Blurred Out.

If something is worth saying, it should be worth hearing. That’s the filter I ought to use.

I am not good at marketing myself or even presenting myself on social media. I constantly have to remind my ego that what I say and do isn’t for anyone else’s benefit. And I still forget that sometimes.

It doesn’t help that I have a high opinion of who I am coupled with a desire to never make people feel inferior or incapable. But I definitely know that I can be an asshole. After all, people can just be so stupid.

But that is a product of the society they have been born into, stories I can never know, and a variety of psychological factors produced by genetics, nurture, and scientists don’t even know what else.

The belief that I am completely unique resides alongside the knowledge that I am no different from anyone else. It is hard to define the gap between faith and reality. And often I can find my mind blurring the two.

“Brag girl! Brag all you want. You are amazing! You are living.

“Yeah and if they are annoyed with you, tell ’em they can go suck a fat one.”

I am also trying to find the border between bravado and confidence.

But borders are myths. Creations designed to keep us functioning on scales larger than we usually take time to fathom. (This is true if we subscribe to the Yuval Noah Harari method of thinking. He is the author of Sapiens: A Brief History of Humankind. An intensely beneficial subscription when held in careful balance with the games we play to survive the present.)

It all comes back to I’m just winging it. And so are you. You have no idea what you’re really doing.

It’s okay though. You’re not alone.

You can’t be. There are 7 billion people.

Pingponged Intensity

A pigeon ran into my leg today.

And I have accumulated 3 good bus stories since my arrival in Wellington.

1. If you and another teen sprint past a bus through the outskirts of the capital while looking amused and panicked at the prospect of walking 45 minutes, the bus driver will wait a split second longer for you as you come puffing up to the next stop.

2. If a look of extreme panic passes over your companion’s face when she sees a bus coming and you can’t make it to the next stop, the driver will stop for you just before he is supposed to, (provided you are the only people about to be on the service).

3. “You know this bus doesn’t depart for another 10 minutes right?” Yes. But it’s warmer in here than out there. “Fair enough.” The following conversation was genuine, kind, and was a good solidifying reminder to talk to bus drivers. There is a high chance they are bored out of their minds.

I also developed a way to deal with my body’s fear of turbulence on my way from Queenstown to Wellington. Close my eyes, breath deeply, listen to Eminem. (Worked better than anything else I’ve tried so far.)

The city is a good place to think. Most people seem to be preoccupied by this activity, or at least the act of trying not to do it, here in concrete worshipping centers of population. It is also a good place to nurse depression into a worse state of being. No wonder everyone is so damned pessimistic about everything. My most cynical theories develop in direct correlation to how many people I’m around apparently.

But at the same time. I love it. I love how many stories there are. How much potential for creativity and niches. How I am reminded of my futility and possibilities. How I am no different from anyone else.

No matter what my ego tries to whisper in my ear.

I also happily pingponged my way through the museum today. The interactive bits are the best. (Like when they let you play with shadows.) OR when they dedicated a giant space to playing with colored light. If I don’t balance ridiculous amounts of cynicism with ridiculous amounts of happiness, I shall be crushed.

Sometimes I wonder if there are less intense ways to live. Probably. But they usually sound much less fun.

“Like a Slingshot, Eh?”

I entered a travel writing competition on the transformational power of travel. I realized I write because I like to and I hate being judged for it. This is the first competition I have participated in for my writing. Here’s hoping.

“Like a Slingshot, Eh?”

My fingers strolled up the neck of my mandolin, wishing for the experience only practice gives. However if wishes were fishes, we wouldn’t have a severe overfishing problem in our oceans, so I set my instrument aside and began learning foreign words from the backpackers sitting nearby.

Bat’se. Czech for “afraid.”

People often choose to tell travelers that we are brave. They act as though our discomfort within the comfortable is something to be deeply admired. They tell us that courage is being fearful and doing it anyway.

But to be honest, most of us just feel like we are backflipping off the tightrope spanning bravery and stupidity.

I entered my first solo venture to New Zealand terrified of ATMs and banks. I knew nearly nothing of cooking and it would be my first experience in applying for a job. I had no clue what I was doing. On the worst evenings, I would curl up beneath the covers of a borrowed bed, tell myself “But I’m doing it anyway,” and find a way to move forward.

Provalo. Italian for “try it” or “prove it.”

Comparisons run rampant through hostels and travelers. The constant appraisal of your priorities becomes exhausting. The drinkers, the campers, the partiers, the hitchhikers, and those who fit all of the above share rooms and subject themselves to the scrutiny of social interaction. But I don’t fit.

