It's been over a month since I began the independent, itinerant phase of this "project." The project, in essence, is to learn how to generate my own career as a traveler-photographer-storyteller, mostly from the ground up.
After traveling some 11,000 miles in June and July (mostly on other people's dime), I've been surprisingly stationary for the last five weeks. Since late July, I haven't even left the city limits of my hometown of Columbus, Ohio. But it's been for a purpose: I've been trying to tie up some loose ends and figure out how to utilize Columbus as a staging area to prepare my launch towards the wider world. I've been doing this without a formal home, job, or reliable stream of income, and precious little to fall back on. It hasn't been easy, but it's all been by choice.
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| My chariot, my home, my '97 Accord. Southern Ohio, March, 2011. |
After a few early stints of couchsurfing, I've pretty much given up on staying with friends. Having to coordinate where I was sleeping every night was exhausting in and of itself, so I've saved those offers for the nights when I've felt the need for comfort or company. This means that most nights, I've actually slept in my impromptu "mobile home"—aka the sleek, white EDLUNA car—in various spots throughout the city. It's not always ideal, but it can be surprisingly comfortable, especially as the summer nights have been cooling off.
As for meals, they have mostly consisted of the basics, made up of things I can get at the grocery store and that won't go bad too quickly. We're talking about sandwiches (PB&J, or sometimes sliced meats), dry snacks (nuts, fruit bars, and good potato chips), carrots and oranges, and lots of coffee, tea, and club soda at the various cafés where I spend most of my days. Sometimes, a friend will treat me to lunch or dinner in exchange for a portrait, or some stories of life on the road.
I've gotten my exercise by going out dancing, or doing a few basic Pilates and yoga-like exercises in the park. I've even gotten back into a kind of personalized Capoeira training, after taking a sixteen month break (after doing it uninterruptedly for about ten years before that). I've stayed clean by taking showers whenever there's been one available, or sponge baths when there hasn't. So despite my meager circumstances, I have managed to keep up my appearance as the same well-kept, fuzzy-headed, svelte-bodied man you've all come to know and love.
While figuring out the ins and outs of the itinerant life, I also spent most of August hustling. Much to my surprise, I was able to drum up just enough photographic work to squeak by (with the additional help of a few days of manual labor for a friend's custom tiling company). Naturally, some weeks have been better than others, and the ups and downs have sometimes been hard to take. I've also come to realize that I've got a long, long way before I understand how to do this "right." (For example, I still don't have a website or business cards, or the standard things a business is "supposed" to have. Likewise, my work habits are still not quite up to par...)
But somewhere along the line, I've realized that I have gotten a little better at talking to people about what I can offer. I feel a little bit more confident about my ability to bring in some cash. More importantly, while I've been learning how to climb this steep learning curve—most of which just has to do with figuring out how to organize myself—something like an "inner smile" has begun to show. Something is telling me that I am, at last, on the path of self-reliance and self-determination. I'm slowly on my way to being more in charge, and it feels good.
Or, to put it another way, I'm finally learning how to crawl. After years of avoiding it, I've started to learn what it means to take care of myself—not by recurring to defaults, or racking up debts I can't pay, or finding the easy way out, as I've usually done. Instead, I'm learning how to use my talents to move towards the life I want to lead. "Better late than never," right?
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Through this process, I've also come to recognize a couple of curious, and inescapable incongruities. The first, and most obvious, is that my independence and self-reliance literally depends on my network of friends, acquaintances, and (sometimes) family. In a very real sense, then, my very livelihood depends on the ability to integrate myself into a wider community of people. I am a single entity, but I exist in a deeply embedded social context.
I've just begun to understand what this can mean for my future endeavors, and it surprises me to realize that I've actually been nurturing this community for a long time. I'm pretty sure this will be the key to what is to come, and it's exactly the kind of thing that makes it easier to understand the second oddest contradiction of my life: that I can somehow be a semi-celebrity in my own town, while living like a vagabond.
There are days, of course, that these contradictions wear me down. I sometimes wonder if I've truly lost my marbles. On some nights, as I recline my passenger seat and pull out the pillow to go to sleep, I find myself wondering: "Really? Is this the best I can do?" But that's really the least of it, because I am genuinely thankful that at least I have a reliable shelter. As for food, well, I've been smart about making sure I always have a few days worth of groceries to live on. But sometimes I run short, which can be a bit nerve-wracking. [An aside: two weeks ago, I finally broke down and applied for food stamps, and qualified for over $100 a month in benefits (woo-hoo!)—but as of this moment, I haven't been issued a new EBT card to access them. Pretty frustrating...].
Then there are the days when I am faced with the gut-wrenching prospect of only having $5 (or less) in my pocket. This happens all too often, and it forces me to make choices that I don't like or want to make: Do I use my last bit of cash to pay my "rent" at a café for the day, and then have nothing left for anything else? Do I buy a gallon of gas or a loaf of bread? Do I wash my dusty clothes at a laundromat, or wash my muddy car instead?
