I see an arrow, turning around in blackness inside my mind’s eye, as if twirling on an invisible lazy-susan display in the night time sky. I see the shaft of wood with grain and texture, oil and dirt. The feathers on the end have shape and definition and some are stuck together with grease. The point is sharp greying metal.

Suddenly, the arrow flies through the blackness, piercing it, entering another dimension, entering a forested world of green and strikes a tree with the force of a blast from a lightning bolt. The arrow has disappeared, leaving the wood of the medium-sized tree’s trunk chewed up and bright white. The timber is splinters in some places and bent with greenness in others against the smooth grey of the outer bark.

The arrow is focus, with the power to magnify nebulous energy into a lightning bolt and strike any target with intensity.

If there’s one question I heard the most last year, it was that one. That’s one reason why I’ve started this blog. Whether it’s a road trip, a work assignment, camping or backpacking, I find the most joy out of life when I am on the move, on the road and meeting people or seeing and experiencing something new. And last year, well, it was just really difficult for anyone, sometimes myself especially, to keep up with whose couch I was crashing or which hotel was home. I lived, worked and played in nine cities from August to December of last year alone and I figure that this often wild ride should be documented.

My home base is Venice Beach, California. I live in a little bungalow with Frank the cat who takes care of the place when I’m not around. I roller skate from pier to pier on the boardwalk every single day that I can when I am home, because often I find I’m not home, and missing my skates. I was ready to chill in Venice for a bit after landing home in December and relax . . .

But I just got my latest assignment. I’ve known sketchy details for about a month now, but I’m making an official announcement. I will be temporarily relocating to Albuquerque for some months. I’m excited about the prospect of working and living in such a beautiful landscape. The land there has spirit and depth. Work will be intense, but I feel like I won the lottery when it comes to co-workers and career, so even on the difficult days, I’ll have a smile on my face.

So I have T-minus three weeks and counting to get my life rounded up - and parts of it will go to ABQ, parts will stay behind. I don’t worry too much about the particulars, because just like taking off for a five day journey, the details kind of take care of themselves. I’ll find a place to live, I’ll figure out what to do with all of my stuff. I just try not to get in the way by thinking about any of it too much.

Dad wanted to take us out for dinner the first night we visit him in Owensboro. We all load up in his Chevy conversion van. Mom, who has had four major back surgeries in recent years, lies down in the backseat, chaffuered like a queen, with her little Chihuahua, Linus, perched on the ample shelf of her cleavage. The rest of us pile in. A belt in the engine strains out a constant squeal as we putt-putt down the curvy roads, which Dad steers through with alarming speed. We pull into the parking lot of The Cadillac Restaurant and Grecian Pizza Inn in Owensboro, Kentucky.

“This should be interesting,” Dad says. “Good people watching for you all.”

I’m immediately interested. My dad knows what good traveling is all about, but I want a bit more information. “What exactly do you mean, Dad?” I ask.

He pauses. “Well,” he says slowly, “Let’s just say that these aren’t what most people consider the highest class of folks . . . ”

“Awesome!” I yell, and hop out the van, quite excited, and head for the front door, the only door I see.

“Yeah, well you may want to use that other door on the other side of the building if you don’t want to walk through the smoke . . .” Dad calls out to us. He’s staying behind to help Mom climb out of the van. But, we’re already gone, my brother and sister and I, ready to investigate just exactly what kind of ‘good people-watching’ Dad could have meant.

I generally get really excited at the prospect of being able to patronize smoking establishments, if only for the sheer fact that they are becoming obsolete. For example, Chicago, the working-class party city of the world, just changed city ordinances to end smoking indoors, something I never thought would happen. We open the first of a set of double doors that lead to a vestibule full of candy and 25-cent novelty machines, and an invisible wall of heavy, stale cigarette smoke hits me full force.

We putter around in the vestibule for a moment, because Tammy sees some pink pirate fake tattoos in one of the machines. One quarter, two quarters, push! Clink-clink. Over and over, our brother keeps pumping quarters into the machine, until Tammy has just about every one of the tattoos listed on the display. Then he used his last two quarters for me, to get a “Homie” out of the next machine. I love those silly things.

