I was in a very tall building, in a vast city, with my friend Joyce and her brother, Jim--a best friend, and old roommate from college. I hadn't seen either for years, though I had been in close internet contact with Joyce. It was sunny outside with a clear blue sky and we were in a penthouse apartment, open all around the edges. A cool wind blew silk curtains gently in toward the center of the room.
I was surprised that there were no railings on the walkway that traced the perimeter of surrounding patio. This made me nervous. When I was a kid in Maine heights never bothered me. I would climb to the top of the tallest tree in the neighborhood with my friends and see all the way from Yarmouth to Freeport. But since I've gotten older, I get a strange sense - when on a roof, for example - that I will involuntarily just walk off the edge, as if I might be prone to doing the thing I would least want to do.
We had my tent set up in the center of the room and I was showing them how easy it was to put the tarp/fly on. It was a nice place, with nick nacks and Persian rugs, a grand piano, a thick glass, fully stocked bar and antique furniture. Blocks of buildings stretched out as far as the eye could see in every direction below us.
At some point, another woman came in, beautiful, with dark hair and eyes. She and I talked about my project and her art. She was painter, named Sarah. Suddenly Jim got up off the couch where he had been sitting, attached a bungee cord to one of the supports on the side of the building outside, and lept off the balcony!
He swung, Tarzan-like around the corner, and the pushed off the windows of a lower level, then glided back around to a place directly under where he'd jumped. I could see his smiling face and the wind in his hair. I felt lightheaded and I think I passed out.
Then I woke up, but I was confused. I sat up in a bed, now surrounded by tacky furniture, a lava lamp, and wall to wall carpeting. I was fully awake, wearing my IWALLK "uniform" (basically, Columbia pants, hiking boots, my Heatgear t-shirt and my pedometer/watch)... But, wait! The watch was some large new fangled thing, with a touchscreen and more buttons around the side. I got scared. Had I lost my memory, passed out somewhere in a ditch and been placed here? Had I been traveling and become amnesic? What the hell was going on? Then I thought maybe I was dreaming and literally pinched my arm tightly. Nope, not dreaming.
I looked around for Saggy (the name for my backpack), but it was nowhere to be found. Shit! Without my pack, I'm helpless! It was some kind of basement apartment, and I saw, through the small windows at the top of the room the darkness outside, with dim streetlights far above me. I quickly walked to the door, and up a stairway to the street. Two black guys, one in a black leather jacket with a shaved head, and the other in a red soccer t-shirt with dreadlocks, greeted me. The red-shirted guy said "There he is!"
I said, "Hey guys! Where the hell am I?"
They both laughed heartily, and then the one in the leather jacket said, "Thirty Third Street man! Here's your racket..." and handed me a tennis racket.
I looked at it, now truly baffled. It was old, wooden and broken midway up the head; snapped strings sticking out everywhere. "What...the...fuck?"
They chuckled. And, the leather jacketed guy said, "Hey, bro, at least you won!"
When he said "won", I opened my eyes at saw my backpack, and the inside of the tent.
* * * * * * *
I had been dreaming! This is what I meant by the bizarre nature of my dreams lately. In a couple days, I would discover why they were occurring in this way. But, for now, it was a complete mystery. At least I finally knew where I was again--Memphis, Tennessee, on the Living Magazine Journey. I felt relief.
The rain was still tapping on the tarp like a group of tiny thieves trying to break in. The sky was becoming brighter, but I had to check my watch to see what time it was: 5:59:59 am... Then, beep, beep-beep, beep, beep-beep... I clicked off its alarm and sat up, lifting my head and then letting it fall back down.
These things in my dreams... Were they symbolic? Why 33rd Street? I examined everything about the dream, from the tall highrise penthouse, to the dingy basement apartment. Thinking it was strange that my watch played a part and how, after waking, I'd checked the time at exactly 5:59:59, I then added up the numbers... 5 + 5 + 9 + 5 + 9 = 33... Nah... Total coincidence... I'm not a subscriber to numerology, nor do I tend to interpret my dreams. Yet...it was all still very interesting.
