running away

manifest destiny’s child, aka westward hos

Crystal Jackson big sur, cabin in the woods, dreams, housing, Houston, moving, running away, the outdoors, things that make me happy, travel 19 Comments

Clear cold water crashes against the craggy coast and sprays barking seals lazing on white beaches. Dramatic cliffs drop to sea level, giving way to farmland filled with avocados, strawberries and artichokes. Mystical fog rolls in, and when it rolls back out everything twinkles. Echoes of Beats and Deadheads ring through a city that is literary and illiterate, confident and self-conscious, satisfied and starving. Giant and ancient redwoods reach for the sun and create a quiet twilight below. Patchwork vineyards unfurl over gentle hills that rise and fall like breathing.

We dream of the California coast.

And we’re going to California again, only this time it’s different. This time we’re taking the dogs, our cars and our whittled down belongings with us.

Perhaps it’s the middle-age crazies, or maybe it’s the freedom cry of two people unencumbered by a mortgage or children. Whatever it is, we’re moving to Monterey. Home of the Jazz Festival, California’s first theatre, public library and newspaper, monarch butterflies, migrating whales and blue water as far as the eye can see. It’s a small town a couple hours south of San Francisco and a quick, scenic trip up the Pacific Coast Highway from Big Sur.

It was inevitable, really.

We leave in March.

blue skies and bottles of wine

Crystal Jackson big sur, cabin in the woods, running away, the outdoors, things that make me happy, travel 5 Comments

James and I just returned from a trip to California’s central coast, where we celebrated his birthday and renewed our spirits. We hit San Francisco, Monterey/Pacific Grove and Big Sur. Though those places can often be cold and foggy, we had blue skies and balmy days with brisk, clear nights.

first stop: San Francisco - this is the 9th floor of the de Young Museum - great 360 view of the city - squint and you can see Golden Gate Bridge

first stop: San Francisco – this is the 9th floor of the de Young Museum – great 360 view of the city – squint and you can see the Golden Gate Bridge – once back on the ground, there’s a nice James Turrell Skyspace just outside the museum

Lover's Point in Pacific Grove

Lover’s Point, Pacific Grove – pictures don’t lie (if you don’t know how to use photoshop) – this place is strikingly beautiful

Asilomar Beach, Pacific Grove - while taking this picture, a dude rode up on a bicycle to shoot the breeze and admire the view, then another unrelated bicyclist stopped to tell us about some people playing guitar down the beach - the people we ran into in Monterey and Pacific Grove were all talkative and friendly, probably happy that they live in such a beautiful place

Asilomar Beach, Pacific Grove – while taking this, a dude rode up on a bicycle to shoot the breeze and admire the view, then another unrelated bicyclist stopped to tell us about some folks playing guitar down the beach – I don’t know if it was us or the location, but we had lots of random, friendly conversations with locals on this trip

jellyfish at the Monterey Bay Aquarium

jellyfish at the Monterey Bay Aquarium, a mesmerizing experience

service dog, meet penguin

service dog, meet penguin (speaking of service dogs, we saw a guy try to bring his regular dog into a restaurant – the dog had an old leash that said “service dog” on it, but he wasn’t wearing the official vest and wasn’t acting calm, cool and collected like you’d expect – this dog was jinking and janking around, sniffing things, wagging his tail and trying to get petted) (for the most part, dogs are very welcome in the Carmel/Monterey/Pacific Grove triangle, and many restaurants have dog bowls full of water on their patios) (some even feature doggie menus, though I don’t know where a dog would keep her wallet – no pockets)

the stellar's jay, which I've only seen in Big Sur though it can be found all along the western part of the US (mostly in forests)

the stellar’s jay, which I’ve only seen in Big Sur though it can be found all along the western part of the US (mostly in forests)

waterfall at Limekiln State Park - we passed through the park's campground to get to the trails, and the campsites were so nice they actually made me want to try sleeping in a tent one of these days

waterfall at Limekiln State Park – we didn’t see any other hikers in our three hours at this park, though there were quite a few campers and RV people down closer to the beach

climbing over boulders and downed trees to get closer to the waterfall - we brought hiking sticks on this trip to Big Sur, and it made all the difference (as is usually the case when you have the right tools for the job)

climbing over boulders and downed trees to get closer to the waterfall – we brought hiking sticks that allowed us to go places we normally wouldn’t have tried to access – the sticks were also useful the five or six times we had to cross flowing water on slippery rocks or old pieces of wood to get to the falls

the eponymous limekilns - always an interesting experience to run across old machinery (and modern graffiti) in the middle of nowhere

the eponymous limekilns – old machinery (and modern graffiti) seemingly in the middle of nowhere – wonder what the people who operated these kilns would think of hikers coming to visit their workplace

momentary fulfillment of my cabin in the woods fantasy - instead of Deetjen's, this time we stayed at Ripplewood, cabin 2, next to the Big Sur River - there's a deck to the left of this window, which is a great place for a snack and glass of wine

momentary fulfillment of my cabin in the woods fantasy – instead of Deetjen’s, this time we stayed at Ripplewood, cabin 2, next to the Big Sur River – there’s a deck to the left of this window, which is a great place for a snack and glass of wine – notice the charging iPhones, which are basically (and blessedly) useless in Big Sur

