True story!

I had to change the homepages of my browsers to something less controversial. All winter long, I'd began each day with electric jolts of agony as the news sites that I had them set to bleated the bleakest news about the state of the world I lived in.

Millions of jobs lost across all sectors of the economy!!!

Trillions and trillions and trillions and trillions of dollars lost - evaporated! - or stolen - or devalued

freefalling!

with no end in sight

at least for several years!


I don't want to get into the specifics but the term hemmorhaging money paints the picture and psychically I felt like I was dying. Especially when I had these news items burned onto my retinas first thing in the morning before I even had time to eat a banana. A case of writers block developed as I focused all my writing energy into pitching myself to jobs that I never heard back from. I became a creative letter writer, and for the most part nothing worked from every angle.

Almost 40 days ago now things began to change with the season. Today is Good Friday, and I just realized the whole timing factor. It was at the end of Ash Wednesday that I quit smoking tobacco and boarded a plane bound for San Juan with my roommate after staying up all night. One of my best friends was getting married, and Ranee and I were meeting up with about six of our girlfriends down in the Caribbean to help properly usher in this fantastic new development in her life.

I packed a blunt as we packed our bags, intending to get the two of us healthily mind froze as we took a 3AM train to the airport but she rightly thought it would be a terribly dumb idea before checking into the airport, so I had to smoke the whole thing myself. I put my hood and sunglasses on and tried to be inconspicuous and when we made it through to our gate I passed out with my headphones on. The guy checking tickets called me out from my bleary looking eyes and told me to check out the dinosaurs in the airport. Leaving Chicago I was just completely numb, pale and zombied.

What can I say- it had been a long terrible winter.

After my time in Puerto Rico, standing up for one of my closest friends as a tribute to beautiful people to undying love, my outlook on life changed. I spent my first day there getting thrashed by the ocean. That island has some sick waves! Just standing up was hard - the water was so powerful and I was so small against it. Every time I stood up I got knocked on my ass. Two minutes after wading knee deep into the water I found myself face smashed against the sand, my sunglasses gone forever. Every time I get into the ocean she always takes something from me. Once it was my shorts, another time it was my shoes, two t-shirts a different time, my bracelets... I'm not counting though, because the ocean always gives me so much more back.

As I found myself getting thrashed by the sea in Condado, San Juan I was moved to tears with joy. What a strange situation for my life to have gotten into - there in the water I felt a familiar feeling of having been compelled to the shores of a beach, getting bathed in the salt water of the ocean sea. Water I could effortlessly float in with the sun melting onto my skin.

As a transplanted tropical person, being 100% islander biologically and born and raised in the most inland city you could get in N. American, it rouses the deepest primal instincts to be on the beach and in the water. My hair suddenly gets curly from being bone straight, my skin gets soft and loses the dry unbalanced texture it gets in the winter and springs to life like a fish changing colors in the humid air. I feel like my most natural self, and that the ocean likes for me to be playing in her and occasionally summons be through strange trips. It was not the first time I found myself deliriously frolicking in the water for hours, wondering how I even got there.


I had read a Kurt Vonnegut quote a few weeks before I got there: "Strange travel suggestions are like dancing lessons from God." I giggled over this as I floated on my back and felt the anxiety that had stopped my mental gears from turning float away like rust getting rinsed by a powerful solvent as the waves sent me tumbling and I had to keep getting back up.

We were staying at a resort that was also being visited by some famous NFL football players who were all set up in a huge posse at the side of the beach. They gawked at me diving headfirst into waves and letting them carry me super fast up the shore, as they tentatively toed the sand ankle deep, I observed from far away. They never got further in than that because the force of the water was banging.



The night before I left the island, I found myself strolling a street called the Paseo De La Princesas with my beautiful new friend Lana, as she explained the law of attraction to me. We laughed about how I had visioned some bogus things that wound up coming true prior to the trip, and I was convinced I should start thinking about the kinds of ways I use my mental energy. I was even more convinced when several people that were unconnected to each other also mentioned the same arcane principles in the course of the next few days - including a cop from Jersey who sat next to me on the airplane home. Spooky!


