Lost and Found

Somewhere I veered off course.  When I started this blog, I thought it would be a mere documentation of my travels through The South.  I started off with a bang after I left LA and traversed Hwy 40, jotting down the kind of food I ate, the songs I listened to, the sunsets I saw.  Traveling opens up your world again and alights the senses--everything is anew and fresh; driving on an open highway is like automotive yoga--it clears blocked energy and attunes you to a greater body at work.  Using my iPhone as a compass and Ragmar's Kingdom as my destination, I thought that was where I was headed and where I would find Liberty.

My friend lives in Liberty, Tennessee, after all, hence the name of the blog.  I think I simply hoped that it would be my final destination and where I would realize a triumphant release.  I did jump off a 20-foot cliff into a river and I walked a mile on a winding forest road in the pitch black of night.  I became friendly with insects, the sultry heat of a Southern summer, and experienced the exact solitude of being human--vital and vulnerable--in a wooded world stirring with life all around.  I wrote about some of my adventures and discoveries, although I censored myself from writing about the wonderful world of faeries I had stumbled upon because I did not feel knowledgeable enough or qualified to write about them.  Instead, I wrote about or to distract me from what I was consumed by: these temporal fixations and hang-ups that came in the name of a boy, but were plagued and fueled by a demon much greater than him.

You may think I have lost my mind.  Writing about faeries and demons and such.  Crazy.  No, I actually encountered them in the woods of Tennessee.  I found a delightful group of faeries who nurtured and tended to me during my two months there and I also began seeing the demon growing inside me as I was left to my own devices deep in the backwoods, 2,000 miles from my loved ones in Los Angeles.  I became bosom buddies with a regenerating bottle of Bullit--a fantastic bourbon whiskey from Kentucky--and drank myself silly.  I dealt with some issues around my father, this boy, and mostly myself and my own inequities during my time in Tennessee and in order to cope with the pain of going deeper and deeper, I drank.

Somehow, I stumbled into my car (not drunk, just hungover) and made my way to Atlanta to visit my dear friend, Charles.  Then, I got back into my car and made my way to Savannah to visit my good friend, Fitz.  Fitz said I could stay at his mother's house, who was away for the summer, and I arrived at a lovely row house in the Historic District and parked my car.  I stayed there for three weeks, slowly losing my mind to Bullit, but the gentle arm of Savannah cradled me and helped me to regain my senses. I stopped drinking and decided to stay.

That is all I will write for now.  It's been two months since I've had a drink.  I've gotten an apartment.  I've made some wonderful friends.  I feel at home here, at peace, and I am happy.  The Boy and I are still talking, but he becomes more and more distant as he continues with his shenanigans and I continue to tread a more honest path.

I will write more about faeries and demons, but I will also write more about The South because that was my intention to do so when I came out here.  I was derailed for awhile, but I am back on track.  I still don't know what this blog is really about or why I even bother to write it, but I do know that on each step of this journey I am coming closer and closer to finding liberty.  Also, I promise to include more photos.

Rock Island (Part I)

I am trying to stay focused. Trying to endure the uncertainty of my life right now by continuing to write as I said I would everyday. It's difficult, but, really, it's all I can do right now to get my mind off of things...

I'm still trying to catch up with the last week or so. Not having my computer proved to be a real doozy, but I have it back and I'm ever so happy and I want to remain true to myself and write about my experiences here.

About a week or so ago I pulled myself out of my heartsickness and went with the boys for an outing. "We're going to a river tomorrow. You should come. There are waterfalls that you can jump off of." Ragmar, my kind friend, gently invited me. I did not leap to the occasion, though I would have if I was in a better frame of mind, but I pulled myself out of bed the next day and gathered my things for a daytrip to a river.

We drove for about an hour through the winding roads of Tennessee. The boys hated my music. My computer had crashed at that point and all I had were soulful R&B lamentations, a mix that Indigo Boy made me and a playlist I made him--all dreadful heartsick longings and protestations, nothing upbeat, nothing for a roadtrip among friends. "No wonder you're depressed!" they said. "We're gay boys. You need to change your playlist."

They put another mix into the stereo and it was good to hear other music as we wound through the green pastures and blue skies. My blue-haired faery guide sat next to me in the backseat and asked whether I had boots. I thought he would say, "You know... boots. These boots are made for walking"... thinking of the Nancy Sinatra song, but he was being practical. "You should find some boots. To walk through the woods." We talked about this for awhile, my feet being so small and not having a real sturdy pair of shoes to go traipsing through the woods, but I knew I could manage otherwise and told him that I had jeans and comfortable shoes. My metallic gold Clarks have proven to go a long way here.

I am not going to prolong my every recollection of what happened that day. My heart is heavy still and I just need to write about what I experienced that day and how great and liberating it was. So I am going to write from my journal that day:

7 May 2010

I came with Ragmar to Rock Island and spent the afternoon with the boys, hiking down to the falls and trekking through and across this great plateau of trees and rock and water. As we got closer to the water, Ragmar commented, "I've never seen the water this high." The water rushed through chiseled slabs of stone and filled the ravine with the sound of gushing force.

For awhile, we were the only ones here, then I noticed a beautiful young couple across the river. They were both in their twenties--the girl wore a black swimsuit, demure because it looked like a one-piece from the front, sexy because it looked like a bikini from the back. They were both long-legged and White. Stylish, beautiful even from 200 feet away.

The water is so strong--it's the only thing you can hear in the ravine. I became afraid when I saw another group of young people--teenagers maybe--studying the water to see where they should jump in. One girl, a little heavyset but strong, finally jumped in and laughed and smiled as she was gently carried off by the current. She was having a great time, but I had to divert my eyes because I was afraid she'd be swept away. She was fine.

