Finding clean underwear after you’ve packed all your clothing in the depths of your car over one week ago is no easy task. I was in a hurry a week or so ago when I was both packing my house and separately packing for a woodsy getaway. I don’t know what I was thinking . . . it’s quite clear that I was not.

Yesterday I finally found the underwear I’d stashed for myself. Somehow they were hiding near the parking brake of my car. I do not recommend this approach. If you find yourself in a situation like mine, where you have need to hide some clean underwear for yourself for a later date - I suggest you put your necessities in a little backpack and stash it somewhere obvious. And I suggest you pack an extra pair. And maybe some extra contact lenses too.

I’m leaving a day later than anticipated. Digging around in my car is not an option. I’m wearing my glasses - and not divulging the condition of my undergarments.

Here I go . . . finally. I’m leaving this here town of Los Angeleez in about two hours. I’m looking forward to some things - the solitude of the drive through the Mojave, moving into an all-adobe house, living in a new and beautiful environment.

I’m quiet this morning. Lots going on inside my head that I just can’t get out right now. I feel empty and full all at the same time. It’s a good space to be in for a journey.

I’m still reeling from the incredible journey to the Pacific NW and still reeling from bouncing around like a homeless little ghost in Venice for the past few days.

Happy Trails . . . . . to-o-o-ooo me-ee-eeee!

I got back to LA on Tuesday evening.

I took the bus home, which is always enjoyable, and walked home in my hiking boots through my neighborhood, shifting the weight of my backpack and taking it all in with an outsider’s eyes. Because, my sublettor is already living in my house and so technically, it’s not really my neighborhood anymore for next few months.

I’ve got a very loose plan. All I know is that I have to report to work in ABQ on Monday - and that I have to travel with a reluctant cat. I’ve been bouncing around the past couple of days at friends’ places - while the cat is still at the bungalow. I spent the entire afternoon yesterday in the garden at my house. Heaven. The last minute going away party was great - several old friends showed up, which made my night!

Now it’s Thursday though and the bubble is about to pop. I’m kind of over it all and ready go. Not because I want to go, necessarily, but just because this departure has been dragging. I had a good cry this morning. Part of me just wants to wrecklessly say ‘fuck it’ and hurry the hell outta here. I’m wrestless, all that’s dear to me is packed in my car and I’m going to have a wonderful experience where I’m headed - and just trying to keep breathing - and bouncing - in the right now.

And I’m not talking about pavement. Resurfacing comes slowly . . . .

I’ve spent the last four days on an island, surrounded by soaring eagles and lapping ocean waves, not giving two damp shits about anything happening out there in the real world. And it’s going to take a while before that AnnaTude changes.

This morning I woke up and for a brief moment, I didn’t know where I was. I love it when that happens. I’m in Bellingham, Washington at my dear friend Nan’s house. My eyes focus on an abstract flowered quilt hanging on the wall of my bedroom, and a smile creeps across my face as I remember where I’ve woken up. Unfortunately, I only arrived yesterday afternoon and am leaving this morning.

It’s such a pleasure to see examples of how we affect one another as people. I have not been to Nan’s house in three years, yet when I look on her fridge, I see a note on the dry erase board with my signature on it and a quote. “Love is Profound.”

Ahh, my bus leaves in ten minutes. I’m still in my jammies. Yes, resurfacing comes slowly. And my writings may be a bit ‘pigeon’ for awhile . . . . wheeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!!!!!!!!

This is it! It’s almost all packed up. Damn, I have alot of clothes. And I stopped counting shoes at 20 some pairs. Some last minute cleaning, maybe if I still feel like it and then, I hop on a plane later today. I’m to that point where I’m just kind of done. If it’s not packed, it’s not going.

After I leave today, I’ll be floating and sort of homeless til March 2. The floating is a high. It’s like the deepest, calmest breath welling up inside of me and it carries me out into the world . . . where I’m free and moving to the beat of my own feet, truly.

Today my plane lands at the Seattle airport. Then the journey will take me on two separate car trips and one ferry ride and by this evening I will be sleeping soundly in a cabin on an island in Puget Sound.