Bixby Bridge, the gateway to Big Sur

Bixby Bridge – when you reach it, you know you’ve arrived in Big Sur (if the winding road and breathtaking views didn’t already alert you to that fact)

Places of interest:

Great meals:

 

lost and found

Crystal Jackson running away, writing 5 Comments

As mentioned previously, I’m going through a purge of late. I’m trying to whittle down my possessions to things that are loved, used regularly or, preferably, both. On average, I’m freeing myself of two or three trash bags full each weekend. Some things get donated, sold or given to friends, while other stuff gets sent to the big plastic trash bin in the sky. I mean, under the carport. It’s amazing how much shit you can accumulate when you have the space to not feel crowded.

This has been a lightening, and it’s also been the opposite (a heavying?). It’s so easy to get sucked down the rabbit hole of memories, good and bad. This makes the process go slower, but that’s okay. What are we, if not our past experiences, current reality and forward-thinking selves, all wrapped into one? Can’t know where you are if you don’t know where you’ve been, etc. So it’s slow going at times, like many worthwhile things in life.

During today’s purge, I ran across a few scribbled monologues from late 2008. I went through a phase where every character that popped into my head wanted to talk without anyone talking back (monologue, not dialogue). Feel free to do the psychological analysis on that. This monologue struck me as funny, so I’m going to share it with you. I made a note that the character speaking is a broom, with a cork in its mouth, wearing a wig, but you can read it as a woman with a cork in her mouth wearing her own hair. Her friend reads the note aloud.

Hello. It’s so nice to see you. Unless this is a funeral, in which case I’m sorry to see you. Well, not sorry. Just sad that we had to meet under these circumstances.

In case you’re wondering why I’m communicating with you via this note, you may have noticed that there’s a cork in my mouth. I’ve been participating in a somewhat unorthodox treatment for my weight problem, which I now seem to have under control. To be safe, the cork must remain firmly lodged for a period of no shorter than six months.

Don’t worry. I’m still receiving sustenance through an intravenous feed in the inside flesh of my elbow. Or between my toes. Or in my eyeball. The veins get tired after a while. Just like a heroin addict, ha ha.

My point is, I’m not starving to death. Just starving to the point of looking good.

The note used to end here, and people would hand this little sheet back to me or forget to hand it back and I’d have to grab it after a bit, which just felt rude. I thought that my explanation was enough, but I could sense that people wanted more.

You’re perhaps wondering how this has impacted my relationship with my husband. In fact, we are getting along quite well now. My inability to talk led me to find profundity in the silence. Our lack of repartee made me realize that I don’t love him anymore. So we’re getting a divorce. But we’re parting as friends. And with my newfound body, there’s been no shortage of men. I hope that the man I’m currently dating doesn’t have a problem when I remove the cork! Ha ha.

To be honest, I kind of like the cork. It’s that old saying–better to keep your mouth shut and be thought a fool than to open it and remove all doubt. I think there is a Zen Buddhist thing going on with my ongoing silence. People really seem to pay attention to me in a way they didn’t before. Before the cork. But I do sometimes want a cheeseburger.

this photo was taken very close to the date on which I wrote that monologue - this is our driveway in the Heights, post Hurricane Ike - my Miata was safely stored in the garage, and James' car was narrowly missed

this photo was taken very close to the date on which I wrote that monologue – this is our driveway in the Heights, post Hurricane Ike – my Miata was safely stored in the garage, and James’ car was narrowly missed

like camp, only with booze

Crystal Jackson running away, theatre, things that make me happy, travel, writing 3 Comments

Great Plains Theatre Conference. Nine days in Omaha. Spirited conversations with witty, articulate people from all over the country. Warm Midwestern hospitality. Lots of wine, good food and new friends. No sleep, quiet time or tornadoes. And I would happily do it all over again (but let me take a nap first).

When The Singularity was chosen for the GPTC, I wasn’t sure what I’d gotten myself into. I’d never been to Nebraska. The conference dates included my ten-year anniversary with James. The only planes that fly non-stop to Omaha are tiny. I didn’t know any of the people who were going to be there, including the director and cast of my play.