[Later...]

I had the most amazing adventure today! After I wrote that little entry (as I wrote in the shade of a little ledge--just big enough and flat enough for me to lie down, did yoga and stretched in the sun and took a shower in a drizzle of water cascading from a rock above), the boys decided to pack up and head upstream. We climbed up and around great big boulders for at least 150-200 yards, then rockclimbed single file across a slippery ledge half-submerged in the water. I had to take off my shoes and reach for grooves in the mossy rock to help pull me along. Finally, we made it to a little clearing where the water pooled and the current seemed weaker. Waterfalls gushed across a ridge of rock and boulders, making it difficult to hear anyone speak. Most of the boys had already climbed up and around the waterfalls to the other side of the river. Ragmar waved at me. He had led the pack to the clearing and left me straggling behind. I wondered whether he was quietly challenging me to test myself or to stay open to the possibilities--he does that sometimes. Now I had to figure out how I was going to get to the other side.

I could either swim or try to navigate the slippery rocks again and go above the waterfalls. One of the boys jumped in and swam across. I watched as the boys dropped like flies into the water and navigated the current. I started feeling a little panicky. My blue-haired faery swam across and then stood in the water in front of me shivering as I slowly took off my sarong and undershirt and carefully draped them on a rock. I lowered myself slowly into the cool water, trying to find solid flat rock to stand on and keep my balance.

"It's too cold over here," my blue-haired faery said.

It was around 3:00--the sun was beginning to descend from the sky and the side we were on was cast in the shade of the great stone mountain we hiked down. Ragmar and the rest of the boys on the other side of the river stood in the sunshine. My blue-haried faery jumped in. I faltered a moment, backtracked a bit and then dove.

Day 7 - Memphis (Pt 1)

It's taken me some time to write about Day 7, about the time I spent in Memphis, because I experienced so much there and I've been trying to get settled and adjusted to Ragmar's Kingdom. And what a lovely kingdom it is. After sleeping deeply for a full 8-9 hours (the best sleep I've had in weeks!), I awoke this morning to Ragmar's voice in the kitchen, telling me that I should join him and his friends at the Gathering. I climbed out of bed and stumbled to the kitchen. Ragmar chuckled as I appeared sleepy-eyed and hair askew in my pjs and offered me some tea. A young, fresh-skinned White boy named Atlas said good morning to me and gave me a hug. We had some fresh goat cheese and honey on Texas toast for breakfast and visited while I put the dishes away.

So, now, Memphis...

Memphis is not just Graceland. In fact, I didn't even bother to go. I drove by it when I entered the city because I had booked a room close to it, thinking that I would visit. The idea of Graceland was exciting when I was in LA, but after being inundated with Elvis memorabilia at the overpriced motel I stayed at, viewing the imposing white Colonial Revival mansion on the hill festooned with garish colored lights and debating whether I should pay the $30 entrance fee that the locals joke "support Priscilla and Lisa Marie," I decided not to. I had seen enough of Graceland. Maybe I'll go if I visit Memphis another time.


Instead, I wanted to see other parts of Memphis, thinking that I might only have less than a day there. The night I arrived, I made my way to Beale Street--the home of the Memphis Blues. I called ahead to B.B. King's Blues Club to ask if they were still open. It was Sunday and nearly 11:00pm. I spoke to very helpful woman who called me "Ma'am" in every sentence she uttered and I told her I was a single woman traveling alone and would it be safe for me to go to Beale Street by myself.

"Oh yes, ma'am."
"I won't have any trouble?"
"Oh no, ma'am, there's policemen at every corner. And it's Sunday, ma'am, there's probably eleven people or so on the street right now."

I felt safer after speaking with her and drove the fifteen or twenty minutes in a light shower to Beale Street. A surge of excitement built in me as I drove past the Mississippi River and turned into the neon lights and music blaring into the streets. A one-block area is closed off to motorists and throbs with the energy from the lights and loud music. I found parking in a structure not far away and wandered around, looking for a good juke joint. Although the streets were empty, many places were still open and filled with people: a large, high-ceilinged pub-like place was doing a karaoke night, another club that looked two or three stories high blasted mainstream hip hop, a tiny little local watering hole that the B.B. King waitress recommended I go to was littered with tough-looking pierced and tattooed guys. I wandered into a smaller bar where a live blues band was playing--a trio of three older Black men playing some hard, dirty blues. The lead singer's deep, hearty voice poured into the mike and filled the bar, eliciting screeches and shouts from the drunk tourists who were shoulder to shoulder and barstool to barstool. I ordered a pint of Blue Moon (which they gave me in a huge 32 oz plastic cup) and found a table by myself after a group left. After a few minutes of taking lots of pictures and finding my shoulders and neck loosening to the sounds of The Dr. Feelgood Potts Band, two clean-cut White men approached the table and asked if they could sit with me. They seemed nice, one of them was very good-looking, and the good-looking guy pulled up the chair next to me. We discovered we were all from California and talked about out travels to Memphis. They were finance brokers on a boys outing for the NASCAR race in Taladega. I talked a little about stocks and finances (the little that I know!) with the other guy and about food and the beauty of Northern Cali with the cute one. They bought me a drink. We talked some more, then the bar closed down and the bouncer said I could take my drink with me, so we toddled around for a bit and then they walked me to my car and we said goodbye.

The next day I went to the Civil Rights Museum and spent the afternoon wandering the exhibition and sitting on the curb across from the motel room where Martin Luther King, Jr., was assassinated. I sat there and could only stare at the balcony, sobered by the weight and legacy of history before me. My time there was well spent, but it deserves its own blog entry. For now, I'm needing a walk and some company. I'm going to walk the two miles to the Gathering and join Ragmar and his friends.