In the vestibule, I notice the usual kinds of hand-written ads that people in a community tape and thumb-tack to the walls, ads for baby-sitting and yard sales. But there was one kind of notice stapled to the wall that I’d never seen before. It said, “You all may have known our brother, Thomas Sykes, known around town as Skipper, recently departed before his time. If you have any additional information about what may have happened to him, please call . . . ”

We open the second door leading to the inside of the Cadillac Restaurant. And instantly, we feel no less than thirty pairs of eyes on us. People have stopped talking and have shifted in their cafeteria chairs and booths to look at us. No one has an expression on their face. No one says a word, but all eyes are fixed on us as we walk through the restaurant and on to yet another set of double doors leading to a separate non-smoking room. The patrons’ eyes are like the paintings in the Scooby-Doo mysteries that follow the characters around. We are not the people watchers; we were the ones being watched. Everyone just keeps smoking and looking, the only part of them moving are their eyes as we walk past and their arms as they lift their cigarettes to their mouths.

The interior of the place is lit with bright flourescent lights. There are no walls in the smoking room, but the rows of tables are separated by walls of 25 and 50 cent scratch-off lotto ticket machines. The patrons are sitting at tables and booths and the place is full, with three smiling country waitresses running around. Everyone seems to know everyone else. In fact, the place feels like a bar, only there is no alcohol being served, everyone is drinking coffee, and it’s just too bright. There are pasty men with no teeth clad in grease-covered ballcaps, flannel shirts and overalls. Their beefy women, also puffing away, have bleach-blonde hair and big fake nails - some wear sweat suits. Everyone looks really tired. And although I have absolutely no evidence to support the feeling, later I ask Mom, “Does something illegal run out of there?”

We settle into a large table in the non-smoking section. They have a 4.99 blue plate special every night. I order the most obscure thing I can find on the menu, liver n’ onions with sides of beets and black-eyed peas, foregoing the safety of fried chicken or prime rib with the standard mashed potatoes. I really don’t know if the liver n’ onions was good, because thankfully it came to me smeared with brown gravy that would have made even a glass window pane taste good. The beets were strange and fizzy, as though they’d been marinated in soda water, so I sent them back, trading them for butter beans.

After our meal, we march back through the smoking room, Scooby-Doo eyes following us, like 30 pairs of silent ghost-eyes, the good people of The Cadillac Restaurant people-watching us folks who obviously just weren’t from around Owensboro. I will definitely come back to this establishment every single time I am in Owensboro. And I will sit one entire afternoon in the smoking room, watching.

Wow, I don’t know where to begin. The past few days have been wonderful and funny; strange and sentimental. The past five days flew by, yet there were often slow moments of awkwardness, where time seems to stop. I never spent one second completely alone, and that for me was strange. I suppose I could have gotten up early in the mornings and take a walk, for we were certainly in some gorgeous rolling countryside - but the mornings were 8 degrees!

I have some restaurant reviews to post. Boy, did we eat! I’m going to have to do a week-long cleanse to counteract the BBQ, Waffle House, and all the other hearty foods. And the best pizza ever in the history of the world just happens to have originated in my hometown. My sister nearly had a meltdown at midnight because we couldn’t find a Dunkin’ Donuts, after we’d promised her that the chain does indeed exist in Champaign-Urbana. I’m going to tell you about the freakiest lil diner in Owensboro.

We were on the road alot, driving in a circle from Nashville to Owenboro to Champaign-Urbana Illinois and then back to Owensboro and then back to Nashville. We told lots of stories and laughs. No one fell asleep or listened to music; we chatted the whole time and definitely made some memories. We grabbed granny from the retirement center and helped her run her errands. Namely we dropped her off at Gene’s Clip N’ Curl, where she gets her bi-weekly hairdo. The woman, bless her heart, hasn’t washed her own hair in 30 years. Then my sister had an idea - to knock on our mother’s door. I hid in the car and took pictures. More on alla that later, this is just a wrap-up.

Owensboro, where my Dad and stepmother live, is comforting and homey and I can see why they like it. I often say I come from gypsy-stock and it’s true. Seeing Mom and Dad in Owensboro was like a breath of fresh air. They live in a really nice campground snug in a little travel trailer and the five of us and their two dogs fit comfortably during our afternoon visits with no problems! Everyone told funny stories and laughed alot.

