I’m in gypsy mode until October, this I know for sure. I am VERY happy about this. I’ve had offers to hang out on two different farms in two completely different climes. A friend has already cleared out a spare room in her Chicago brownstone and calls me weekly, insisting I move in. One of my dearest friends just finished his house in the Sacred Valley of Peru and said to me last fall, “Anna, you know one of the extra bedrooms was built just for you.” Another friend has volunteered his place as a Northern California launchpad, should I want to follow the hankering to acquire a little cabin in the Redwood Forest. It’s nice to have options. And great friends and family.

My stuff is still spread across three states - bungalow in Venice, art studio in Mar Vista, a storage unit in ABQ with all my personal effects and art projects that I want to work on for this year. And my car is parked at a lot near the ABQ airport - where it will stay most likely til the beginning of August.

I’m most likely heading to Nashville in a couple of weeks. Going to go watch some lightning bugs do their dance out in the middle of nowhere. That sounds just about perfect. I’m still traveling with my cat, and thankfully, he’s less reluctant now than when we first began our adventure together in February. I’m keeping it simple for the few weeks after I finally jet out of South Carolina (and, really who knows when that will be) - I’m going to try to make it all around Tennessee, Kentucky, Illinois and possibly Missouri without having to rent a car.

I’m also kicking around the radical idea of skipping that thing in the desert this year. Shocking! I really love BRC and it saddens me to think that I may not be sniffing playa dust this Labor Day. The theme is “The American Dream.” And serendipitously, my American Dream is within grasp and could be very well catapulted forward if I can just stay put this summer (within reason, of course) and find a spot without distractions and get to the doing.

‘Cause these books are already written, if you know what I’m saying. I just have to sit down and write them.

Eh, fuck it, possibly against my better judgement . . . I’m putting it out there anyway . . .

Drew Barrymore, you and I should totally go roller skating. Because I’m a cool-ass chick. And you’re a cool-ass chick. We both, in fact, kick ass. And we’d have lots of adventure stories to swap. And we’re both smokin’ hot.

I’m a crazy quad-rollin’ artist adventurer who has been cruising the Venice Beach boardwalk for years. I’ve taken wheel to South Carolina, Chicago and Albuquerque parking lots, streets and sidewalks. I’ve skated into Polish pubs in Chicago, pigtails flaring. I’ve busted ass on the woodsy trails in Columbia. I’ve spun my wheels in ‘Burque hotel parking lots. My skating outfit features slight camel toe and I am not afraid to show it.

Through a very strange course of events, I just happen to be traveling the open road with only a suitcase, my skates and my cat. So, Drew Barrymore, this is an open invitation. Some of my dearest friends just went on location to work on your roller derby movie. I was really tempted to take a job in their accounting department . . . but, I just really need a summer hiatus from motion picture accounting. You know . . . so I can roller skate more. I’ll be traveling in that general direction within days or weeks anyway for my own personal business. So, if you wanna roller skate with me, by all means, let me know.

And if not, that’s cool, I’m gonna keep on rolling along wherever it is I go. . . But if this proposal piques your interest in any way, I’ll be there in hours . . . I just replaced the trucks on my skates. My jingle-bell pom’s pom’s are ready to go.

My friend FoodRockzMan left a DIY blog tag option on his website recently. So I’ve tagged myself. Here are the questions and my answers.

What was I doing ten years ago?
Gulp and Ha-ha! I was in film school and it was also the year I got married. (If you know me now, it’s hard to believe that whole married part, right?)

What are five (non-work) things on my to-do list for today?
1. Get clean towels from hotel attendant.
2. Read at least one chapter of Joan Didion’s “Slouching Towards Bethlehem”
3. roller skate the mall parking lot.
4. Upload some new pix to this website
5. Start on/finish the “Where’s The Toilet” guest blog article

Five snacks I enjoy:
1. hummus
2. red wine
3. almonds
4. anything with pesto
5. chocolate

Things I would do if I were a billionaire:
1. Pay off my parent’s house
2. Acquire numerous little getaway places for myself, friends and family
3. Get the best medical help available for my step-mother
4. Check out of society for awhile - get some folks together and galavant back-pack style around the world
5. Give alot of money away

Places I’ve lived (an incomplete list):
1. Village in Illinois
2. Bungalow in Venice, CA
3. Tambo in the rainforest of Peru
4. Brownstone in Chicago, IL
5. Hotel in Washington, DC

Jobs I’ve had:
1. waitress
2. traveling sex toy saleslady
3. Naturalist working with inner city kids
4. Motion Picture Accountant
5. Corn Detassler

So, I like the fact that I got to ‘Tag’ myself. I’d like to see if this can perpetuate. If you’d like to tag yourself, then leave a comment on this page linking to your own site and get to it already!