Whatever fears I had were quickly washed away during the first breakfast at the hotel when I met the other playwrights. They were a welcoming group, and we had instant chemistry. Within a day or two, I felt like I’d known some of them for years. We fell into easy friendships the way you do when you’re a kid, spending the entire conference laughing, telling stories and supporting each other. A bit of magic in an otherwise indifferent world.

Intellectually, the concept of seeing three or more full-length play readings each day sounded difficult but doable. And it was, though I was surprised at how mentally and emotionally taxing it is to hear so many stories in a row. This wasn’t passive theatre watching. We were filling out response forms and giving feedback during the talk backs, and because we wanted to be supportive of each other we really concentrated on what we were listening to. My playwright’s brain was stretched from seeing so many new pieces that incorporated different themes, language and structure than the plays I write. I look forward to seeing how that exposure will impact my writing going forward.

I owe a debt of gratitude to the people who make the GPTC happen. I’ve never before had this sort of opportunity to let the day-to-day worries and responsibilities of my life go and just concentrate on something I love.

It was camp, for adults.

asdfads

I received helpful and positive feedback after my reading that identified a few moments that could use some tweaking – changes that, once made, will hopefully help this play find its first production (St. Fortune, a theatre collective in NYC, provided the cast and director for my play – they are a talented bunch – if you live in New York, go see them perform)

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an unfortunately named apartment building near the hotel

;lkj

the tornado siren outside my hotel room – it sounded for about two minutes on the third night (around 1AM), and my heart almost made it all of the way out of my body via my mouth – I thought its cry meant there was a tornado skipping down the street and heading straight for my room – in fact, the warning siren will go off 15 minutes or more before a tornado might hit – freakout time comes when the siren continually blares (I found this out when I got dressed and went down to the lobby where I sat with the old folks and watched the weather radar until the threat had passed, quizzing them about how the sirens work and whether or not it was odd for tornadoes to be forming in the middle of the night) (it was)

look at those happy faces

just like camp, we were carted around in a big yellow school bus – interesting to note: this photo was taken on the first day of the conference – everyone is already bright and happy

;lkj

the Friday night fringe festival took us to places all over the Metropolitan Community College campus, which I’d wager is the nicest community college campus in the country – it’s on the site of an old fort and is full of 1800s-era buildings with tall ceilings, ornate woodwork and wraparound porches (and probably a few ghosts)

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in addition to the historic buildings, there’s also a bright and shiny new culinary institute – the chef/professors fed us delicious and healthy lunches each day, and they let the conference use their culinary theater for the fringe festival

;lkj

I submitted a short play I wrote during one of the workshops to be read at the play slam on the last day of the conference – this lovely octogenarian agreed to read a part in my play, which caused her to say words she’d probably never uttered before (at least not in polite company) – it was a great feeling to throw something on stage that had been written in a hurry just a couple of days before – everyone was so supportive, I felt totally comfortable letting it all hang out

;lkj'lj

the mainstage playwrights and other special guests stayed on campus in some of the historic homes – porch parties organically erupted some nights, providing a break from the theatre and the chance for music and conversation – this was taken on the last night of the conference, which was bittersweet

LINKS OF INTEREST
Great Plains Theatre Conference
St. Fortune (the kickass company that presented my play)
Fort Omaha campus of the Metropolitan Community College (our gracious hosts)
Element Omaha Midtown Crossing (our spacious digs – each room came with big windows and a kitchen with full-size fridge, dishwasher, microwave, oven and stove – they also provided a great breakfast, never repeating the same item in the nine mornings I was there)
House of Loom (hipsters abound in Omaha – this place features delicious craft cocktails served by the hip and tatted)

trip: the images

Crystal Jackson running away, the outdoors, travel 9 Comments

(see previous post for some exposition)

traffic...so much fucking traffic

traffic…so much fucking traffic

remember Wienerschnitzel? a long time ago, one of Houston’s two dailies (the Post, I think) ran a snippet about my grandfather Ted’s visit to a Wienerschnitzel in Bellaire – he ordered “ein wienerschnitzel” at the drive-thru, trying to be funny, and the non-German-speaking person who took his order thought he wanted NINE wienerschnitzels – he had a hard time explaining why he wasn’t going to pay for nine hotdogs once his order arrived – and, yes, this made it into the paper (I have the clipping) – there weren’t as many mass killings and celebrity nip slips to cover back then, so newspapers had room to share anecdotes