We walked along a wall that was built to protect the city of San Juan from the pirates and freebooters from marauding the town, because they were a major problem for the city. They must have raided it pretty hard, because that wall was solid and fitted with some serious looking cannons. You can tell how strong the offense must have been by the size of the defense. As a local pervert frustratedly escorted Lana and I through the city gates as an increasingly sullen tour guide as it became clear that we weren't going to take up his offer of letting us stay at his house, I breezed through the streets and felt the weight of the remnants of those times and wondered why I have always been drawn to the territory of these pirates - like the time I found myself swimming in the precariously jagged caves of the Baths in Virgin Gorda, where their single masted sloops hid as they scouted for booty. One day will it all make sense? I pictured Old San Juan lit by torchlights, shot at by cannons on square rigger ships, the gates finally bashed in by those relentless motherfuckers.

Isla de Encanta, indeed.

Bahai Bike Pilgrimage

I woke up feeling like a tighly coiled rope, my muscles stiff and uncomfortable beneath my skin. It had been a night of restless energy and angst filled sleep. I dreamed of gravity and pressure, of forces pressing in on me like the weight of being under a hundred meters of ocean water. I walked over to my neighborhood coffee shop to start my day as I usually do but with a long stone cold stricken expression, the kind of look that makes people avert their eyes when they see you. My phone rang. It was my bicycle friend.

"How do you feel about riding up to the Bahai Temple? I'm thinking about going up there today. Need some spiritual healing."

"I'm down," I answered immediately, didn't have to think twice. "I think that's just what I need on a day like today. We'll be bike pilgrims." I had been there before, rode the 16 miles during a late night trip with a group of midnight riders about 2 years ago this month. When I walked through its winding gardens under a glowing full moon, I knew I had to one day return to see the grounds on a sunny day. How strange to be compelled back during this moment, and how absolutely necessary too.

After taking care of some business I set myself to cleaning off the drive train on my bike, tuning it and filling it's tires with air. I packed my backpack with my lock, water jug, a dress and a towel, then stepped into my flip flops once again and rolled over to meet my friend.

The ride up to Wilmette began during the hottest part of the day, but once we started heading north on Halsted the cool breeze of the lake kept the sun from being too exhausting. Riding in the busy streets of a highly trafficked city requires absolute, intense concentration so it seemed like most of the time was passed focusing on just surviving in the bike lane. As the miles slipped by in quick succession, I began to feel the exhilaration of my bicycle's movement. It was like I was shedding the hard exoskeleton of despondency. Compressed into the low crouch of the pursuit position, I focused on the rhythm of my breathing. Before long we reached stretches of smooth road, and a song burst forth from my lungs. It was Sam Cooke's "It's Been a Long Time Coming".

At the end of Lake Shore Drive we got kind of lost in a winding path. Our route was influenced by avoiding certain high traffic intersections, detours past streets under construction. When I found myself cycling on a narrow sidewalk lined on both sides with construction fencing, with several large patches strewn together with plywood I started to worry that we were on the wrong path. I felt myself becoming more agitated, especially when I found myself pedaling on top of random piles of sand and puddles on what was becoming increasingly bombed out streets.

"Don't worry, look up!" said my friend, and just when I was about to start looking for a way off of that path, I saw the top of the dome of the temple.


My skin was covered in sweat and felt something like the outside of an airplane after a transcontinental journey. I soaked my towel in water and wiped the salt off of my face and cooled off until my heart stopped racing, before putting on a dress so I wouldn't be striding into this holy building looking like I had just stepped out of the gym.

This is the threshold of this temple. It holds to many of the forms of ancient temple building, including making the journey towards the inside of the sacred space through several spatial stages with its winding gardens.

Here is the view from the top of the stairs:

* * *

Inside, I breathed in the beauty of the architecture and watched the light filter through the windows. I read some of the mystic writings of the founder of the Bahai faith, who was said to have been a divine messenger. This religion is founded upon the principle of the oneness of humankind, espouses equality between men and women, harmony between science and religion, the abolition of the extremes of wealth and poverty, and a focus on universal acceptance.

Here is the most famous of the Bahai faith's sacred texts:
The Seven Valley and the Four Valleys

* * *

One of the things I prayed about was the guidance to find the right path, which makes the entire return trip kind of ironic in retrospect. After a long contemplative walk around the gardens, I was ready to leave. I was not thrilled about going down the same dangerous path that took me to the temple, and felt compelled to stay close to the lakefront. First we crossed this river, and Jimmy Cliff's "Many Rivers To Cross" went through my head.