I got my brother and sister really drunk on our last night together. It ended with Jimmy passed out on the couch in our hotel room, Tammy and I drawing obscenities on our brother’s face with liquid eyeliner. The next day was a little rough for all of us, but we gave hugs and said good-bye’s. Then I bounded off for a chance for an afternoon with girlfriends in Nashville who I’ve not seen in three years!

All in all . . . great trip . . . more posts related to it to come.

We three sibs kick our great American road trip off with a Wednesday evening dinner and an American Idol viewing at Bailey’s restaurant on the Broadway strip in Nashville. We ask our waitress to take our picture together and she asks where we’re from and what we’re doing on our vacation. After explaining that this is the only the second time we’ve ever spent time together and that our story is ‘complicated,’ our waitress shrugs and says, “Oh yeah, I understand that. My momma was basically a crack-whore and I was born in a Texas commune and I’ve officially got five daddies and thirty-two siblings. And I stay in touch with most of them, too.”

“Wow, that’s really got to cut in to your social time.” I reply.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The hotel in Nashville leaves much to be desired, mostly cleanliness. The couch was covered with mystery stains. So, we make our brother sleep on it and we girls take the beds. I sleep fairly well and upon awaking, I stretch and yawn under the covers and when I pull my hands up from underneath the covers, there is a . . . . grimy sock . . . in my hand and I’m still kind of shaking the cobwebs out of my early morning mind and I’m confused because I don’t have any socks like this . . . and that’s when I realize that this isn’t my sock. Ahhhhhh! Yuck! Eeeeew!

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Yesterday morning we leave Nashville, after eating breakfast at Waffle House, of course. I love Lib’s Patty Melt. I scored some paper Waffle House hats, but have refrained from using them thus far. We head off for Kentucky – The Bluegrass State, where our Dad and stepmother live. None of us have ever been to their house, so we call Dad for directions. This may sound like a simple procedure, but oh no. It takes all three of us to navigate. Tammy keeps muttering, “I knew I should have brought the GPS.” Jimmy is on the phone with our Dad and it’s my job to write the directions down. I kid you not; here are the important parts of the route. I still don’t know how we found it. “Look for the DQ after the country school. There’ll be two lakes, an iron fence. At the T, take a right. Look for the camouflage golf cart and the dragon in the ivy. Park by the pimp van.” I’m here to tell you, there is no DQ in the country outside of Owensboro, but there is a tavern we’ll be checking out later.

1. House-sitter runs out for a wine opener at midnight.
2. House-sitter runs out for cat food at midnight.
3. House-sitter runs out for cheesecake, albeit the frozen variety, at midnight.
4. I am able to resist the midnight desert wine and frozen cheesecake.
5. I am able to resist round #2 of my own personal Iron Chef competition.
6. I wake up easily with a misty LA morning sunrise - so beautiful!
7. Very attractive male friend drops me off at LAX in the early morn.
8. Same very attractive male friend offers to pick me up upon my return to LAX.
9. Spare key set found in coat pocket while at security checkpoint after I thought I’d lost them.
10. The discovery of a type A 40-par light bulb in my purse when going through security makes me giggle. Giggling needs to happen more at airport security.

Tis the night before leaving and the rhythm is always kind of the same. I haven’t even packed my backpack yet. That comes later. My plane leaves in eight hours. What’s really important to me right now, though, is cooking and laundry. And then there’s the endless minutia of details that will all fall gracefully into place as they always do. Sleep will also come later.

I just played an Iron Chef match with myself. The goal is to use up all the produce in my fridge before leaving. I just made a delicious spinach, mushroom and feta couscous. Drat! I just wasn’t able to use everything. So in a couple of hours I’ll probably get really crazy and take that bag of carrots and that bag of celery and the renegade onions and all the fresh garlic I can find and make some sort of minestrone and freeze it for when I return.

I have to put all of my laundry away and grab the select few well-thought-out articles of clothing and accessories that I’ll be taking with me. This trip is only five days long, so I’ll carry only my Italian army backpack and I’ll try to keep it as light as possible. As a general rule for myself, I do not check baggage. Traveling light is a fine art in my opinion, so be sure there will be much more on this topic in upcoming posts.