I value hiking.

But not as much as the Englishman who chose to hike the length of New Zealand.

I value home.

But not as much as the German who dreamed of being home for Christmas and will likely not return to this part of the world.

I value community.

But not as much as the Irish girl who stayed at her hostel job for nearly the full duration of her working holiday.

At what point will I realize my values will never align with another’s and my achievements can only matter to me? Glancing at dusty camping gear and watching the intrepid walkers taking on mountains, I breathe deeply to remind myself there is nothing to prove and everything to try.

Selbstbewusstsein. German for “self confidence.”

I adore the moments of falling in love with a stranger, not for their body, but for something I cannot explain. I don’t speak to them, but I watch them, glance behind me, and wish I was wearing sunglasses so my gaze could linger. Some strange magnetism, or maybe just their style, drew me in for that space. My favorites are the confident ones. Their stride catches my eye and I wonder what inspired their sureness of self. Who was inspired from childhood and who found it in the satisfaction of jobs well done? Who learned to love themselves from a significant other and who chose to reinvent themselves?

And which of them is just a bit of an arrogant prick?

My gait has changed since being away from home. I walk and wonder if others see the person I have become. The limp from a chronic injury is fading and my shoulders are straighter with the experience of being alone. Even on my worst days, I find myself smiling with the privilege of wandering the world.

For comfort zones expand and life becomes a process of exploring its boundaries.

Jilear. Peruvian Spanish for “flirt.”

“May I kiss you?”

There are many reactions to that simple question. My favorite is the look of surprise. “I mean sure. But why?”

Why not? I find you attractive. Perhaps I just want to know how you taste. Perhaps it is my way of telling you that you are absolutely fascinating and worth my time.

Or perhaps it is a desire to grow a little more aware.

I don’t measure my growth as time passes overseas, but if I did, I would observe who I was at each kiss. Nervous and unsure. Temporarily infatuated, but aware of my own beauty. Amazed and willing to take the first step. Mutually attracted and curious. And straight up “I wonder what would happen.”

Sometimes I ponder who I would be if I was still home. Possibly searching for some relationship built to last or discovering my polyamorous nature while surrounded by people whose opinion I fear. In its own way, it would still be a journey. But there is something about the average American mentality that avoids those odd girls rocking faded blue hair who ask for a kiss.

Or maybe I just wasn’t looking before I left.

Transformera. Swedish for “transform.”

“You are facing new things all the time, Abiel. People who haven’t had to deal with that will never quite understand.”

Mom somehow manages to say it best.

I worry about coming home. I left just after highschool. I will return God knows when. I chose travel as my first adult lifestyle and the chrysalis I emerged from, cannot be what I return to. I guess it is meant to be just another adventure, another season of transformation.

Yet even with this thought process, you can never go back. Not to a place, not to a memory, and definitely not in time. You can only watch yourself accelerate towards the end.

“Time is relative and linear, but it always seems to go faster.”

“Well maybe time is like a slingshot, eh?”

Maybe so, my friend. Maybe so.

ISH

“I don’t know where I’m going from here, but I promise it won’t be boring.” – David Bowie

This is my new answer to people asking me questions about my plans. More often than not, I truly just don’t know.

While on the ferry from Wellington to the South Island, I met a guy who was fascinated by how Americans use the suffix “ish.” “You stick it everywhere. Like that answer was an exact answer. You don’t need to say ish.”

But I do need to add ish. I’m showing you the flexibility of my world. The fact that all of what I’m planning is subject to the whim of three little letters shows you that I am unfazed by the fickleness of planning. At the same time, I usually have some sort of idea in the back of my head. It’s just more realistic to say I really have no plan…ish.

But for those of you who are curious, here is my current general idea of what I am doing.

Tomorrow I am hitchhiking north for a night to see a friend before returning back to Christchurch.

My traveling buddies and I will be going to Arthur’s Pass National Park once we finally leave Christchurch. (My traveling buddies are 3 lovely Germans with a love of dancing, singing, and head massages. They are trying to teach me German. The gendered nouns are throwing me off. Like, what the hell. Why is a butterfly male?…but if there are multiple they are female. I usually just end up spluttering as I try to pronounce their R. “You don’t have to roll it. Just say it normal…Okay don’t say it like an American. Here. You say it in the back of your throat…We’ll work on it.” Insert me hissing like a cat in an attempt to make it work.)

In June I go to Tasmania for three weeks to meet up with another friend I made in National Park and to participate in a museum festival. Still wavering on whether or not I’ll join in with the nude swim on the winter solstice. Cause freaking brrrrr.