My traveling companion did not exactly share this decision, and wanted to bike through the city in the interest of getting home quickly. We parted ways unintentionally within the first few miles when we got separated, so the rest of the way home I rode alone. It was just as well, as I was becoming fatigued and the rest of the trip was a focused sprint that took the rest of the energy I had. By now my lungs felt wrung ragged, and about to burst which replaced the dreadful hollow feeling that had been in my chest all week plaguing me. As my muscles burned mile after mile, my chest felt strangely enough as though there was an owl getting ready to explode out of it and take flight. I day dreamed about how nice it would feel to shower and put on some comfortable pants as I kept moving forward. Here is the view of the city from the beginning of the bike path and the last place I saw my bike friend:


It was beautiful, but the view just spoke of how far I had to go. I put my head down and pedalled.

My mind went on auto pilot and I quickly regretted not having any energy bars on hand. I did this whole 35 mile trip fueled with one banana and a quarter of a mango. I have been fasting since the weekend, and this made the journey that much more surreal. The only sounds I registered were the industrial vibrations of machines and the sounds of birds. Voices, traffic and all other sounds were drowned out as I kept my pace. I was becoming more and more lightheaded and focused all of my mental energy on keeping an eye on my path and staying safe.

I rolled in and felt completely wiped out. As though I had rode all those miles on top all of the muscles in the front and back of my torso. I earned my sleep tonight and look forward to having better dreams.

Sige na

Saw my dad off to the airport. It was the post-modern equivalent of riding the horse to the city gates in farewell, only our horse was an funky taxi with an ornery Bangladeshi driver. I jumped in at the last minute when the cab pulled into the driveway, decided to catch a train home at the airport. I had a question to ask, and I kept him company up to the security gate. My dad and the driver had a tense standoff in the car when the driver answered one of his questions with a snappy attitude, which resulted in a confusing exchange of money when he tried to return my dad's tip but got the total wrong anyways.

Another lonely trek home from O'Hare.

Traveling Shoes Are Worn Through

Climbing Off the Roof of the World

We headed south from Denver to the mountains near the border of New Mexico, where Justin's parent's let us borrow their cabin for the weekend. It is situated in a valley that faces southward towards two big mountains - San Isabel and Ferdinand, which is a peak that rises 14,ooo miles above sea level. Above the valley the stars stretched in an infinite canopy at night.

It is bear country down there - evidence of black and brown bear activity was all over the cabin in the form of scratches, and Justin recalled seeing one during one of his first trips up there. It was scavenging food out of their cooler and reared up taller than 10 feet on his hind legs before galloping away on all fours when they started making noise. A she bear is said to inhabit the valley on a regular basis.

Over the course of the weekend we were making so much noise and smoke so that all the wild creatures of the mountains knew to stay away. With all the dinner bell gonging, Lil Wayne blasting out the speakers and the firewood in the stove for heating the hot tub we created a commotion all weekend. The mountain view was so immense and there was no one else in sight.

Things got buckwild as soon as we woke up in the morning. Somehow Jeremy got ahold of a machete and used it to cut up the watermelon, soaked in vodka overnight. I put on a headband and stuck long red feathers from the wildflower garden into it. Justin rocked a fake fur vest, and Jen decided that it would be an all bikini weekend as soon as the heat of the day started beating the valley.

On the summer solstice, storms were brewing in that mountain range. We ascended another 3,000 feet to a lake by truck, a wild ride that seemed to follow the route of the storm cloud. All around us it was sunny and clear blue, but right above us the thunderstorm raged. Half blinded by all the rain washing down the windshield with the broken wiper, we saw a lightning bolt spear the earth, a hot pink straight shock 100 yards ahead of the car and the sky boomed almost immediately.

When we finally got to the lake it was surrounded by clear streams of melting snow and mountain pines. I had never smelled anything as soft and sweet as those trees - the altitude, that fragrance, and the mimosas Ann brought made me dizzy with all the natural beauty. We dared each other to jump in and splashed around in the icy water hollering and creating a ruckus until it was time to roll out.

On the way back,, we met up with Suzanne and Curt, who promptly announce their engagement over a few pitchers of beer. It was officially a celebration, and that night we splashed in the hot tub under a clear night with endless stars that just got clearer and clearer, watching the lightning storm electrify the over the big mountains in the distance. The sun bowed out as late as it ever could, with the psychedelic shadows of sunset stretching long with magical light. The sound of gut busting laughter and music stretched throughout the valley and their vibrations seemed to echo back to us with howling reverberations.

