Life in a Backpack

I dream, and fantasize, and pay a lot of money for this moment, pictured right here. This was actually quite a exhausting moment, trekking through Costa Rica and waiting for a bus that seemed to never come. And lugging a backpack that was too, too heavy. But the fantasy, and here the reality, is that everything I owned and needed was in that relatively small backpack. I had a great book, a journal, a map, a camera, two changes of clothes, and a bottle of water. My vast life was reduced down to those simple items, and it was wonderful and simple and clear. I am so often overwhelmed by the endless choices I can choose to occupy my rare free time with: books, magazines, cable TV, Netflix, internet, newspapers, friends, family, music, that 34-page article in the New Yorker. Traveling to a foreign place, with a small backpack, brings life back to the basics and time seems to elongate. Here's an honest to goodness truth: I travel to slow down time. To have a day feel like a week, and a week feel like a month. When you're ten, a year is 1/10 of you life-that's huge. When you're thirty-eight, a year is 1/38 of your life- and that flies by! A colleague of mine says it's simple mathematics. I'm committed to getting the best of those odds.

Writers as Rock Stars

A good friend of Inspiration Conspiracy, Julian Smith, recently came through Berkeley to promote his new book. His first book, Crossing the Heart of Africa. It's great. He put on his safari boots and retraced the steps of an Englishman who walked Africa, bottom to top, back in the late 1890's for a woman he loved. Julian did this, then wrote a book about it, then got it published by a big publisher, Harper Perennial. So he stopped at Books, Inc. on his well-deserved victory lap and even brought a slide show. And only 11 people were there!? What's wrong with the literary world? Julian finished a book! And his book is great. Have you finished a book? This kind of thing deserves a parade, a sold-out stadium. Not 11 senior citizens on folding, metal chairs. A decade ago, Dave Eggers came onto the scene with A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, and not only was his title correct, but he also brought rockstar status back to being an author. He even went on book tour with a band, They Might Be Giants, and people were lining up around the corner to see him, and even scalping tickets. I saw Irvine Welsh read at the Elephant & Castle Pub, and there were hundreds of people, drunk and practically getting in fistfights to hear him read. And Sedaris, it costs $50 to see him read at a podium for an hour, and he sells out, and it's worth it. That's how writers should be treated, as the rockstars they are.

The Magical Land of Flappers

New Year's parties often disappoint. Expectations are high, and the reality doesn't often match. Not so this last December. I found a tattered, golden invite with the words "The Bootlegger's Ball" written on it in script. The instructions on the golden ticket led me to a time machine. And the time machine took me to a magical land of flappers, circus performers, and jug bands. My iPhone camera turned into an old, super-8 movie camera and this is the actual movie I shot.

Walking in Somebody Else's Shoes

On Haight Street, there are a lot of vintage stores, and not the typical, run-of-the-mill used clothing shops seen elsewhere. There are stores specializing in clothes only from the 1920's and 30's. I bought this pair from one of those mysterious boutiques; the tag said "circa late 20's." That's the Great Gatsby era. Nearly a hundred years ago, some Nick Carraway fellow, bought these exact two shoes, slipped them on and maybe, went to a bootlegger's ball. Or maybe shot out a bank window with a Tommy-Gun.  Or maybe wore them as an extra in a Douglas Fairbanks movie. Or maybe braved the Great Depression in them.Who knows? Well, one thing I know for certain, is that some real person bought, and wore, them in the late 1930's and then put them away in a nice box to travel forward in time to my feet. I slipped into them, and they fit perfectly, and now I happily think that I'm walking in the shoes of some marvelous person long gone, but not forgotten. I'd like to think some space ranger, in 2111, will be sporting my old Vans on some fantastic new planet, and I won't be forgotten.

That Science Fiction Movie is Now!

This is an recent, unposed picture of one of my 8th grade students. He's reading Dave Eggers' Zeitoun on a Kindle e-reader. Simultaneously, he's listening, through headphones, to the audio book of Zeitoun being read on his laptop. Simultaneously he's listening to Radiohead playing softly in the background. And simultaneously, he's using antique paper books to prop up his pencil case. I could be freaked out, as his oldie teacher, but times, they are a changing. And it's not all bad. The kids are locked in, they are reading, they are absorbing and understanding on quite a deep level. The delivery method has changed, that's all. Beyond nostalgia, which I suffer from greatly, the paper book (as well as paper newspapers, magazines, catalogues) don't make any sense in our modern age. They're wasteful of paper, gas, and energy, and they fall apart, especially in a classroom setting. The reading of the novel is still the same experience, just a different package. But then again, a paper book is a piece of art, a visual memory on a bookshelf, a reason for book stores to soothe the souls of browsers. No matter what happens to paper books, stories will always survive. They are what make us human.

My Father Leaving

This is my father leaving. Every last thing he owned tied to the back of his truck. He moved as far away as he could, to chase his dream. He's still out there, chasing. I'm still here, without him.

A Life's Dream

This is my graffiti. I painted it on the side of my dad's school bus, during a breakdown, on the way to Burning Man. Before the weather, and life, erased it, it said "A Life's Dream." The inspiration came during a phone call with my father. I said, "You spent the last of your money on a school bus?!" He said, "Yes, I'm going to grow old on it. It's a life's dream." We had amazing adventures on that bus, I wrote a lot of my book on it, and my father did indeed call it home for many years. In a sudden shedding of possessions and a dramatic relocation to Daytona Beach, Florida, my dad sold it. To strangers. It broke my heart. A year later I found the bus, parked at a hippie festival, with a beautiful hippie family living in it. They were kind and gave me a tour, and it was the same and had my dad's handiwork all through. And yet my dad wasn't there. He was long gone. And I noticed my graffiti had worn off.