I considered how I would handle the day if it continued to rain. Opening the laptop and checking out the screenshot I'd made from the Intellicast.com forceast while on the bus the night before, I saw that the rain should be ending by 8:00 am. If it didn't, I figured I'd simply spend the day in the tent and work offline; maybe leave the tent and backpack there for a few minutes, and walk down to the gas station to buy some food later? There was no way I'd walk six miles in the rain, just to work inside, and then walk six miles back. But, Intellicast is hardly ever wrong, so I decided to wait out the rain and hope for the best.
I sat up and stuck my head out the tent door, checking out the woods around me. The birds were singing as they had been the morning before. It was really warm and very humid. I was sweating, though I hadn't been while I was asleep.
A drab melancholia set in, and sunk far down inside me. I was so far behind now on the blog, to lose another day would leave a huge challenge. And, there were so many other things with which to deal. I know you get almost as tired of me saying this as I get of saying it, but the lack of funds limited everything, every day, and was more than a thorn in my side. It was a beam in my eye.
I fantasized about what I would do if I was fully funded. It wouldn't be much different from what I'd been doing, except that I'd be able to eat regularly, buy supplies when I needed them and get a room every two weeks or so. So little was needed to do those things. But, it was more than I could expect.
The rain - while not being as much of a physical issue anymore, just melted down an already downcast emotional palsy. Even if the rain ended at 8:00, I wouldn't be able to fully dry out the tarp/fly. I decided to sacrifice the already-disintegrating trash bag I used to keep my sleeping bag dry, by enclosing the tarp in it to keep the wet plastic from dampening other items in the pack.
Having done my other repairs the morning before, and having downloaded and processed all my pictures, there wasn't much more I could do, so I lay back down.
The rain would dump a load and then, lighten up as if it was going to end, then startup again. Such a tease... A depression I was quite used to at this point overwhelmed me, and I got a lump in my throat, which I quickly swallowed down.
Things were so joyful the day before. Everything had meaning. The world shone out, as if every sidewalk and street were lit from within. But now it was the opposite. Light seemed to be soaked up by every object around me; pulling my happiness out of me and into them. I felt mentally ill, but I knew I wasn't.
Throughout most of my life, the dark times, and the deep blues I'd existed in during those times, caused me to run away from the infrequent "good days" back then, for fear of the emotional crash after each.
It was better to have nothing but a dreary existence than a life where good days, necessitated bad ones. I believed, up to the time I left Maine, that I had to psychologically save up the smallest daily bits containing any peace of mind, in order to experience one single day of happiness in a year. After decades of believing this was all I would ever feel, I had developed a true hatred for myself. Everyone else could manage the rainy tears of life, why couldn't I?
After leaving Maine and journeying as I have done, much of this past negativity has been reversed. And, I feel quite blessed that it has. However, these periods of deep blue do still find their way back, like the pressure of the dark cold water at the bottom of the sea, being forced through cracks I constantly push chewing gum into, while stuck in my submarine; my bubble of hope, in these projects.
I reached into the pack and pulled out my digital audio recorder to capture the sound of the rain...
At about 7:00, the cycles of rain lightened enough for me to put on my boots, go outside, stretch my legs and take a pee. I checked all around the tarp/fly. It was utterly soaked, inside and out. I reached back into the tent and lifted up the winter coat from under the sleeping bag to check the floor. There was a puddle there, and the coat was sopping wet on the outside. Just more to dry, if that was even possible. I felt myself slouch, and then wilt slightly, as a large drip fell from the tree branch above my head, and splat against my nose. Then I straightened back up and said out loud, "No. It's time pull my shit together."
I removed the tarp/fly and put it into the trash bag, then disassembled the tent, shook out the dirt and inner puddle, then leaned it up on its side, drying the inside as best I could with the last of my McDonald's napkins. Futilely, I let the bottom sit exposed to the humid air. I lost my patience with the drying process, squished up the tent and slid it into its bag, rolling up the winter coat and stuffing it on top. Zipping the pack is always a challenge, but was more so on this day, and heavier with extra water.
The dirty hat went on after the scratched glasses, and I was on my way. Water seeped through the hole in the bottom of my right boot as I trekked across the soggy field and onto the street. I walked about halfway to the McDonald's intersection with 3rd Street, when a bus pulled up beside me. I looked around for a bus stop sign, but saw none. The driver (a white guy) opened the door and said, "Come on in!" I pulled out my wallet and searched for a dollar, but only found receipts. He said, "Don't worry about it, just come in and have a seat." I thanked him and boarded, taking a front seat.