remember Wienerschnitzel? a long time ago, one of Houston’s two dailies (the Post, I think) ran a snippet about my grandfather Ted’s visit to a Wienerschnitzel in Bellaire – he ordered “ein wienerschnitzel” at the drive-thru, trying to be funny, and the non-German-speaking person who took his order thought he wanted NINE wienerschnitzels – he had a hard time explaining why he wasn’t going to pay for nine hotdogs once his order arrived – and, yes, this made it into the paper (I have the clipping) – there weren’t as many mass killings and celebrity nip slips to cover back then, so newspapers had room to share anecdotes

orange trees were everywhere

orange trees were everywhere

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Joshua Tree National Park: in the middle of this picture, you’ll see a ridge – that would be the San Andreas Fault – it runs right through the park – I felt some trembles during my visit, but I think it was just my usually dormant leg muscles responding to hiking up a mountain rather than anything earthly

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the park is full of huge boulders strewn about like they’re in a giant’s sandbox and weird trees reaching for the sky (can’t tell if they’re asking “why?” or saying “you kids, get out of my yard”)

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this was my first trip to the desert, and I was very taken with the unusual (to me) plant life – we only saw a few lizards here and there and the occasional bird – any other wildlife remained hidden from sight

a bit Seussian, dontcha think?

a bit Seussian, dontcha think?

mine

Lost Horse Mine: sadly, the mine is all fenced off, which takes away from the magic of the machinery (and probably also takes away from potential lawsuits), check out the solar panel installed on top (?) – the hike was four miles, and because it was so hilly and curvy we felt like we were alone in the wilderness most of the time

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Rorschach effect: I tried to keep my boulder interpretations to myself, but I did point out to James the two huge, round rocks that formed a big butt (not pictured)

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Joshua Tree Inn: we stayed at this funky little inn right off the highway – the guitar is part of a memorial in the courtyard dedicated to Gram Parsons (who ODed and then died there) (he died in room 8 – we stayed in room 9) – he was supposedly going out in the desert to hunt for UFOs – there were weird noises in the room the entire night, probably pumped in by the owners to heighten the haunted feel of the place

Gram Parsons' memorial at Joshua Tree Inn

this bird liked hanging out on top of the guitar – we saw him/her at night and then early in the morning

I was really excited about being able to get so close to a couple of sea lions when James pointed out that there was probably something wrong with at least one of them

Newport Beach: I was really excited about being able to get so close to a couple of sea lions when James pointed out that there was probably something wrong with at least one of them

these cats mostly just sat on their boards and gossiped about work (we were standing on a pier and could hear their conversation as if we were right next to them)

these cats mostly just sat on their boards and gossiped about work (we were standing on a pier and the wind brought us their conversation) – I could get into that form of surfing

this image reminds me of an Ocean Pacific t-shirt I had in the 80s

this image reminds me of an Ocean Pacific t-shirt I had in the ’80s

trip: the narrative

Crystal Jackson people be trippin', running away, travel

(for those of you who like to read)

For a change of pace, James and I directed our annual trip to California (which we took in March) to the southern end of the state. We’re diehard fans of the more northern reaches, so we weren’t sure what we’d find on the other end. Traffic aside (horrible, horrible traffic) (just fucking brutally, apocalyptically horrible), southern California ended up being quite nice.

On the flight out, we sat about five rows in front of this irritating, stereotypical Texan. She was from Sugar Land, wore multiple animal prints and high heels and had slapped on a thick coat of make up. The whole flight, she talked about Jesus. She was trying to convert the Indian woman she was sitting next to (who she probably thought was a terrorist). When the plane landed, she threw her hands in the air and praised the Lord. Effusively and loudly. I said something shitty in response, loud enough for her to hear, but I think the buzz from her diet pills probably drowned out anything I had to say.

We didn’t escape her once off the plane. She stood behind us in baggage claim, giving a blow-by-blow to whatever poor bastard was on his way to pick her up, most likely cursing the eHarmony gods and box wine for his fate. Once we had our bags, the woman was quickly forgotten. Ah, but when we were back at the airport six days later, guess who we saw clip-clopping her way toward our gate. Of all the days and all the flights… She was remarkably subdued compared to the flight out, which means things with eHarmony didn’t go so well, or she found a slightly different way to get spiritual while she was in California.