The next day, I stayed with Jen and Justin as the rest of the camping crew took off back to Denver. Ann had said that if she couldn't find a ride back, she wouldn't mind hitching one. No one was particularly adverse to jumping on a freight train if necessary. Those guys were crazy badasses. We soaked in the sun and basked in the beauty of the amazing vista until the next day, a quiet stillness both humbled an awesome. Jen had taken me to one of the few places in the world where I have ever seen the sky as dynamic as this mountain one was. I would have been pining in loneliness had the crew that she had assembled not been so individually inspiring and fun. I could not have shared that time with a better group of people.

I've got to Raammbble!!

Yesterday I ambled past the Frenchmen snoring underfoot in my living room with nothing but a knapsack on my back and headed towards Midway by train after stopping at my friend's house for some quick bong hits. I got on the plane and thought of the drifters who have headed west before, people who have gone to the same place but by jumping trains. Decided that this trip would be a tribute to my literary heroes and the adventurers whose books I read as a kid that stoked the latent fires of wanderlust in my imagination.

When I think of Denver I think of Jack Kerouac... that was his first stop after Chicago in On the Road. He was in turn profoundly influenced by Jack London. Wanderers and hobo travelers heading west while getting more introspective with each mile gained, rambling on and on and on both in print and on foot.

"I've got to Raammmble!!" Led Zeppelin was playing in the bar Jen took me to after she scooped me from the pointed tented airport. We played air guitar solos and ordered shots of whiskey. They were kind enough to hook me up with a bmx bike to cruise around Denver in while I am here. We stopped at Jen's boyfriend Justin's bike shop on our way home and he hooked me up with a skateboard as well... traveling light and in style. Then we raged in typical Hurricane Jen style - she is as rambunctious as I have always known her to be, alternately endearing and terrifying all those around her.

We are heading to the skatepark this morning, but first I am going to the camera store so that these words can be illustrated. This evening we are heading south to stay at a cabin in the mountains.

I can't stoooopppppp!!!!!!

Last Saturday our house turned into a vortex of travelers on the move... fifteen minutes into our evening house party/ bbq/ soiree, I sat for a quick shot of rum with a few gentlemen in my backyard. Ben had his backpack packed and his boarding pass in his pocket - in a few moments, I would walk him to the train to the airport, where he would not breathe fresh air until he would disembark 14 hours later in Berlin. Coco's brother, Christophe, and his friend Didier had just put down their bags in my living room, fresh off the plane from Paris the night before. And my friend Mike wandered in, just in from hanging out in a boat off of Cape Cod photographing whales.

I raised my glass to life being a great adventure.

Later on that night many more people would wander in and out of our backyard in various states of inebriation. This time of the year brings many visitors to Chicago. Aside from our new houseguests, my roommate's friends and colleagues drifted in to help celebrate her birthday. Friends of friends of friends of friends, who I had never met before. I saw old loves meeting again for a brief moment in my living room, having been parted by the distance the length of the Mississippi, in the same town for just one night. The city opens up as the weather gets warmer, and the heat of the sun matches the strength of the wind - and the lake is a gleaming showcase of water and light. It would be crazy to come here when the weather is cold and people stay burrowed in, bound tighter that a nut, when the skies are high pressured and gray. I am not used to inviting people into my house, meeting strangers in my own personal space. I am used to being the one doing the visiting and then coming home just for a breather, doing laundry and sleeping for hours and hours in my small dark room.

There were several elements that appeared at the party that reminded me of how close to home here I have come - my brothers arrived to sit and philosophize under the tree, and were thrust with my old skatergirl friend's newborn baby and toddler to hold for a brief moment, my old schoolmate appeared and commiserated with my old neighbor. We were on a street I have lived on for years, in a city that I have come home to every time I have traveled anywhere and I still felt the push of life in motion.

Yesterday I went downtown to an Irish Pub with the Paris crew to watch the soccer match between France and Italy. The four of us rode there on three bikes - Christophe was heroically transported on the rack they had just attached to the back of Corinne's vintage Schwinn road bike. A towel was wrapped around it for comfort and he held on for dear life as she struggled up hills and across bridges to get downtown. Her tireless efforts were shaded somewhat by the easy birdlike gliding flow of my racing bike and the girl's cruiser Didier was stylishly swooping around on.

She yelled at me for blocking the way.

"I can't stop!!!" she screeched in a nerve wracked warble, as they hobbled across the intersection. I moved forward just quickly enough to not get crashed into. After we passed the intersection, balance and composure were regained and we arrived just in time to see the start of the game and for me to finally let out my chuckle.