September 08, 2021
Home is a funny word
Dickman in the desert
I want to write and say "I'm home," only it doesn't feel quite like home yet. After spending three weeks in the open skies of the west, being cramped in a smaller-then-I-remember apartment with four unpacked suitcases and a cat that has more hair than King Kong, feels quite the opposite of home. I can't recall if when growing up in the comfy cushy, but just not that exciting of a town called Lame-view (oops, I mean Plainview) I ever thought I might one day resort to spending this last decade of my life in a myriad of small apartments; including one that didn't even have bedroom walls, and one that had large rocks on the bathroom floor instead of carpet. I don't think when I was growing up in my four bedroom, two and a half bathroom house I ever thought about living in a place so small. But then I fell in love with the city of New York, and even began living on top of other people, even if I never knew their names. But now, three weeks later, while I enjoy the excitement that is New York, I also miss having a bit more of a life with sky and clean air, and maybe even a prairie dog or two.
Right now good things are happening in New York. I just have to remember that as I inhale the fumes and work out of a shoebox sized apartment, which leads me to something I overheard this morning. It's on that kind of dark, sad note. When I was walking around Union Square today I overheard a woman telling another woman that one of her close (young) friends had just been diagnosed with a sarcoma (re: cancer) because she bicycles everywhere in New York City and the fumes invaded her body. That's the kind of scariness I'm talking about here. The noise and pollution. It's a place without prairie dogs, mountains and scary rocks. It is New York City.
Love it or hate it, it's just so damn hard to leave.
But I did for three weeks. And while things didn't go as I had planned all along, a lot of things I didn't plan did go. As in literally leave. As in literally leave this earth. As in buh-bye. They say deaths happen in threes, and that's just what they did these past three weeks. First it was the man who dropped 60 feet at Red Rocks. He almost fell right in front of us, but we got there like two minutes two late. Because of my morbid fascination with death I was fixated on the man, who was already lying unconscious at the bottom of the rocks when I first noticed him. He apparently had a pulse but no ID on him, and he made no sounds as he plunged to his death. One good reason to drink yourself silly. If you're going to drop to your death it won't hurt as much.
Then, driving on Interstate 50, a.k.a. the Loneliest Road in America, and yes boys and girls it truly is just that - you can go 75 miles without seeing any signs of life - a bird flew right into my side of the windshield. It didn't break the glass, but it definitely broke its neck. That was number two.
Number three was at Burning Man. You might say I have a knack for being in the wrong place at the right time. A NY Burner (someone who attends the Burning Man event and lives in NY) had only been removed from camp 20 minutes before I arrived. He had been taken out of camp after having convulsions and passing out in the shower. He wasn't on anything, just tired, and well, maybe high on altitude, when he got sick. When I got to camp they had just declared him dead. Enlarged heart. DEAD. Not a day on the playa (that's the ground that burning man happens on) and he was gone. It felt surreal.
I have a lot more to share, but also a lot of other things to do right now. Like unpack. Feed the cat. Shave. Check my voicemail. Things like that.
So until then,
If you're looking for something interesting to read, read Heather Corinna's post on Plan B.
Or, if you're looking to participate in an article, and you are a woman who has traveled for sex:
I'm looking for case studies for a feature magazine article. It's for Scarlet - a UK women's magazine about sexuality and the piece is on female sex tourism - I'm looking to interview 3/4 women about their motivations for traveling for sex and how they found the experience. There seem to be different 'types' of sex tourists - young women in their 20s looking for a good time, women in their 30s wanting a baby or to get over a broken relationship, women who are lonely and older women in search of sex. It's a hot topic here as there are films and plays out exploring the subject.
The magazine is sex-positive so I'm aiming to look at this as an empowering act. The editor would like photographed case studies but if this is an issue I have requested to keep things anonymous.
nicci talbot
freelance journalist
e: niccitalbot@mac.com
Yeah, I'm still reflecting and pontificating and realizing that I have a lot of commitments to attend to over the next few months. And I'm hoping and praying that I can do what I've set out to do. And I'm happy to be alive. And in love. And home. Even if it doesn't feel like home anymore (or maybe it's just quite yet).