Here is where things get fuzzy. My visa expires in September. After which I am thinking I will go to Australia again to see the mainland. Or maybe Samoa. Or Fiji. Or Vietnam. Or none of the above and I do something completely unexpected.

Or go home.

But I promise it won’t be bowie-ng.

 

 

…that was terrible…

 

I’m From California

I never say I’m from America.

There are a couple reasons for this.

A) America is so freaking huge that saying the country does very little to put you into scale.

B) America is a shameful nightmare of politics led by one of the most abominable human beings who the whole rest of the world recognizes as such.

C) I love California and it makes me happy to be from that particular state.

While hitchhiking the other day, I got picked up by a lady who had never left New Zealand, but she had traveled up and down it many times. She loved exploring her country and was in the process of traveling for the heck of it. I was pleasantly surprised by this. More often than not, people either travel far, or very little.

California is chock full of absolutely incredible places. We harbor deserts, cities, mountains, forests, beaches, fields, wet, dry, hot, cold, and people of all kinds of beautiful and heartbreaking backgrounds. We are also the sixth largest economy in the world. It is a privilege to live there. Where my family lives, they are an hour and a half from Sequoia National Park, two and a half from Yosemite National Park, and four hours from two of the most envied cities in the world. I tell Europeans, Australians, New Zealanders of where I have had the pleasure of living, and they are amazed.

A friend asked me not too long ago “Do you feel fully alive?”

“Well yeah. But I felt fully alive before I left.”

To be Californian means I am louder and more open than many I meet. It means my blue hair makes sense and my loud laugh is a bit more understood. I am able to relate numerous camping adventures to the crazy things I am currently doing and I encourage every kid who goes on those trips to enjoy and appreciate them. They are traveling. Camping is traveling. Moving is traveling. Being fully aware of the intense diversity of a state that is bigger than the whole of New Zealand, is traveling.

After all, for us Americans, a five hour drive is nothing.

(That can get some Europeans through 2 or 3 countries.)

Necessarily Normal

This is for all of those lovely individuals born into the female expectations of the world, especially those I have had the pleasure of knowing at ERCLC.

You are brilliantly worthy of being yourself in whatever form that may take.

As I find myself surrounded by many different cultures and even more individual ways of seeing life, I am ever more grateful for the community I have had at ERCLC, my old school.

Create. Keep creating. Keep taking the opportunity to learn something new.

And give yourself grace for all those moments where you feel anything but good at what you are doing.

I was recently told that perhaps I am intimidating. I asked why. I’m surrounded by people doing the things that I thought made me intimidating at home. Firefighters, rock climbers, hitchhikers, guides, travellers, multi-talented women and individuals of all sorts of badass kinds.

“Actually I think it’s because of how curious you are.”

I had told this person that pretty much everyone I come in contact with is peppered with questions. Could they teach me? What does this mean? What do they know about the area? How likely is it for me to be able to do this?

ERCLC is a place where that is encouraged. You want to learn how to use a laser cutter? You want to learn about the biology of a horse hoof? You want to learn how to code games, sew, cook, act, run a country, travel the world, fence, or pretty much anything you can think of? We will get you the books, point you in the right direction, find someone who knows, figure it out with you, or answer your questions.

Go for it.

So what happens when you put someone who has lived that for most of their life into a place where asking so incessantly isn’t necessarily normal?

You know I’m still trying to figure it out.

I’ve sat on my bed many afternoons wondering if I’m somehow throwing myself way too far out there. Maybe I ought to back off. Maybe I ought to somehow make myself more manageable. I’m louder, more easily excited, younger, and less experienced than many around me.

I’ve had a lot of “ah crap. Maybe I ought to have kept my mouth shut.”

Oh well.

I’m finding the lovely people who listen to me, but perhaps I am more thankful for those who let me listen to them.

All this to say, if you are brave enough to do anything, start by being brave enough to ask a question. Because I am spending a good portion of my days looking like I don’t know much so that I can learn a heck of a lot more.

For those little girls and individuals in general who are finding themselves caught in an expectant tangle of gender or society expectations, I have some encouragement.

There is nothing more beautiful to a real person than another real person.

I am taking up space. I have shaved sides and blue hair. I am asking questions. I am announcing my presence with echoing barefooted footsteps in the halls. I am laughing loudly, excitedly introducing myself to people, sheepishly running off a longboard when I go too fast, watching people with wide eyes as they tell stories, and happily proclaiming my personal favourite accomplishment of the day.

And it certainly isn’t always accepted or encouraged.

So I’ll keep being myself again tomorrow.

I absolutely love it when you do the same.