Wandering Holy

For Doric, who endures my distracting muttering when walking me through computer problems. For Cassandra, because I sent her a DM then realized it was the first line of a poem—this post.

I’m wandering through the apartment addled and hapless.

It is 250 square feet. The refrigerator, kitchen counters, shower stall—everything—is in that space.

It’s hard to wander addled and hapless in less than 250 square feet.

But I’m wandering through a studio, addled and hapless, getting things done.

For one, am preparing to throw out my old desktop computer—it’s gotten too hard to use—by removing all its files, etc.

… Need to update something on the hard drive to even use the desktop. … It hasn’t been updated for a year? It’s been that long since I used it? Waiting for the update to finish, I put laundry away. I set the paint on a blouse I painted two days ago.

An album of my original music wasn’t on the desktop. Hunting through both laptops, I can’t find it there either. … Maybe the files are in that other folder. … The update failed. I start over.

It’s okay, I have an archival CD of the album. But why can’t I find it on my laptop?

I kept the desktop for so long in hopes that, in its antiquity, it could process music files from my ancient recording studio equipment.

I hang wet clothes, which take up more of what little space is in this studio. The desktop is a no-go. The unreleased music album on my recording studio equipment may be lost. Years of work. Compositions and recordings drawn out like fine needle aspiration biopsies from the centers of all my cells.

There is no waste. Everything is fodder.

So I am as proliferate as God.

Is everything a Shamanic quest, all the losses, all the laundry, all the love? All the liturgies comprised of wanderers’ wonderings? Even the addled hapless hours?

Yes, everything. I asked because I had forgotten—once again.

I lived in San Francisco for a quarter of a century, then rurally for 20 years. Now, back in SF, I use my city magic. Wandering a San Francisco studio apartment, I’m on a safari through civilized wilds, a shaman hunting not for the answer but for a question. … It is an urban nomad ritual. Wandering is holy.

Wandering is magic.

Wandering is ritual.

It is 4 in the morning. I feel lovely—content, serene, and embodying my Fairy ancestors. I’m going to eat breakfast and then go to bed.

Note: It took until my 70s to fully admit I am semi-nomadic. Seventy-four years were enough to settle down sometimes and give it a good try. But remaining in place never worked. Even during many consecutive years of residence in San Francisco, I left to live in Europe for a while (wait, living in Europe negates consecutive years), moved within the city more times than I can count, and otherwise needed to be in movement.