Maybe it’s just all the research I have been doing into the “new nomadism” or “placeless living” theme lately, but this shit is inescapably in my head now. Older symbol sets have been deprecated altogether or upgraded into this sort of like “super-theme” which I see resonating strongly everywhere around me in my life.

On November 1st, I took a room at another highway house. I have no plans to stay past the end of January, as of now. I may go back West (continuing north from Seattle, perhaps) or something else may come up. As such, I lead a mentally very transitory life.

When you know you’ve got miles to go before you sleep, your awareness of being awake becomes different.

I sleep on the floor. Actually, on animal skins on a carpet on the floor. With a blanket from Target over that. I bought the animal skins on eBay. My life is a hodge-podge of things borrowed from other places, times and people. To do this and survive there’s a part of your identity that you have to give up: the part of you that thinks of yourself as “you”. Not the “real you”, because you can’t give that away (synonymous to “hitting rock bottom”). But anyway, I maintain that the part of you that you need to remove in order to become a nomadic time-traveller is also the part of you that suffers. I was about to say that it’s a little like being a surfer of time and space, a bull-rider of the moment… then the words “suffer” and “surfer” fused into one for me. Words do that a lot for me nowadays, bend and fold into strange little poetic programming packets.

Hanging in my room are tapestries from different places, stores, and parts of my life. A friend was over recently, asking me about each. I didn’t realize the stories each of these objects held. That’s why I’ve carried them with me, I suppose. Portable walls, portable screens for me to project images and parts of my life, imaginationings and internally-waged romances upon.

“Your room is really interesting,” she said. “Even though there’s nothing in it.