some of the places I've been
(Stream of consciousness. I know these are sentence fragments. Go watch Schoolhouse Rock instead of playing grammar police on me, dig?)
I am in this Philadelphia, which is not my Philadelphia the way Arizona had been mine. The sky churns bile-y, shaky boat stomach-y clouds, and a queer light covers the cobblestones and sidewalk cracks. I'm two-days sick, trembling fingertips, and a physical weakness that scares me. The fall leaves are starting to turn, and my mind is flinging prayers to places I've been.
Arizona. Sunsets and the sky arching like a blue cat above my head, everything so close and beautiful and fucking alive. Day of the Dead in Tucson, the Border panting a hot, dusty breath on my back. Flapping my arms like raven's wings and whirling in an antique shawl, skeleton faces dancing through the streets. The drums pounding a heart in my wrists and throat. All the people who fold me into their arms and call me family, sister, daughter, lover, playmate. Never have I known people who accepted and loved so easily. Arizona is soul-deep stares and safe brown skin, lizard gods, and hummingbird love-warriors. The East Coast wears its brass knuckles and serves its fight-or-flight on a ghetto half-shell. Arizona is patchwork quilt-land--desert, mountains, grasslands, and valleys--ancient ocean-land with sea creatures pressed into the sediment beneath the cacti. Arizona is corn tamales still wrapped in the warm husks, sold in the grocery store parking lot; cowboy boots and turquoise; backwoods bars that are only accessible by pick-up trucks or the ATVs that blow your hair into your smile; roads where you have to honk to turn a corner or you could face a collision; and ghosts that dance when the monsoon rains thunder and the scent of mesquite and palo verde lilt through the air. Arizona is twenty ways to escape on an open road.
New Orleans. Mardi Gras beads glittering like infant stars on lampposts and power wires, the sweet and beery taste of Red Stripe as I wander through the Quarter. Streets named for Greek goddesses and muses, the most melancholy one being the one I like the best (Melpomene). Cemeteries locked after dark because people and beasts sneak in to steal tombstones and the cherub statues that preside over the graves of young children or lovers. Drinks served in mason jars, wedding processions where everyone is waving a white hankie and a jazz band bubbles "When the Saints Go Marching In." Buying buckets of steamed crab on the banks of the Mississippi and wandering around, cracking the hard shell with my teeth, not caring who witnesses my bad manners. Fats Domino and zydeco, the way gumbo clears your sinuses and makes you think clearer, and how a trolley ride gets you closer to people than you'd ever like to be. New Orleans is a painted vaudeville lady. She powders her skin pale as icicles, but really she's darker than that. Beneath the white greasepaint, New Orleans is African skin and Creole accent, voodoo chants and liquid midnight.
Oranjestad, Aruba. Palm trees and clear white beaches, the ocean a salty, soft kiss when I'm snorkeling and swimming. Caribbean and Dutch accents, Brasilian disco music on tourist boats, tourists everywhere, flounder on the menu that isn't flounder. Pineapple drinks that make me think of orchids and crushed ice, how appreciative I am of good bread, and the little Dutch pancake house I visit every morning, duty-free perfume and cosmetics, and Belgian chocolate sold from a refrigerated shoppe. Aruba is designed for people who like to eat, drink, sleep, and swim--sometimes simultaneously. Aruba is wild pigs and feral cats, stray dogs, and a Louis Vuitton store with a leaky ceiling during a fall storm. The powerful, horse-like haunches of the island women and how no one looks you in the eye, but everyone says in broken English, "Thank you, thank you, please come back."
Alaska. Dogsled races in mall parking lots and the Aurora Borealis dancing neon at night. Fishing with Athabaskians and Inuits, the dipper I lose while ice fishing, and how I want to dive beneath the ice to retrieve it for my father. Mukluks and the "Eskimo Olympics" with blanket tosses and polar bear-skin coats. The whale blubber lollipop I eat with my childhood friend, an Inuit girl with eyes like sleeping seals. The little inns with the pickled eggs on the corner of the bars, weird food like moose venison and fish eyes. The outhouses that looks like little log cabins with flowers planted in dirt at the top. Hunting Caribou and ptarmigan with my father. Walking home in the dark during the winter and watching the sun blaze all night during our summer. Moon-faces and smiles like setting suns.
Baja. Snorkeling with scarlet starfish and purple urchins so close beneath my fins. Kayaking with dolphins. Watching blue whales in one bay and driving two hours to see grey ones in another area. Finding petroglyphs and a natural pharmacy in the desert. All you had to do was pick the candelaria, use the sage, make incense of the copal, and the spirits would make your body well. The palapa that is stiflingly hot in the day and cold in the evenings. I sneak into a church for candles, and later buy punched tin milagros, knowing that I need blessings and angels to watch over me. Frida Kahlo en la casa with brightly painted cottages of pink and blue. Orange clay pottery, Taxco silver, mole sauce on everything, and cerviche at six o'clock each night, served by a small Mexican mother. Cathedrals with windows like weepy eyes and how I weep in the shadow of the ocean after seeing a baby grey whale swim just beneath our tiny boat.
These are only a few of the places I've been or lived. The reason I turn up my nose at people who claim the moniker gypsy is that most have a foolish notion of what that means (not you, Cori, you are a gypsy), some notion of wanderlust that hasn't been physically fulfilled. I've lived all over the world and traveled many places. Although I secretly crave familiar faces and wish I'd grown up in the same little town with the same little faces, my experiences would name me gypsy. We often wish for those things that we aren't. My whole life I wished to be anything but a wandering soul, but now, I am learning to accept it.
