair that stopped for me were fumigators for the crop fields in Arkansas, Tennessee, and Missouri. I asked for help across the 155 bridge to the next small town, so I could sit, rest, and decide the fate of my day. Watching them shove my bike in the back of their truck was stressful, so I took a breath and climbed in the cab.<br />
"We're dropping you in Osceola" Larry's thick accent slurred at me while he changed lanes around the long-haul truck drivers. I usually put up a fight about pedaling every mile I can, but with the persistent storm, I took a deep breath and accepted the 60 mile ride.<br />
"How many days are we saving you on time?" Devon asked with a smile. He was younger than Larry by at least 30 years, and had spent some time up in Seattle. "At least two." I responded, asking for a pen to mark my directions. "Maybe I can come back and make up those miles" I told Devon, who shook his head and told me to buy a motorcycle. I asked for them to excuse me as I peeled off my wet socks, ankle brace, and thoroughly soaked rain pants. My bike shorts were far from dry, but I had no choice but to keep them on until I was stopped for the night.<br />
After about an hour of small talk, they pulled off the road and unpacked my rig from the truck. "Did you make sure you didn't forget anything?" Devon kindly asked. I had the blatant opportunity to check, but I smiled and told him I was sure.<br />
As I tossed my shoes in the trailer, I searched for my ankle wrap. I closed my eyes hard as I remembered taking it off in the truck. I looked up to see no one around me, and no way to get ahold of the kind men that helped me jump further south. I shook my head as I added one more thing to my mental list of lost items.<br />
As I was securing my helmet, I gasped and felt for the little beacon of light that I use to stay safe. My headlamp, which I use nightly, was safe and warm in the back seat of Larry's work truck. I felt my shoulders sink, but had no choice. I got back on my bike, and started pedaling forward towards the signs for 61 south.Vagabondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03039342534221544704noreply@blogger.com0