Our first stop after landing was to see my friend Bree in LA. We walked from her cute apartment to a place that only serves grilled cheese sandwiches and soup, which is a great idea. On the way there, we saw the Hollywood sign, a few crazy people (one was singing–rather well, in fact) (and, unlike San Francisco, I didn’t see anyone asking for money) and lots of blue skies and sunshine. We sat outside the restaurant at a table next to the sidewalk. The only “Hollywood” behavior I saw in my short time in LA was this: many of the people who walked by our table *looked.* Not like a passerby checking out the scenery. They looked like they wanted to make sure we weren’t somebody. They’d look at James (in his super funky sunglasses) and Bree (who’s a super cute actress) and me (and then there’s Maude), and they’d decide that we probably weren’t somebody important. With which I beg to differ. We’re just using different currencies.

From there, we drove east. We’ve all heard people bitch about the traffic in southern California, but until you’ve experienced it you really can’t quite grasp the situation. It took us three hours to go 60 miles. On the freeway. Everyone would be going 85, driving with just a few feet between their car and the next, and then suddenly it would all grind to a halt. Stop and go. For miles and miles. If some shit ever goes down out there and people try to evacuate, they’d be better off on foot or bicycle (or boat and ocean) because cars aren’t going anywhere.

We headed into the mountains. Then the desert. Then the beach. We did this over a period of days, but you could seriously do coast-mountains-desert-coast in one day if you wanted to. Now that’s variety.

Pictures are next.

Bob and Linda

Crystal Jackson awkward, running away, travel

James and I are traveling to N. California soon for vacation. We’re going to stay at a friend’s house in Napa for part of the trip. We’ve never been to the wine country before (since we tend to stay on the coast), so I’m excited about seeing some new sights.

Before realizing half our trip would be spent in Napa, I was checking out yurts and cabins for us to stay in near Point Reyes/Marin County. I read a lot of reviews of these places, trying to find one that would be the right balance of funky-yet-no-bedbugs. As I researched, there was a surprising (but maybe not) thread that seemed to run through many of these independently owned dwellings. Bob and Linda.

Bob and Linda (or Jim and Sally or Barry and Mel) are the owners of the yurt/cabin. You know their names because they are mentioned–frequently–in the reviews. As in, “Bob and Linda couldn’t have been more gracious hosts. They joined us each evening for a glass of wine and a chat.” Or, “We were a little nervous about staying so far out in the woods by ourselves, but luckily Bob and Linda stopped by to check on us and ended up hanging out for dinner.”

I’m sure Bob and Linda are perfectly lovely, and I’m sure they are full of stories about the time they went to the nudist resort or their commitment to veganism (helps move the bowels!). But going on vacation is like a long exhale. And if I’m staying in a yurt or other non-traditional dwelling, I don’t want to make small talk. I want to breathe green air and let my gaze go as far as my corrective lenses allow without being short-stopped by a building or parking lot or smog. I want to sit in comfortable silence or laugh with James or listen to good music or the ocean or the wind in the trees.

We’re in San Francisco for the other half of the trip, where I will be happy to engage with whomever and whatever awkwardness we come across. But that time out in the country is valuable stuff.

Here’s a simple pictorial explanation from our last trip to San Francisco/Big Sur:

standing in the Big Sur River breathing that clean country air = no Bob and Linda

getting drunk in a bar across from City Lights, high on books (and a bit blurry) = bring it on, Bob and Linda

open letter

Crystal Jackson Houston, open letter, people be trippin', random, running away, things that surprise me 2 Comments

Dear Man Jogging Down I-10 Around 7PM Tonight During Heavy Traffic,

I saw you for the first time a couple of hours ago on my way home from work. I was driving my car on the freeway when something caught my eye. It was something that moved unlike a car. A bit of whimsy in the midst of smog-inducing, butt-numbing traffic. It was you, jogging down the shoulder of the freeway as if you had been loosed upon the tundra after a period of confinement.

You were in my sights for no more than a moment or two, yet I still took in the details of your being. You were wearing a white shirt, black shorts and exercise shoes of some flavor. Your clothes were snug, as if you wanted nothing to slow you down. You had good form and appeared to move quickly, though not as quickly as I was, even in traffic, sitting on my ass in my car, listening to music, looking at you. I wonder how many other drivers almost popped their necks, jerking their heads to look to the right. At you, jogging down the shoulder of the freeway as if you were on the first leg of a short run.

There exists the possibility that your car broke down and you’d forgotten your cellphone, so you were forced to let your feet do the jogging. But you weren’t in work attire (unless you work as a model for bike shorts). And you weren’t moving like someone who had the misfortune to break down on the freeway. Granted, I’ve never seen anyone jogging away from their abandoned car, but I would imagine there would be a resigned hunch in their shoulders, a “why me” sort of gait. But you, you were jogging down the shoulder of the freeway as if you were in the midst of an urban workout that requires adrenaline and a death wish. Or as if you were running from zombies–a cautionary tale for the rest of us. No, I know what it was.