I never sleep much the night before a journey and usually wake up well before dawn. When I do wake up, the first thing I’ll do is change the bedsheets. This is out of courtesy to my house-sitter*, this time around. But even when I don’t have a house-sitter, I always put fresh sheets on my bed and clean my house before leaving. This is so that when I’m out there in my travels, I can push my body to exhaustion and come home caked in dirt and grime, knowing I’ll be sleeping on clean fresh sheets.

*I recommend house-sitters like my friend Ryan. Every time I come home after he’s been watching my place, my floors are much shinier than I’ve ever been able to get them on my own. What a deal!

I’m heading off toward the Heartland!

And when I get off the plane in Nashville, Tennessee tomorrow afternoon, both my brother and my sister will be there to greet me. And it will only be the second time ever in our lives that the three of us have all been together! We will stay in Nashville one day only, then drive to Illinois to visit our 90-year-old grandma and then we’ll circle around and visit our dad and step-mother in Kentucky.

Why the second time ever we’ve all been together? Well, it’s complicated, to say the least, and when I think about the particulars, I think, “Wow, how cool is it that we can all do this?” I met my sister for the first time when I was 21 years old. My parents were unmarried and gave her up for adoption before my brother and I were born. She’s only a couple of years older than me. Over the years, we’ve stayed in touch and became friends . . . and, well . . . sisters. My brother has lived in Texas for years and doesn’t surface from his Lone Star state too often. So this is a momentous occasion!

They put me in a fuzzy blue pigsuit and said, “Wrestle the pink cow.” (I never twisted his utters; and in mutual respect, he never twisted my titties.) I fought so hard against the boy in the cow suit that as he flipped me over his head and began to pin me fast to the ground, my legs were straight up in the air and I kicked fast, fast, fast…back and forth until I was able to catch my own weight and get my balance back.

After the first round in which I barely eke out the win using my Win Chung Kung Fu prowess and knowledge of the lower center of gravity that a female possesses, the boy cow hung his head and began to cry, “Rematch! Rematch!”

“Yes, rematch,” I agreed, and licked my little piggie chops.

I won both times.

I will always shoot film as long as it continues to be manufactured. I enjoy alternative processes. I enjoy the tangible nature of film. I enjoy shooting it, and knowing that each frame that advances is precious and often the energy of film’s finite nature transfers to the final picture. I like playing with and manipulating Polaroid emulsion by hand. Nothing in a digital program can take the place of true infrared filmstock or true cross-chemical processing.

I will admit that these chemical processes are not good for the environment. But after seeing the internet documentary Story of Stuff, I realize that digital products are not without their own tolls on our environment and resources. (By the way, everyone should take the time to check out Annie Leonard’s story of stuff.)

But, as I make my foray into the blogging world, I realize the value of digital cameras. I recently purchased a digital Pentax SLR because I’ve used Pentax film cameras for years. (Thank you, Dad, for passing on your love of Pentax to me.) Also, a nice feature is that the digital lenses are also compatible with some of the older film bodies, so I can get dual-use of my lenses. I still have yet to buy a lens, so new digital pictures will be forthcoming. This will be my first experience with a digital SLR and I’m looking forward to it.

But until I get my new lens, I’m still over here, shooting film, but I don’t know how much longer that will be viable. I went to my photo lab yesterday, the photo lab I interned for a few years ago, the bustling photo lab with real-live humans as custom print-makers who were friends of mine. The photo lab that used paper invoices and had fridges stacked with various filmstocks.

But this was no longer my beautiful photo lab. This photo lab’s back rooms where the printmakers once worked was dark and lifeless. There was only one fridge, with a few canisters of film randomly tossed inside. There wasn’t alot going on behind the counter, just a clerk off in a back room, sitting in a white plastic lawn chair with a giant fan blowing air on him. There was no formal paperwork, he simply scratched my name down in a lined notebook.

But there’s still a smile on my face, because on Monday, I will be picking up my Velvia slides, pushed one stop, mounted in slidemounts and each one will be gorgeous. And I don’t really generally remember what the pictures are of and I get all light and giggly with the anticipation of finding out! And I can’t accidentally delete them, there’s no ‘back-up’ to worry about and technology cannot replace them. Those slides are tangible things that I’m going to hold in my hand and project light into and I can’t wait! I’m a film dork, it’s true.

That being said, I plan on interspersing this blog with lots of different mediums - from film to digital and every mix in between. It’s not an issue of what’s better. They are all just different tools.