Ok, so here I am this morning. Drinking black coffee. Headphones in. It must be working, because no one is fucking with me and I’m powering through work. I have not been motivated for a few weeks. Because every single day, it’s like, “Oh shit, what kind of BS will go down today?” The waiting game is over. We’re all going home. This nightmare has ended. The ennui has lifted because the uncertainty has dried up.

And even though all the crew has descended upon our office and are frantically wrapping out all their gear and paperwork, NO ONE has bothered me. And that’s good. I’m all jumpy and jittery. And cranking it out.

It occurred to me this morning that one must know what one wants in order to make what they want to happen actually come about. And what I want is to wrap this thing up and move on. Head ‘em up, move ‘em out.

I’m kicking around the idea of futzing around my family farm for the summer. Anybody wanna help me build a structure there . . . ? As in a permanent structure? There’s nothing there but cricks and trees and rabbits and hawks and deer and snakes and a well and maybe a usable foundation for a house. And potential. And plenty of room . . .

I’ve been absent from the blog world for a week now. It’s that pesky ennui that’s raised it’s ugly head once again - this time a dichotomous cocktail combo of equal parts fuckitol, bliss and adrenaline - served up over copious amounts of cold beer.

I don’t really want to get into the details of the show I’m working on, mostly because I’m still working on it. But suffice to say we are a major motion picture with big name stars and the ’studio’ we’re working with is consistently famous for not delivering their part of the bargain - the money - on time. And I work in accounting. So one could see the conflict of interest were I to divulge lots of sensitive info.

We’ve been shut down six times. SIX! Making a movie is like building a small city, starting from absolutely nothing but thin air and cranking out an infrastructure for a medium-sized metropolis in a matter of about five weeks. And to build it takes lots of human effort, resources, time and M-O-N-E-Y. Big money. Tracking the money required to make a movie is like being timed by the final countdown of a rocketship outside your bedroom window while juggling and trying to shove millions of dollars through a leaky pipeline the circumference of a garden hose all at the same time - and that’s just on a movie with no problems.

Half of my work day on this particular circus is spent quite literally chasing my tail . . . can’t track what’s not paid, can’t pay without money, can’t deliver estimates and reports when everything is starting, stopping and then lurching forward again - only to be cut off again because no one is getting paid. And let’s face it . . . all of us who’ve joined up with the circus that is filmmaking love it . . . but at the end of the bloody, sweaty, tear-filled day . . . we want our goddamned paychecks.

I’m just fried. My brain is kaput. I cannot even speak in coherent sentences these days. I even managed to forget that the summer solstice was June 20. It’s eat, work, work, work, beer, jager bombs, sleep (fitfully), coffee and how did I manage to turn all three fucking alarms off and not remember - again?

Not that I haven’t been party to many interesting episodes of hilarity, debauchery and good ole fashioned trouble, because with me, that’s an absolute given. Details forthcoming somehow . . . oh don’t ya’ll worry. I’m having a good time here, despite the grueling work schedule. I’m happy and laughing, making new friends and moving through life at warp speed.

But all of these high-highs and low-lows are causing my brain to process at the speed of X plus 2 = lettuce. Maybe it’s the seven days of work in a row. Maybe it’s angst inside me welling up because after this clusterf*ck ends, I’m not really sure where I’m going to live next. Yet somehow I feel extraordinarily free, like my arms are wide open and I’m standing in the middle of a field with a gentle breeze blowing and I’m breathing deep, deep breaths.

At the end of the day, I probably wouldn’t change any of this miracle that I’ve created for myself - it’s just that sometimes, the ability to speak/think escapes me.

I’m finally upgrading my life.

I’m going to put my address book into a digital format, mostly because it’s easy to access from anywhere I might be in the world. But this access and convenience comes with a price.

I love the tangible nature of physical things. As I picked up my Cat Woman address book this morning, a speckled woodpecker feather fell out of it. And I stood there and smiled and thought about my friend Wakkadup from Tulalip who gave me that feather. My computer will never be able to do that.

As I streamline, I realize more and more that I really like life’s messy little edges. Computers and digital media are helpful, but these things don’t satisfy all the way down to a soulful level. I’ll most likely never completely ditch my purple well-loved address book.