You were jogging down the shoulder of the freeway the way I would jog to a wine and puppy party.

Whatever your destination and whatever your reason(s), I hope you made it where you were going. Thanks for making the drive home more…confusing.

Travels with Charley, redux (the conflicted edition)

Crystal Jackson books, question, running away, travel 3 Comments

I woke up on the roadside, daydreamin’ ’bout the way things sometimes are. - Dylan

I’ve been caught up in thoughts about honesty and writing, specifically honesty in writing, after my father alerted me to the new-ish controversy surrounding my favorite read of late, Travels with Charley.  A writer set off to follow Steinbeck’s route across the country to document how America had changed over the past 50 years since Steinbeck’s trip. And what he found was that Steinbeck’s timeline didn’t match up (he couldn’t have had the conversations he claimed because certain historical events that were referenced had not yet happened when the conversation supposedly did), he didn’t sleep in the back of his truck, Rocinante, all that much (because he was mostly staying in inns and resorts along the way) and, perhaps most egregious of all, he wasn’t alone with his dog on the majority of the trip (because his wife was sitting next to him in the cab of the truck more than half the time).

Steinbeck says in the beginning of the book that he didn’t take notes on his journey, so I expected that the conversations he printed were a writer’s creative recreations. Unless you have a court reporter or a tape recorder, you can’t accurately write down exactly what you and the other person(s) said five minutes after the conversation, much less days, weeks or months later. So I forgive him any artistic flourishes as long as the sentiment of the thing was accurate. Getting your dates screwed up on a three month trip – also not a big deal. But omitting the part about your wife being along much of the time and staying at inns rather than in your home on wheels, which you had built to your specifications just for this trip? Uncool. And blatantly dishonest, because Steinbeck makes a display of talking about the loneliness of being out on the open road with no one to share the journey or talk to other than the dog. Making up people (characters) encountered along the way when the stated purpose of the book was to get in touch with America?  That’s not an omission of information or a flourish of creativity – that’s plain bullshit.

See, the power of the story is that it was a true tale of a man and his dog, seeing the country and meeting the people, checking in on humanity and the self. It’s a romantic image and an archetype that obviously resonates with a lot of us who’ve read the book. You can see Rocinante in your mind, and you wonder if maybe you could build something like that in the back of your Mazda. Doesn’t have to be fancy because you’ll mostly use it for sleeping. The rest of the time, you’ll be driving the back roads, talking to folks along the way as you stop off for coffee or Cheetos, breathing different air than that to which you are accustomed, letting your mind wander the way it can only when you’re alone and the open road is stretched out before you, beckoning…

The book stoked my extant desire to take my own trip across America while also scratching that itch to get out (just a little bit) because I felt like I was along for Steinbeck’s journey. Travel by proxy. Travels with Charley and Mrs. Steinbeck Across America, Staying at the Finest Inns Along the Way wouldn’t have been the same book. And it most likely wouldn’t have impacted me and so many others to the great degree it did, encouraging each of us to take our own journeys some day. So as a piece of art, it was very effective. And that matters. It counts. Steinbeck and/or his editor knew this, so the parts that didn’t work toward the purpose of the art were dropped. But then, so was the honesty.

I think the book could have been almost as effective if there had been a disclaimer at the front. “This book is mostly true.” You would go into it knowing that maybe he didn’t really meet a Shakespearean actor in the middle of nowhere, and maybe he bathed more than he claimed. And that would be okay. This wasn’t a travelogue or journalism. So the blurring of lines would have been acceptable had it been acknowledged up front instead of exposed half a century later.

This is what I said at the end of my initial post about the book:

After reading Travels with Charley, I’m left with this. Travel. See the countryside. Interact with the people. Take their temperature and, by extension, yours. Note the similarities and differences of place. Enjoy the beauty that the land has to offer. Spend time communing with your dog and with the earth. Take the old highways (not the interstate or the toll road) so you can actually see the countryside. Know when it’s time to go home. And return there gladly.

Those sentiments are still valid. I’m grateful for having read the book. This bit of knowledge doesn’t change the emotional journey I experienced, and it doesn’t change my desire to get out on the open road and see America. But I will make you this promise – when that day comes and I write about my experiences, I will be as honest with you as I can be. I may write myself as thinner and more witty than I am, but I will not lie to you about who else is with me, where I slept, whom I met or what I saw.

Links:

want a copy of Travels with Charley?

Crystal Jackson books, running away, travel 12 Comments

I so enjoyed John Steinbeck’s Travels with Charley: In Search of America that I just purchased two copies to give away on this blog (see end of post for more information). Steinbeck not only identifies something similar to my deep down desire to just Forrest Gump it out of town, but he also gently suggests that being “away” only satisfies for a bit before you find yourself longing for your own bed and your people.

