There are two sides to everyone
I’m not sure how I’ve let 10 days go by without writing but somehow it happened. I guess I’ve been busy. I have back to back trips this week, I was camping over the weekend and now I have just a little bit of downtime before going to California.
To try and make up for my lack of content here are some pictures from the camping trip this weekend.
It’s day three. I still have not had coffee. My husband, my loving, sweet, honorable husband has had beer.
“We’re in Germany!” So he had beer.
I poked at my half eaten fish and stared daggers through him. I told myself I wouldn’t sleep until I came up with the perfect revenge; until I could wipe that smug look away. He thought he found the perfect out.
He drank while watching the football game.
“It’s tradition! We’re supposed to!”
That was day two of our stupid pact.
Oh, but today is day three. Today is MY day.
And there is nothing my sweet, loving husband hates more than history.
Lucky me, Frankfurt Cathedral offers a three hour tour, chock full of history and led by the most boring priest.
“We have to go! The history! But I think I’ll have some coffee to stay awake.”
There’s something to be said for being an empath in an abandoned city.
It seems everywhere I step is full of energy, an oddity considering no one’s lived here for decades. The air still hangs thick, even on the cool days, it’s electrified. A man once asked me exactly what I saw in this old city.
You see, it’s not the fear. It’s not the energy expelled in those last few precious moments that binds me here. I think there’s something else, something more that leaked beneath the surface that day.
It’s the memories. It’s everything that ever was and everything that never could be. It’s every smell and slight wind blown treasure which was lost that day.
The energy from those moments, those dreams, those regrets ooze from the blades of grass and dying leaves. They hang in the air, waiting to stir.
That’s the energy binding me here.
Word Count: 150
I did not take this picture from google earth per the rules. It’s from this article.
I may be a little odd. I would kill to visit this location (not literally kill, despite what I write I wouldn’t do that). The pictures coming out of Pripyat have been amazing, the aura that leaks through them is palpable. I’d be terrified the entire time I was there but I would go in a heartbeat.
I often wonder if I absorbed the disintegrated, evaporated particles of our fears could I float, perhaps beyond the stratosphere. Could I reflect and refract, changing reality of our existence in hues of burning oranges and somber blues. Would I brave the danger, the innate sense of impending nature, when the weight of the worlds sorrows becomes far too many and fade away under rolling thunder.
I spent around 10 hours on planes today and I’m slightly obsessed with clouds and looking out the window when flying …
Lisbon, Portugal (where I’ve been hiding for the past few days)
In a time when my life consisted of absolutes: my absolute bare bedroom walls, my absolute classrooms at school, my absolute round and round fights with my father, TV offered an escape.
My sister and I would perch on the edge of the bed we shared, and later the bed in her room, and eagerly absorb anything we could find. Sure, there was our fair share of late 90’s/early 2000’s pop culture: MTV, Daria, other modern sarcasm wrapped in pretty cartoon bows, but there were plenty of genuine moments also.
We watched Ab Fab religiously. We dedicated nights to TV Land which ran shows like Green Acres, Sonny and Cher, Addams Family, Rocky and Bullwinkle …
We turned to Food Network to hone the cooking skill we’d been forced to pick up at young ages. Then we found the Travel Channel with its exotic locales we only dreamed of seeing.
I clung to the images flashed across the screen like a child outside a candy shop, salivating at the thought of trading concrete walls for the blue sky’s of the Mediterranean or the sweltering plains of Africa or the bright colors of any brilliant sunset painted on any sky other than mine.
Somewhere between Food network and the Travel Channel, in the early 2000’s, we picked up Anthony Bourdain. He was foul mouthed, unapologetic and beautifully flawed. He skipped the tourist top 10 and dove to the hearts of places my soul longed to find. He revered the lowest and dirtiest spots, places our parents would drag us away from while promptly dousing us head to toe in Lysol.
From the cell I considered my life to be, Anthony Bourdain showed me a world at large. Beyond glistening beaches and material existence there existed a depth I knew others had to feel but forced isolation kept me from realizing a connection to those who did.
In those days I realized that connection lay off that beaten path where Anthony so often tread. His no holds bar, “who gives a shit” attitude and subtle anger gave life to the things I was so often penalized for feeling.
His quick humor, fiery curiosity and ability to weave a story mesmerized me. It gave me reason to believe that someone who was only good at fucking up could be ok at something after all.
If Anthony Bourdain could do it then so could I.
In a time when every thought I had espoused escaping the crushing grip of my parents I recognized in him a fellow escapee. I didn’t know what he was escaping from but I could see through the old flickering tube in our TV that his was a soul on the run.
What he was running from would never matter so much as the fact that he was running. He was constantly jumping from one rock to another, keeping every facet of his being busy so he could never look back. I would never be sure if other people saw it the way I did.
In him I saw myself.
As someone teetering the edge between teen and actual adult I needed someone to connect to. I needed something to aspire towards.
Anthony Bourdain was the adventurer the child in me pretended to be in the backyard. He was the storyteller I wanted to become when I sat under the trees for hours left to nothing but my own imagination. He connected people in a way that is hard to come by now. He was brutally honest, open and always learning. Every wound the man had oozed for everyone to see and he allowed us all to learn from his mistakes as he mused through monologues on his programs.
The rubble of a thousand years lay at our feet …
A quartet of another sort (they don’t have much in common).
Pictures 1, 2 and 4 were taken in the old town part of Kotor, Montenegro, picture 3 is Venice, Italy.
Pictures to catch me up on “picture a day”. I should start calling it picture dump to catch me up. We all know I love music. I’ve been feeling down and having a hard time lately so this weekend I hopped around to a couple of cities to visit my favorite soul surgeons.
Leah Shapiro , drummer for Black Rebel Motorcycle Club
Robert Levon Been, bass (and all the instruments also) of Black Rebel Motorcycle Club
Peter Hayes, guitar (and all kinds of other instruments) of Black Rebel Motorcycle Club
These guys were the opening band, The Night Beats. Lovely way to open the shows. In Houston the bassist’s mom came up and got on the rail with us. She couldn’t stop gushing about how adorable her son was on stage. That’s support man
I went to two cities, Houston and New Orleans. Other than my pictures of the show in Houston I didn’t really take many others. I just didn’t find as much that captivated me.
New Orleans … that’s going to be it’s own post because it’s one of my favorite US cities (with the exception of the band pictures, BRMC pics above are the New Orleans show).