He asked where I was headed and I told him 3rd. He asked if I was a traveler and I told him about my project. He looked intrigued, and then laughed, "What in God's name are you doing in this shithole?" I told him I was reporting about life on the street and had come to Memphis to do just that on my way to Florida, and then up to Maine. I'd already traveled about 6,000 miles. He raised his eyebrows, "I'll tell you about Memphis. A long time ago the blacks were all in one ward. Then a mayor [I forget the name] was elected and desegregated the city. The black folks poured into it and every white person with two dollars in his pocket fled. Since then, it's been going downhill. The public debt is unpayable, the city government is corrupt, the police force is all bought-off by local businessmen, and the infrastructure is crumbling."
I just said, "Wow." I looked over my shoulder at the other two passengers--a couple of black guys and they just stared forward, reactionless.
He continued, "We do have great music and we've got Beale, but essentially the city is just a crossroads to other places."
We reached 3rd, and he opened the door, which I stepped up to and into, turning back to the driver. He asked if I worked for a media company. I said I wanted to, but was independent at this point--living off donations to my blog, then reached in my wallet and handed him a card. He checked it out, and I thanked him for the ride. He smiled and said, "Welcome to Memphis!"
I only had enough left on my debit card to get one drink and a small meal for the whole day. I figured I'd get into the city where I might be able to visit my new friend, Simon's business over on North Main Street, once I was done with my work. I'd already missed morning appointment with him due to the rainy start. So, I skipped McDonald's and just continued north toward the downtown, about four miles away. As I walked, I took some pictures along 3rd...
I got a kick out of the name of this store. Mainers will know why.
This was a splash of color across a dismal state of mind.
The white lotus flowers in the air reminded me of something,
but I couldn't quite place it; something from a past life, or maybe a future one?
I bought my coffee and poured myself into my work, completing only one of the three posts I needed to get done by the time evening fell over the city. I had received a donation that would last me another day and a half. That was reassuring, but my blues wouldn't lift.
I wasn't lonely, but I felt alone. My entire existence out here is fortified by trying to get as much attention as I could. And, though the posts were being read still, no one ever commented, and only a couple people clicked like on my Facebook entries. I'd worked hard to publish 91 pictures there the day before, and got 4 likes on the album.
I didn't know if people were sick of me, mad at me, indifferent, or just busy with other things. I was VERY disheartened; angry at myself for never being able to find the right formula. I knew I was doing something extraordinary, but it wasn't being see somehow. The most innocent man who ever lived on this world said it best...
"A prophet is not without honor except in his own town,
among his relatives and in his own home."
I was no prophet, but I knew very painfully exactly what he meant.
It was time to leave. I bought a sandwich, and before walking out, searched for a green spot on Google Earth that might be closer to town. I found one, near a bridge I'd crossed twice now on 3rd that passed over train tracks. I planned to check it out...
Here is something strange. A corn stalk growing between the street and the sidewalk.
As I approached the area, I decided it looked too rough, but in making that decision, I found myself walking off the road toward it. I had to laugh. I guess I would check it out after all...
I found a kind-of half path that looked like it ended in a woody clearing. I started in very cautiously. My experience with ditches and quicksand was fresh in my mind. Grass grows thickly over ditches sometimes and can hide many things.
But this one was solid. The tangled weeds and vines were a challenge, but when I looked behind me, I noticed that the road was angled perfectly to disallow traffic from seeing my position. Continuing in, I stepped out into the clearing I'd seen. It was quite nice, surrounded by fallen trees that had been weighted down with thick vines and flanked by railroad tracks. The fact that there was no trash there was a great sign as well--it wasn't being used. The entire area was much drier than my last camping spot. Only a few insects could be heard, and there were no mosquitoes.
I went from nook to nook looking for a flat and level spot, finally settling in on one between a group of trees that I could use to hang things, and a small mound of earth. I sighed, and set up the wet tent, hanging the tarp/fly on a nearby shrub in an attempt to further dry it...
It was definitely warm enough to sleep without the tarp/fly, but I was prepared to put it on if I felt any rain coming down, as I expected it would later. The coat was still damp, but would have to do as pad under the sleeping bag. I lay there silently, processing my tired old thoughts, and looping negative memories, wondering what the next day would bring. I don't recall falling asleep...
Memphis Sleeping Spot 2
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