The first few sentences:

When I was very young and the urge to be someplace else was on me, I was assured by mature people that maturity would cure this itch. When years described me as mature, the remedy prescribed was middle age. In middle age I was assured that greater age would calm my fever and now that I am fifty-eight perhaps senility will do the job.

Instead of waiting on senility, Steinbeck decided to go on a 10,000 mile road trip around the country with his dog Charley, starting and ending his journey at his home in Sag Harbor. He knew he’d need a special vehicle for this trip, so he had a truck manufacturer build a home on wheels (not wanting the hassle of pulling a trailer). Having a compact unit made it easier for him to just pull over in a pretty area or when he was too weary to keep driving and camp for the night.

this is Rocinante, the truck and camper that served as Steinbeck's home on the road - he special ordered the camper, asking that its builder create something like the cabin on a small boat - Charley the dog generally rode in the passenger seat of the cab

Steinbeck describing himself:

For I have always lived violently, drunk hugely, eaten too much or not at all, slept around the clock or missed two nights of sleeping, worked too hard and too long in glory, or slobbed for a time in utter laziness. I’ve lifted, pulled, chopped, climbed, made love with joy and taken my hangovers as a consequence, not as a punishment.

Awesome. He says similarly righteous things about his dog Charley, a standard poodle that was blue in color. That man loved his dog. I, of course, kept envisioning my own Travels with Stella: Seeing America with a Ratdog. Coming soon.

Steinbeck and Charley

After reading Travels with Charley, I’m left with this. Travel. See the countryside. Interact with the people. Take their temperature and, by extension, yours. Note the similarities and differences of place. Enjoy the beauty that the land has to offer. Spend time communing with your dog and with the earth. Take the old highways (not the interstate or the toll road) so you can actually see the countryside. Know when it’s time to go home. And return there gladly.

the interior of Rocinante, now stationed at the National Steinbeck Center in Salinas (if I'd read this book just a few weeks ago, I would have taken the time to visit Rocinante when we were in California - the museum is just 20 or so miles from Carmel) - love the dog-themed curtains and great use of space

Links:

  • National Steinbeck Center
  • Not even in the same universe as Rocinante, but you can get a tent for your pickup (so you don’t have to sleep on the ground) for amazingly little money. If you don’t have a pickup, you can get a tent that sets up on the ground but attaches to the ass end of your SUV (the back doors of which would open directly into the tent).
  • I’ve shared a link to this site before – it’s a place to buy a small pop up camper trailer that can be pulled by a motorcycle or small car. Even my Mazda!

BOOK GIVEAWAY: If you’d like a copy of Travels with Charley, please leave a comment on this post about your wanderlust – tell me where you want to go and why or share a story about where you’ve been and what you found. If, by the grace of something, more than two of you share a story, I’ll find some way to randomly choose two of you and will email you for your mailing address.

cabin in the woods

Crystal Jackson books, cabin in the woods, hermit, running away, spooky

When I talk about my little writing cabin in the woods, I picture a place sort of like this (except smaller):

cabin in the woods

It has lots of windows, is surrounded by trees and is a beacon in the night. In the case of the cabin above, though, it is also in my living room and is the bottom of a lamp.

cabin in the woods in my living room

My parents gave me this awesome lamp a few months ago. I put it in our living room, which features a large stone fireplace and old school knotty pine paneling. The living room itself is like a fake cabin in the woods in my house, and the lamp is like a little cabin in the woods in my fake cabin in the woods in my house. Trippy. The only catch is, if the bottom of the lamp is the only thing on at night in our dark living room, it takes on an eerie feel and I half-expect a little person to come out the front door in a plaid shirt carrying an axe over his should in search of firewood. Or someone’s head to chop off. Though with an axe that tiny, it would take a lot of chopping. And I’m not even sure how he’d get down from the chest that the lamp sits on, scurry over to me, James or one of the dogs, then manage to climb up to head chopping level and start swinging. Ahhh, now when I hear something in the middle of the night that sounds like tiny, scurrying feet, I’ll be able to roll over and go back to sleep. Lucky me.

Tohner recently alerted me to the fact that Lloyd Kahn has a blog. He’s the guy who did the book Shelter back in the ’70s and since then has published two beautiful books (here and here) that feature homes built by the people who live within them. Many of the dwellings are small or extra-small, and they are the closest thing I have to pornography. (Kahn also wrote The Septic System Owner’s Manual, which I have not read yet and hope never to have a need to read.)