I was telling a friend just yesterday, that with the digital age of photos also comes a price. What happens when the technology switches and people have to purchase the latest/greatest just in order to view their pictures? And I had a conversation with a photographer friend of mine several months back that went something like this.

Me: Yeah, just how long do giclee prints last anyway? They certainly aren’t archival. Or rather, no one knows how long the inks really last.

My friend: Well, honestly the thing only needs to last about a hundred years. No one will care after that.

I disagree. To a certain point that is. A carefully crafted photograph will always be interesting, possibly even more so in a hundred years. No one will care about a large percentage consumer photos of the average family BBQ in a hundred years. He’s correct about that.

I feel like humanity has a lot of problems in general - including conservation of ourselves and the planet. I foresee a someday when we won’t be able to view the digital media that we are collecting right now and that this will leave a large gap in photo history. But that wouldn’t necessarily be a bad thing. Besides, we as a people might have much bigger things to worry about by that time.

Touching again upon the subject of conservation - people say that digital is cleaner and better for the environment. I will acknowledge that photographic chemicals and processes are poison, but products like computers and inks are far from benign to our natural world. Factories create endless waste and utilize much in the way of resources to manufacture our clean, snappy digital tools.

So, I’m beginning to utilize the tools of the digital age, but as I do so, I have decided not to rely on those digital tools completely, nor make the mistake of believing that they come without flaws. The inherent sexiness of a negative or an address book is something I will continue to enjoy in my life.

Last weekend, I decided to visit Holly D., my old friend from high school, who I very serendipitously and unexpectedly re-connected with several weeks ago. I’m working in South Carolina right now and she just happened to move to Athens, Georgia right about the time that she contacted me. Athens is only three hours away from Columbia. I had the weekend off, so I decided to go for a visit and explore Georgia.

I won’t lie. I have mixed feelings about Georgia. I have ex in-laws who live there and so that sort of colors my outlook on the whole place and reminds me of times in the past. But, that was a very long time ago when I was very different (well, kind of).

My Georgia extravaganza was a really long weekend. Not in that “Oh-my-god, when-is-this-going-to-end” kind of way; I just experienced a lot and it feels as though I packed an entire week into those 48 hours. Holly D. and I picked up right where we left off 17 years ago. We met at The Globe restaurant, in the heart of downtown, chatted for hours and drank copious quantities of Pinot Noir, the wine of poets. Since we are both writers, it seemed quite appropriate.

I am fascinated with the architecture of the deep, hidden south. For instance, all the buildings are crumbling, old buildings with imperfect plaster and crooked doorways. These folks understand the value of preservation and aren’t obsessed with new, clean, sharp edges - a trait I very much admire. History is important and valued - although the new, corporate environs are encroaching upon the edges. The artsy community of Athens, however, is doing it’s best to keep Athens weird. And imperfect.

And of course, Holly and I were happy to contribute to that endeavor.

We stumbled from The Globe, window shopped for wigs and headed onward to other sights. We saw two rocker chicks in the street. One wore a t-shirt that said, “Stop Bitching and Start a Revolution.” I have that same t-shirt. I bought it from a mountain-commune hippie on the Georgetown streets of DC back in September. We stopped and talked to the rocker chick and her friend, who were promo-ing their rock-n-roll camp for teenage girls.

“Where’d you get the shirt?” I asked.

“My mom bought it for me from some random guy on a street corner in DC,” she said.

“Get out!” I laughed. “I bet it was the same dude I bought mine from!”

We jetted into a corner bar by the college and the downstairs was kind of dead. We did, however, notice that upstairs was hoppin’. The bartender told us that it was a private party for a wedding reception.

I was wearing my fabulous Southern Belle straw hat and Holly and I both just happened to have on sun dresses. I have learned that this Audrey Hepburn-esque straw hat with it’s trailing ribbon will get me everywhere, so I told Holly, “follow my lead, shugar,” and proceeded to walk into the entrance of the upstairs, exclaiming, “Didn’t she look sooo good in her wedding gown!?!”

The bouncer opened the door for us.

We drank free PBR’s from the wedding party’s open bar and danced with the music as the live band played. We grabbed one of the disposable cameras and took shots of ourselves for posterity and left it behind for the bride to someday find. Then we headed onward. No one even gave us a second glance.

The next morning we happily drank non-corporate coffee.