The one thing I’m looking most forward to is the clear air space. Something happens when you leave LA. The chatter finally clears. Yeah, the actual physical quality of the air is cleaner, but the actual chatter leaves, too, and you can finally think again in a way you’d kind of forgotten about. Clean, clear, simple . . . the brain doesn’t quite feel like it’s doing jumping jacks anymore.

So, I’ll be incommunicado til Monday . . . have a great weekend!

Last night, my friend Stu and I were having a bit of late, post-dinner conversation for my last evening in Venice.

“I’m gonna have to look up your blog. Read the stories. Because I know I’m in some of them!” he said with a big grin.

“But, not necessarily,” I told him. “the ‘really good stuff’ doesn’t make the blog. That’s the material for my books!”

So just imagine what’s NOT making it up here. Ah, ya’ll will know soon enough. I’m sequestering myself inside a kiva in Albuquerque in the coming months, all with the intention of doing some serious writing. Don’t worry - I’ll change the names/identifying characteristics of all guilty parties.

OK, but since I’ve told you about Stu, here’s a picture of us causing trouble several years ago, one night during an episode of the Santa Ana winds. That’s one of the stories too good to make the blog. Coming soon to you in another format.

I’ve been getting up early every morning with sunrise. A new Anna. But yesterday morning, I kept waaay hunkered down beneath the covers, even though my plan was to get up early and do laundry. I’m forever looking for an excuse to not do my chores, but this was not a reason for sleeping in that I welcomed.

I was awakened this morning at 5 AM by the sound of a good ole-fashioned gunfight in my charming Venice alley. The alley, let’s face it, is only a late-night haven for hookers and crack-smokin’. I don’t mind that my neighborhood is a little rough; it has helped to slow down the gentrification process, but I will admit that I don’t think the idea of bullets flying down my streets is fun, romantic or good in any way.

I always say with pride that I’d rather have the crack-heads walking around my corner than the little yuppie lady with the yappy dog. It’s all fun and good to say that until something sobering like this happens. I’ve seen bodies in the street here, a few years ago. It’s not pretty. I don’t feel personally at risk, per se, but it’s sad to get in your car at daybreak and see a dead guy in the next intersection reflecting back at you from the rear view mirror.

I covered my head with pillows after hearing one shot whiz past my house. Then the sound of a close-by gun retaliating from another direction causes me alarm . . . it’s close enough that I can tell one shooter is facing east and the other west. In fact, my bedroom sounds like it’s right in the middle of the whole mess. Then dead quiet. Then I hear the sirens. Mind you, it’s 5 AM - (historically right around the time when Venice gunfights usually break out)!! And just when I thought I should be hearing helicopters, sure enough, I hear a low . . . whop, whop, whop . . . right on cue. I bury my head further. That chopper is gonna be circling my house, I just know it.

And then I hear something I have never heard before . . . voices. Close voices of people moving around outside, on the other side of a simple cinder block and lattice wall that separates my little piece of Venice heaven from the ‘hood. The next apartment over butts right up against the back of my place, with just a narrow, two feet at the most, space between. It’s gated and never used. But I heard whispers, cracking metal and voices moving behind my house. The voices keep moving past as the helicopter noise gets closer.

I go back to sleep. There were media trucks and cops and lots and lots of my African American neighbors at the community center today. One of the last flop-houses, the one directly across from the community center, was torn down last week. Like the end of an era. I’m just wondering - where do all the poor people go at the end of this land grab? No easy solutions. And the gunfire really disrupts the inherent symbiosis of an artsy-rough-cool neighborhood like mine, making all sides empassioned and uneasy.

All day long I’ve packed up the bungalow. Well, sort of. Parts of it - clothes, certain books, computer/office stuff. A couple of days ago, I packed all the photo stuff - nearly a trunk load on it’s own! I am in true vagabond mode now. Tomorrow is my last day official day in Venice for 8 months. Part of what is making this a reality is seeing my sublettor’s videos on YouTube of her cross-country journey from Washington DC. Tonight I believe she’s in Texas, getting ever closer . . Knowing that I leave Thursday and that she arrives the very next day is the only thing keeping me continually packing boxes. Otherwise, it wouldn’t seem real.