There are also those moments that are truly maddening, like when I'm out on the town, and I've managed to get a friend to buy me a drink (not such a difficult task during my birthday week). If they forget to tip the bartender, should I use my last dollar bill for that? Such are the conundrums that people with money can't really conceive of, and they are the source of most of my toughest headaches and heartaches.
Yet even in stress mode, when those moments of self-pity, doubt, complaining, and frustration inevitably arrive, I know there is another layer of understanding available to me.
For example, little by little, I am rewiring my perspective on money from a "scarcity model" to something else. I used to completely ignore the ways money worked. When I suddenly had it, I would always squander it. Yet I was also always terrified of poverty—and terrified of giving up the last of my money to pay for something—because I never really knew how to generate real money on my own. I still don't, and it might take me a long, long time to figure it out, but one thing has definitely changed: I am no longer paralyzed by fear.
Sure, I may be tempted to shut down, but I don't. I am beginning to realize that even feeling uneasy about what I am doing is probably a good sign, because it means I am not doing things the easy way anymore. My anxiousness is a sign that I am being realistic about what is really going on—"I'm fucking broke, and it sucks!" Yet oddly, this only strengthens my sense of purpose.
Those are also the moments when I've reminded myself that in many ways, I am actually pretty lucky. I live in a respectably safe part of the developed world, in Columbus, Ohio, in the good ol' US of A, in the early twenty-first century, where there are many resources at my disposal. I only have to learn how to tap into them. This is the age of the internet, "infinite abundance" (for now), longer lifespans, and infinite possibilities, so it's time to harness these, and not to be afraid to innovate. More than any other time, my life is in my hands.
In a way, this is the ultimate expression of a quintessential American impulse: to define myself, to declare my independence from old ways of thinking, and to "walk the walk" (even if it involves crawling awkwardly first). And it's up to me to do it.
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| Siddhartha (paperback ed). |
He begins by questioning the rituals and customs of his own father, a Brahmin, wondering if he is just doing them more out of habit than to seek deeper knowledge. So he rejects his father and becomes a Samana monk, enduring years of fasting and depredation in the forest. But this doesn't answer his deeper questions. Even after meeting the ultimate teacher, Gotama (Buddha) in person, he more or less says "no thanks," and concludes that there are no magical formulas for finding one's way to true understanding. He renounces self-denial and decides instead to become more involved with the world. He becomes a rich merchant, a lover of a beautiful courtesan, and a reckless gambler.
His desire for self-knowledge eventually becomes dull, however, and he loses himself in this new life. Slowly, he becomes too sick with himself to continue, so he runs away from the life of worldly pleasure. He runs through the forest to a river, where he nearly gives into despair and considers killing himself. Instead, he hears the voice of the river—the holy Om—which helps him find his inner divinity again. He decides then and there to stay by the river, and ask the river ferryman to take him in. The ferryman accepts, and teaches him his trade, and how to listen more deeply to the river. Through this, Siddhartha slowly gains the ability to understand that all things are united, that all stories are one, that time is an illusion, and that it is all perfection. He notices this is the source of the old man's "inner smile," and begins to exhibit it himself.
The last time I read Siddhartha was perhaps three or four years ago. I'm pretty sure it was close to the time that I reached my true Zero Moment, in the summer of 2008, which I am now beginning to reckon as the actual beginning of this "new age." It didn't realize this before now, because I've spent much of the last three years my in a bit of a directionless fog, distracted by photography, ladies, and avoiding the bigger questions. This year, I've been distracted by the imminence of my current homeless-jobless-moneyless situation. On a long drive home from Chicago in July, however, I began to outline a more specific vision to guide me (which I will write more about soon). After gaining this newfound clarity, I have been able to look back and honestly say that even in my moments of greatest frustration in this new life, I am nowhere near the depths of despair and desperation that I experienced three summers ago.
I'll save that story for another time, but let's just say that I felt helpless, useless, and broken. I had moments of such utter self-loathing that my skin would crawl and my body would shake. I was also broke, heartbroken, and without the tools to find my way out. I was only saved at the last minute by a university stipend and a late/early inheritance, so I didn't actually hit rock bottom. True self-reliance would have to wait another three years, when I've more or less chosen to hit rock bottom.
All this suggests to me that there really is no further down to go than that, because even though my material situation is almost as bad (and maybe worse) than it was back then, I don't feel powerless about my life—at all. I don't think I can ever go that low again, because I recognize (as does Siddhartha) that it's not about possessions, or money, or security, or love, or even necessarily about health. It's all about that inner drive, the hunger to be, to listen more deeply, to recognize that you are always capable of being in charge of yourself, and taking part in something bigger—no matter what the external situation presents you with.
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Of course, I'm nowhere near being "enlightened." The very idea makes me laugh. Sure, I may have learned a few things, and opened myself up more to the universe lately, and I'm finally on something close to the right path, but I'd consider myself lucky to be about a tenth of the way (if it can even be measured on such mundane terms).