I bid my old friend adieu and then took off to explore the back country roads solo. I very much enjoyed my leisurely jaunt back to Columbia. I stopped at roadside stands in search of tree-ripened Georgia peaches. Read more about how the whole “Georgia Peach” state motto is a marketing ploy from the Civil War Reconstruction era. Fascinating stuff. Not only did I find juicy peaches, I also went on a jelly-acquiring, liver tonic spending spree. More on that later.

But, as you can plainly see,

the peaches are damn fine!

I cruised by an organic farm that gives tours, but sadly, it was closed. I stopped at an old roadside junk store and bought four books, even though I really don’t have room for them on the airplane ride back to Albuquerque. Gosh, Albuquerque seems so far away . . . . I pressed onward to Lake Oconee, wanting only to find a shady spot to read one of my newly acquired books in repose from the blazing mid-afternoon heat. But I suppose that Shangri-La only exists in my mind or in one of the many high-stakes real estate plots I spied around the lake’s edges, as I never found a public spot to rest. There’s a Ritz Carlton on the lake too. I am disappointed with the lack of public access on Lake Oconee, but oh well.

I drove onward to Augusta. Besides The Masters Golf Tournament, Augusta also boasts the world-famous Sconyers BBQ. They weren’t open. Shucks! But, it just so happens that my ex in-law’s live just down the street. I had a bit of reminiscing and loose ends to tie up, if only inside myself. So, I decided to do a psycho drive-by of their house. They are very nice people and all, but suffice to say that they just don’t have the warm fuzzies for me since divorcing their son eight years ago.

Nothing has changed there. Same cars parked the same way in the same driveway. I am the one who has changed, thankfully, and so now that part of my life is at peace in a way it’s never been before . . . a knot that I didn’t even know existed deep down in my belly suddenly came undone and I took a big, deep breath. Fuckin’ yay for me!

A shit-stirring friend of mine suggested I knock on their door unannounced and say Hello, but I’m not so sure about that. He says, “Honey, you look good and you are happy and doing exactly what it is you’ve always wanted to do . . . doing things you never could have done if you would have chosen that life.” Exactly why I should not bother them.

Eh, it would be a shenanigan for sure . . . a funny one, a bold one, a morally illicit one . . . (you know, the kind I normally like) . . . . but not worth it this time. I’ve moved on . . . no looking back. Driving past and untying those stomach knots was good enough.

Everywhere I look in the media, the story is the same - articles about families eating more Spam potted meat product to combat the higher grocery prices, stories about the flailing real estate market, blurbs about Washington’s tax rebate, discussions of higher gas prices, advice on how to make your credit rating better. It endlessly goes on and on. And I have to be honest - these stories piss me off. My question to you all out there is - are we being duped? I mean, just a little bit?

Yes, food and fuel prices are rising. Yes, the housing market is in a slump. But this article discusses how the federal stimulus checks to the American people aren’t really helping much due to increases in the cost of living and quotes a Chattanooga woman, “You don’t get a windfall like this very often.” Are you kidding me? Since when is 600 lousy bucks a windfall?

I’ll admit, I don’t have children or a house payment, so that frees up my time and money for other things, like traveling. But, dammit, I’ve worked really hard for this lifestyle. Here are some clues for those struggling with a lack of dollars.

* Spend less than you make.

* Say NO to that new gadget, unless you can throw down cold hard cash for it. When you start laying down hundred dollar bills and you don’t get any of them back, that action registers emotionally in a way that a plastic credit card never will.

* Bike and walk wherever you can. It’s good exercise, it’s good for the environment and it’s especially good for your wallet.

* Be debt free. And don’t let anyone tell you that it’s impossible.

I made a radical decision nearly a decade ago that a 100% debt free lifestyle was my new paradigm and have happily lived in this manner ever since, without the weight and pressure and worries of owing anyone anything. It has set me free. It’s allowed me to do whatever I want whenever I want. It didn’t come easy as I was up to my eyeballs and beyond in heinous debt. I worked my ass off. And many people told me that it was impossible to become debt free. But I’ve never really listened to nay-sayers. It is possible. And life-altering.

Listen up people and don’t kid yourselves. When the subject of money comes up and I start spewing my debt-free philosophy, lots of people say things like, “Oh yeah, I’m debt-free . . . I only have a car payment.” Or “Yeah, I only have one credit card.”

This is not debt free.

I get lots of comments, like “What about a house payment?” Well, often I don’t know where I will be from one month to the next and right now I don’t want to be a slave to a house payment. This is my personal choice, but if I were to dive into the real estate market, I’d make damn sure I had a 20% down payment and that my house payment did not exceed 25% of my weekly income. A couple of years ago, when the real estate market was sky-rocketing out of control and an entire contingency of whiny Los Angelinos were knowingly offering much more than what their prospective properties were actually worth, I just shook my head in amazement. Now, a lot of people who simply “wanted” into the market no matter the cost are f-u-c-k-e-d and I don’t feel sorry for them.

