7 hours on a gray day I am sick and trying to stay inside today, but Im having an issue with the stud in my nose. It was a gift from a friend in celebration of my most recent birthday. I call up the tattoo parlor on Red River where I got it pierced a few weeks ago, and they tell me to come down and get it taken care of. I think itll be quite nice to get outside a bit and ride the 7 downtown. I hop on and I have my copy of American Gods by Neil Gaiman in my lap; my favorite find amongst a multitude of treasures I discovered at a clothing swap on the east side this past weekend. I also found a gray animal print sweater and purple suede boots, which Im wearing. I probably look fancier than I mean to, but I just like prints and the color purple. I think about how I love economies of gifting and trading when theres more then enough to go around, more than we know to be gifted and traded... I began the book the other night, sliding into a bathtub filled with lavender bubbles for the first time in far too long. And on the third page, the main character Shadow dreams of what hed do when he first got out of prison. First, he was going to take a bath. A real, long, serious soak, in a tub with bubbles. Maybe read the paper, maybe not. Some days he thought one way, some days he thought the other. (Art imitates life... Life intimates art...) And I instantly recall this time I bathed myself after feeling like I had liberated my self from a mental/emotional/spiritual/physical/metaphorical prison. And how terrifying it was and how Id never felt such intensely unstable joy, a free radical bouncing about in energetic fervor. And I remember how the gates of my mind still sometimes chase and haunt the me/she that finally broke free, but they grow weary as that me/she keeps up her blissful running spree. Because as we are imprisoned, we are the only ones who can truly free our selves. I think. ...so the bus keeps going, and I listen to Mansions on the Moon as I watch the world pass by, passing passersby. I think how we get so caught up, and I just want to say: Be graceful about everything you are. Youre not so far behind, and youre not very far. It is meditative here, which is one reason why I love it. And its fascinating how many or how few people smile and acknowledge each other on a given day. Aint no doubt about it, public transit is the primetime spot to study human nature. Oftentimes far more interesting than whatevers on television. (At least to me.) And its especially wonderful when you find an insta-friend, with whom any of the following can and may, indeed, become true: you share interesting and out-of-the-ordinary conversation, you make fiercely kind observations about each other during your momentary collision in time, you give gifts to one another (phone numbers for lipsticks and rings for tea, etc.), you exchange balloons and/or bubbles and/or refreshing smiles, and maybe (maybe!) a hug or a handshake, and you are back and forth and back and forth for anywhere from 4 to 64 minutes... ...and then you never, ever see them again. (Well ok, sometimes you see them again. Worlds getting smaller as we go, yknow?) The second best place to study human nature? Bedrooms. In my humble opinion. * * * I am snapped back to the bus by a caramel-coloured man shouting thank you to the bus driver. Its nice that people of all ages/ethnicities/colours/genders/religions/levels of perceived sanity say thank you to the bus drivers when exiting the bus here. Ive made it a habit myself most days. Ive had some really wonderful bus drivers in this city. They help make it run. I think how Ive loved sleeping in cities, the way they buzz about, all hours of the day & night. Like a comforting vibrational blanket of conscious life. I get off at Congress and smile, as I almost always do crossing over to walk down 6th, as I reminisce about all the lovely, and glorious, and life-changing, and joyous, and weird, and heart-wrenching experiences Ive had here on this block, in this area of town.. the city.. in this townlike townlake city.. And I think about how someone told me recently that he thought Austin to be a city of black sheep. And from both the east and west coast. And the mid-west. And quite a few travelers and folks with international roots. (Maybe were not all sheep though? I really dont think so.) * * * I walk down to the piercing place to get my problem fixed. It doesnt hurt so much. I thought the pain would be worse. Im walking back toward the bus stop when I realize that since Im downtown anyway, and I may as well finally (finally!) get my library card. A young man and I accidentally start walking in rhythm with each other, side-by-side, and naturally conversation begins. He compliments the animal print, and asks me what Im up to, in the way an old friend would. I like that. Maybe we are old friends. We continue to walk. Hes just moved here from Dallas to start anew. And I think how almost every time Im out and about I meet or hear of someone meeting another someone whos just moved here. And the stories are varied, but in it somewhere is inevitably something about this city being a special place. And it is, and I have felt this many times, and its why Ive felt maybe even stubbornly compelled to stay when I almost had to go away so I could plant some roots here, at least for a little while; a process thats really only just begun. But I feel roots planted many places I leave, and maybe thats why I often feel so strongly that Im leaving something behind me when I go. I am more excited than a librarian might expect about this library card. I cant believe I forget how much I love libraries, and how decidedly indifferent I am about the response and strange looks I get geeking out about it. This new old friend decides to get his library card as well, and we are off sifting through CDs, films, fictions, and philosophies, until we reconvene and take a walk outside to briefly share our own worldviews and self-care practices and sense of where-were-at-now. He speaks of following your path and I speak of creating your own destiny. We are of similar spirits. He tells me has produced some hip-hop here and there and is working odd jobs downtown, and he wants to be a healer. I sense healing energies from him, so I tell him that. I also sense that these energies are blocked in part by his insecurity, and I empathize. I dont tell him that. He studies the lines and mounds of my palm and says he can tell that after a long and arduous journey (psh!), I am taking my life to the next level, and its good that Im doing so. I know this, but since everythings uncertain its always nice to be reminded. We laugh and he seems nervous and stutters remembering that hes been divulging a lot to a stranger, but I look at him and smile because we really arent strangers. We tilt our heads back and laugh at the night sky. I can almost see our words spilling from our mouths like smoke, swirling up and away into the ether. He tells me hes just beginning to get his laughter back. He walks me to the bus stop, and we part ways as an older man of seemingly Asian heritage loudly airs his frustrations about the end of days drawing near, and how we are so unfree. And as the bus rolls away, I think how even the end of days is a call for new beginnings, and how we are ever-bouncing happily back and forth, trying to find some stillness between where we have been and where were going.
Posted on: Thu, 21 Nov 2013 06:44:27 +0000