And it’s wierd. In the past when I’ve sublet my place, I’ve just walked away pretty much with only my clothes. This time, since I’ll be gone for such a long while and since I’m planning on working on in-depth writing and photo projects while on the road, I’m taking quite alot with me, but at the same time, leaving much in the way of personal effects behind. Example: taking granny’s letters, but leaving her Lennox china behind. This is the largest ‘move’ of my stuff I’ve made in over six years, and I must admit, it’s been a really good experience. I didn’t realize how much stuff I’ve collected! I’ve organized and pared down, which really needed to happen. But, the best part is that I haven’t had to move any furniture.

I’m really glad I’ve kept the art studio space too. I’m storing quite a few things there. So, all the physical ’stuff’ of my life is, in effect, spread out over three separate places - car, art studio and bungalow. And my neighbor just the other day asked me if that seemed odd. It doesn’t. It just seems like I’m surfing, like I’m riding this wave, coasting in at breakneck speed, and it’s fun and it’s exhilirating . . .

There are drawbacks of going on the road - like putting life temporarily on hold. Like just when I get the call to leave, I meet Mr. Super Freakin’ Awesome and I’d like to stay and get to know him a lot better. It reminds me sorta of this Lyle Lovett song called “West Texas Highway” about a vagabond who hitches a ride. The hitchhiker talks to his ride about “his woman back in Abilene.” (Ahh, I’m glad we vagabonds have got something bringing us back home eventually.) The song ends with the driver saying “I wish to this very day, he had my clothes and this shiny Chevrolet and it was me with a woman back in Abilene . . . .” (The call of the road is hypnotic, yes . . . , but it’s the journey home that makes it all worth it.)

SideShow Frank’s Journey . . . Of Love, that’s my cat. ‘Frank’ for short - and he came to me already with this name, btw. He’s a mythic cat, thus the long name. From his humble origins, to his hippie days living in a Volkswagon van, to his many friends in the neighborhood and around the globe, he lives his own life. Through a twist of fate, we ended up sharing the bungalow. Every time I’ve ever left town, I’ve left him in the care of a sublettor or house-sitter. This time, though, he’s going with me on the adventure.

Three days left before I leave. And just like every other time, I will leave without him, but only for a few days. Frank knows that something is up. He’s seen this many times before. He’s following me back and forth to my car, watching me very closely, to see what I’m packing.

When I get home from Seattle in a week, I’ll scoop him up and we’ll be off. I have no idea how we will fare in the car together. And then, the new house . . . And then, the dogs . . . I’m wincing. It’s gonna be a whole new world. If anyone has any suggestions for traveling with cats or introducing them to dogs, let me know! I’ve never done this before!

I’m assured that the dogs are ok with cats. I think that part’s gonna be OK. Frank himself, is part dog. A cog, perhaps, or a dat.

Shown above: Frank in Kitty Porn position

We’ve all had the flu before - but for me it had been awhile, so I’ve decided to lay down some handy pointers . . .

Before flu season begins, stock up on medicine, just in case.

It is imperative that you do this before you actually get the flu. Once it hits, let me remind you that you will not want to get up off the couch. All you want is that night time, sniffling, sneezing, coughing . . . yeah, you know the one, the one you DON’T have in your medicine cabinet. If you wait til you’re feeling like shit, you’ll stumble into the pharmacy in your jammies and slippers, completely disoriented and you’ll pick out the TheraFlu, like I did. And that stuff tastes fabulous, like hot lemonade, but it just doesn’t knock you on your ass like good ole Nyquil. Learn from my mistake. Have the good stuff on hand.

Soup. Fresh home-made soup is necessary upon first onset of symptoms. Chicken soup is good. Hot and sour soup is good. Matzah ball soup is best. If you are girl-scout-level prepared, you’ll have some homemade chicken soup sitting in the freezer. Needless to say, I did not. Stumble into a local restaurant and order the largest container of soup on the menu. To go. ASAP.

Warm snuggles. Hopefully, you’ve got someone awesome to call and warm that soup up for you, feed you your medicine and take care of you a little bit in an intimate and comforting way. It sucks to be really sick all by yourself. By the time you are well, it may be your turn to do the comforting.