Sometimes, it’s difficult to tell ourselves no. But, I’ve learned that a solid, “no, thank you” in the long run is the best choice and quite honestly - I don’t mind not having all the “stuff” that most people think are necessities. Keeping it simple is actually quite satisfying. I remember once many years ago not having enough money for food and the creditors’ calls were coming non-stop. The stress was incredible. I told myself that I would never again feel that way. And I never looked back.

I encourage any and everyone to have the fortitude to think for themselves just a little bit and not society’s mixed messages about money and how you choose to spend or not spend it. Commercials, newspapers, radio ads and magazines will all give messages from subtle to strong about how you absolutely need this or that thing in order to be successful. I say turn off that crap and go inside yourself to look for an answer. I bet you’ve got more inside yourself than you might think.

The federal stimulus of spending money at $600.00 is no “windfall” for me, nor is it eaten up by the grocery store and gas tank. Yes, I feel the squeeze too, but it’s not making me sweat. I’ve got a few savings accounts and I’m not in the red by a long shot. I’m not what most would consider ‘rich’ in dollars, but I’m doing OK in that arena, so well in fact, that I am rich in happiness and contentment with no money stresses.

At least that’s one less thing.

I’m nursing a Starbuck’s addiction, but that’s a whole ‘nother post for a whole ‘nother time. It’s become my guilty pleasure and I’ll write more about my corporate coffee opinions and my struggle with them later . . .

“I’ll take a triple grande soy latte,” I said to the unnamed girl at the counter.

“And your name?” she asked.

I don’t like to give my name. I don’t ask for theirs. I want to be incognito. I don’t want them to perk up and start screaming “Good Morning!” when I walk in the door every day. And they often will. I feel strange enough that I find myself going there on a daily basis, so at least allow me my privacy and let me get my fix in private, please. Sometimes I make up a fake name. But the other day, I just didn’t feel like playing that silly game - at all.

“I don’t feel like giving my name today,” I replied in a courteous manner, with a simple smile.

“Uh . . ” the Starbuck’s counter-intelligence stammered, “And your name is . . .?” But I could tell by the look on her face that she herself was confused as to why those words were coming out of her mouth, but at the same time, could not stop them.

I repeated myself, gently. “I just don’t feel like playing the name game today.”

I think that smoke was about to come out of her ears simply from sheer confusion. I’d completely thrown her for a loop. She continued to stammer, “Um . . you want a . . . Venti what?”

“A triple grande soy latte.”

“And your na-” she broke her words off. And then averted her eyes and said, “uh, that’ll be $4.09, please.”

I’ve been doing research into stress and the chemicals that stress pumps into your body and how some people get almost high on it.

I get edgy and my heart beats fast and I feel like I’ve had ten cups of coffee . . . my nasal passages open up so I can breathe fast, shallow breaths. Everything moves like sound that is sped up. But it’s the electricity firing off in my brain that really creates the buzz. Brain spins so fast, it’s like it’s doing jumping jacks, thoughts moving, flicking so fast that you aren’t conciously processing any of them anymore . . . it’s just like a steady stream of color or a cloth.

And you are focusing somewhere with your eyes at a tangible fixed point in front of you, but you aren’t seeing that fixed point - you are seeing that colored cloth pipeline that only exists in your sped-up spasming grey matter.

Somewhere up there in your noggin you know every single stitch and molecule of that rapidly moving, dazzling tapestry, but conciously, it’s just moving, flicking through your head like film at 24 frames per second, never seeing the gaps between the frames. You cannot hold a conversation or be present to another human.

It takes a long time to cool down and unwind. Sometimes it takes days or weeks. Sometimes months. Sometimes sleep patterns are disrupted; sometimes not. The managable peak, the worst I’ve ever experienced without cracking is the conversation point where when you are talking with someone, your end of the conversation is a hurried, broken, stuttered, “Um huh. um hm. uh huh.” You’re shaking your head uncontrollably like some kind of drug addict.

Because you are. That’s stress juice, baby.

Sometimes I get visions of a needle in my arm. That’s my inner voice, showing me that stress is my junk. And then . . . there’s the unmanagable kind of stress. ABQ has shown me mountains of it. I just want my regular stress level back!