For further small dwelling porn, check out Tiny House Blog, Little House on a Small Planet, Yurts: Living in the Round and, for balance, Unhappy Hipsters.

it keeps you running

Crystal Jackson running away, work 3 Comments

Man, I wanted to Forrest Gump it this morning. As I was approaching my exit, the music was jamming, the sun was shining (but not too much – mine eyes are sensitive to too-bright sunlight), the AC was cranking, I was already heading down 45S. Wanted to keep trucking to the coast and breathe in some saltwater-tinged air. Maybe grab a po’boy. Ahh, but there are bills to pay and metaphorical miles to go. So I’m at work instead of getting a sunburn, writing to you over my sandwich while taking a break from my Excel spreadsheet. Living the dream, people.

I’m still not sleeping. I think allergies are part of the reason. It feels as if my right eyeball is slowly being pushed out of my skull. Not an aggressive shoving, just a slow, creating the Grand Canyon sort of pressure. Occasionally a lone tear winds its way down my right cheek. Very melodramatic. I don’t know if it’s the pressure on my brain or what (do sinus issues push on one’s brain?) but when I dream lately, that shit be crazy.

It’s been a who’s who of my past popping up in my head each night. And it’s not like we’re all sitting around the fire sipping brandy and getting caught up The Big Chill style. More like, some random person I used to know but was never that close to is with me on a boat and we’re painting a bedroom while Isaac Hayes sings quietly in the corner and plays jacks. Then Doug Henning rides in on a giraffe and we all sit down to eat gummy worm pizza. Only weirder than that.

This is what I get for not drinking during the week.

conflicted

Crystal Jackson cabin in the woods, luddite vs. iDevice, running away 7 Comments

I have conflicting desires in my heart of hearts. One part of me wants to live in the middle of Manhattan, seeing plays at night and working some bullshit writing job during the day, hustling from my tiny apartment to the coffee shop to the subway in a fit of type-A focus and aggression. The other part of me wants to go off the grid* and live in a yurt out in the middle of nowhere, growing beets and honey bees and meditating in my zen garden. Which begs the question: What the fuck is wrong with me?

Are you conflicted like this? Do you have desires that are at cross purposes? Am I trying to satisfy both urges by living in the city but on a one acre lot, growing a little garden and patronizing Houston’s indie theatre once a month? It would seem that the half-assed commitment to each lifestyle isn’t a long-term solution. So what is?

No clue. As I struggle with the (fucking cliche) mid-life crisis, what happens next? Pick one option and go for it? I’m not moving to NYC. I have no interest in being totally broke in an expensive town. Plus, my books wouldn’t fit into whatever tiny place we’d rent there. But the beet farm…I’m not sure I’m ready for that either. I’m definitely ready for sitting in a shack and writing my manifesto. That’s been brewing for some time. But I’m not ready to move into a yurt, which also wouldn’t have room for all of my books.

I guess for now I’ll keep tending my tiny little garden in my big back yard in the fourth largest (and first hottest) city in the US. Just until I get pulled more one direction or the other. For now, this tug of war is at a standstill because both sides are pulling with equal force. Which means? No momentum either direction.

*I would have to have internet access whatever I did, so I don’t think I could escape the grid completely. But I could run on solar power and be at least partly off the grid. Right?

{side note: Just reading over this begs another question – is this some bullshit hipster ennui? Am I mere steps away from being the type of person who drives me crazy? Jesus.}

grad school

Crystal Jackson running away

One of the many things my brother Mason and I had in common was the ever-present, “well, there’s always grad school” plan for the future. This is the plan that pops up every year or two when the job is getting you down and life has settled into a comfortable rut and maybe the summer heat makes you long for a cool, green New England campus. Or maybe you’re so fucking over it that you just want to run down the street in your underwear screaming as loud as you can. (By “you” I mean “me.”)

Now that he’s gone, I intend to carry on the tradition by myself. I realized last night that my surprisingly high GRE score will turn five in January. Most programs request a score that is five years old at most, so I either have to apply and get into a program at the end of this year, or I’ll have to retake the GRE. It wasn’t that painful. My fear is that I won’t score as high, which will confirm my fears that a) the first score was an anomaly and b) I am getting dumber as the years go by.

I applied to one MFA writing program four years ago (and didn’t get in). They are pretty competitive, and the play I submitted as my writing sample sucked. I thought it was good at the time, what can I say. It was the most overwrought thing I’ve ever written, and it shan’t see the light of day. If I had a bird, I would line the bird’s cage with the script. In fact, I think I will go buy a bird just so I can watch the bird poop on it. Then I will barbecue the bird and eat it with a side of broccoli.