And there may be dark moments yet to come.
Some night in the near future, maybe even tonight, I might finish partying and being frivolous with some leggy ladies at the club, only to come back and see that my car is window broken, my trunk is pried open, my computer is stolen, and whatever else. Yet even though I would surely despair, and feel stupid, or even shocked, I don't think I would feel defeated. I'm pretty sure that my very next impulse would be to accept the situation, and move forward anyway, however I could. Possessions can be replaced (and I've got most of my photos backed up offsite, so we're pretty safe there).
I also know that even seemingly negative events can often become rallying cries or opportunities to gather your community together to help you ("Hey Ed, I have an old MacBook I'm not using…" etc.). So what's really holding me back? Nothing—just my own hesitation. So I just have to get over that, and start doing. Having this vision to guide my life—of traveling, taking pictures, telling stories—I know that there is no longer anything external that can stop me from pursuing it.
But okay, so what if things got really bad? Like, what if—worst case scenario—I was diagnosed with colon cancer (as my dad's side of the family is prone to)? I have no real access to health care right now, and I worry about leaving a messy legacy of unfinished photos, writings, and archive materials behind. If this scenario seems far-fetched, it's unfortunately all-too-real. Just a few days ago, a friend and colleague of mine (Dan Sicko, renowned author of Techno Rebels: The Renegades of Electronic Funk, a history of Detroit Techno) died suddenly from complications of ocular cancer. This was only days after letting his community know that he had been diagnosed in 2008, and had been battling it on and off for years. He was only forty-two. (Remember, I'm forty-one.)
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| Dan Sicko, RIP. |
As far as I know, my death is not imminent, but I am pretty sure that even if it was, it would only be a matter of a few explanations (like what to do with my exquisite corpse, my records, my Facebook profile, and other miscellaneous items), and trying to leave at least some trace of my story behind (perhaps this very blog?).
Other than that, I don't think that my death would really matter that much. I think I could go out graciously. Why? Because, even if my time is to be cut short, I have found a purpose. Of course, I'd be sad if I didn't get to express that purpose as fully as I'd like to, and only got as far as the crawling phase. But then again, no one ever promised me I'd fly.
I thus feel like I've given myself a tremendous gift: I have chosen my purpose, and only death can take that away. It may sound overly dramatic, but until that moment when my end comes, I know I will always have infinite ways to inhabit the world and express that choice.
Anyway, since Siddhartha has been somewhat central to this post, it seems appropriate to end with a couple of passages from that book.
After his moment of darkest despair, and the awakening of his dormant spirit, Siddhartha realizes:
"Now, he thought, that all these transitory things have slipped away from me again, I stand once more beneath the sun, as I stood as a small child. Nothing is mine, I know nothing, I possess nothing, I have learned nothing. How strange it is! ... He had to smile again. Yes, his destiny was strange! He was going backwards, and now he stood empty and naked and ignorant in the world. But he did not grieve about it; no, he even felt a great desire to laugh, to laugh at himself, to laugh at this strange foolish world!"
[Herman Hesse, Siddhartha, Chapter 8, "By the River."]
In the last chapter, Siddhartha is visited by his oldest friend, Govinda, a fellow seeker. Entreating him to give him something to help him reach enlightenment, Siddhartha asks him to kiss his forehead. Govinda does so, hesitantly, but immediately experiences a kind of bliss.
"He no longer saw the face of his friend Siddhartha. Instead he saw other faces, many faces, a long series, a continuous stream of faces—hundreds, thousands, which all came and disappeared and yet all seemed to be there at the same time, which all continually changed and renewed themselves and which were yet all Siddhartha. He saw the face of a fish, of a carp, with tremendous painfully opened mouth, a dying fish with dimmed eyes. He saw the face of a newly born child, red and full of wrinkles, ready to cry. He saw the face of a murderer, saw him plunge a knife into the body of a man; at the same moment he saw this criminal kneeling down, bound, and his head cut off by an executioner. He saw the naked bodies of men and women in the postures and transports of passionate love. He saw corpses stretched out, still, cold, empty. He saw the heads of animals—boars, crocodiles, elephants, oxen, birds. He saw Krishna and Agni. He saw all these forms and faces in a thousand relationships to each other, all helping each other, loving, hating and destroying each other and become newly born. Each one was mortal, a passionate, painful example of all that is transitory. Yet none of them died, they only changed, were always reborn, continually had a new face: only time stood between one face and another. And all these forms and faces rested, flowed, reproduced, swam past and merged into each other, and over them all there was continually something thin, unreal and yet existing, stretched across like thin glass or ice, like a transparent skin, shell, form or mask of water—and this mask was Siddhartha's smiling face which Govinda touched with his lips at that moment."
[Herman Hesse, Siddhartha, Chapter 12, "Govinda."]
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