I weep now, but it's because I miss so many places and want to travel to so many more. One lifetime is not enough for all I wish.
talullah jewel
I am in this Philadelphia, which is not my Philadelphia the way Arizona had been mine. The sky churns bile-y, shaky boat stomach-y clouds, and a queer light covers the cobblestones and sidewalk cracks. I'm two-days sick, trembling fingertips, and a physical weakness that scares me. The fall leaves are starting to turn, and my mind is flinging prayers to places I've been.
Arizona. Sunsets and the sky arching like a blue cat above my head, everything so close and beautiful and fucking alive. Day of the Dead in Tucson, the Border panting a hot, dusty breath on my back. Flapping my arms like raven's wings and whirling in an antique shawl, skeleton faces dancing through the streets. The drums pounding a heart in my wrists and throat. All the people who fold me into their arms and call me family, sister, daughter, lover, playmate. Never have I known people who accepted and loved so easily. Arizona is soul-deep stares and safe brown skin, lizard gods, and hummingbird love-warriors. The East Coast wears its brass knuckles and serves its fight-or-flight on a ghetto half-shell. Arizona is patchwork quilt-land--desert, mountains, grasslands, and valleys--ancient ocean-land with sea creatures pressed into the sediment beneath the cacti. Arizona is corn tamales still wrapped in the warm husks, sold in the grocery store parking lot; cowboy boots and turquoise; backwoods bars that are only accessible by pick-up trucks or the ATVs that blow your hair into your smile; roads where you have to honk to turn a corner or you could face a collision; and ghosts that dance when the monsoon rains thunder and the scent of mesquite and palo verde lilt through the air. Arizona is twenty ways to escape on an open road.
New Orleans. Mardi Gras beads glittering like infant stars on lampposts and power wires, the sweet and beery taste of Red Stripe as I wander through the Quarter. Streets named for Greek goddesses and muses, the most melancholy one being the one I like the best (Melpomene). Cemeteries locked after dark because people and beasts sneak in to steal tombstones and the cherub statues that preside over the graves of young children or lovers. Drinks served in mason jars, wedding processions where everyone is waving a white hankie and a jazz band bubbles "When the Saints Go Marching In." Buying buckets of steamed crab on the banks of the Mississippi and wandering around, cracking the hard shell with my teeth, not caring who witnesses my bad manners. Fats Domino and zydeco, the way gumbo clears your sinuses and makes you think clearer, and how a trolley ride gets you closer to people than you'd ever like to be. New Orleans is a painted vaudeville lady. She powders her skin pale as icicles, but really she's darker than that. Beneath the white greasepaint, New Orleans is African skin and Creole accent, voodoo chants and liquid midnight.
Oranjestad, Aruba. Palm trees and clear white beaches, the ocean a salty, soft kiss when I'm snorkeling and swimming. Caribbean and Dutch accents, Brasilian disco music on tourist boats, tourists everywhere, flounder on the menu that isn't flounder. Pineapple drinks that make me think of orchids and crushed ice, how appreciative I am of good bread, and the little Dutch pancake house I visit every morning, duty-free perfume and cosmetics, and Belgian chocolate sold from a refrigerated shoppe. Aruba is designed for people who like to eat, drink, sleep, and swim--sometimes simultaneously. Aruba is wild pigs and feral cats, stray dogs, and a Louis Vuitton store with a leaky ceiling during a fall storm. The powerful, horse-like haunches of the island women and how no one looks you in the eye, but everyone says in broken English, "Thank you, thank you, please come back."
Alaska. Dogsled races in mall parking lots and the Aurora Borealis dancing neon at night. Fishing with Athabaskians and Inuits, the dipper I lose while ice fishing, and how I want to dive beneath the ice to retrieve it for my father. Mukluks and the "Eskimo Olympics" with blanket tosses and polar bear-skin coats. The whale blubber lollipop I eat with my childhood friend, an Inuit girl with eyes like sleeping seals. The little inns with the pickled eggs on the corner of the bars, weird food like moose venison and fish eyes. The outhouses that looks like little log cabins with flowers planted in dirt at the top. Hunting Caribou and ptarmigan with my father. Walking home in the dark during the winter and watching the sun blaze all night during our summer. Moon-faces and smiles like setting suns.
Baja. Snorkeling with scarlet starfish and purple urchins so close beneath my fins. Kayaking with dolphins. Watching blue whales in one bay and driving two hours to see grey ones in another area. Finding petroglyphs and a natural pharmacy in the desert. All you had to do was pick the candelaria, use the sage, make incense of the copal, and the spirits would make your body well. The palapa that is stiflingly hot in the day and cold in the evenings. I sneak into a church for candles, and later buy punched tin milagros, knowing that I need blessings and angels to watch over me. Frida Kahlo en la casa with brightly painted cottages of pink and blue. Orange clay pottery, Taxco silver, mole sauce on everything, and cerviche at six o'clock each night, served by a small Mexican mother. Cathedrals with windows like weepy eyes and how I weep in the shadow of the ocean after seeing a baby grey whale swim just beneath our tiny boat.
These are only a few of the places I've been or lived. The reason I turn up my nose at people who claim the moniker gypsy is that most have a foolish notion of what that means (not you, Cori, you are a gypsy), some notion of wanderlust that hasn't been physically fulfilled. I've lived all over the world and traveled many places. Although I secretly crave familiar faces and wish I'd grown up in the same little town with the same little faces, my experiences would name me gypsy. We often wish for those things that we aren't. My whole life I wished to be anything but a wandering soul, but now, I am learning to accept it.
I weep now, but it's because I miss so many places and want to travel to so many more. One lifetime is not enough for all I wish.
talullah jewel