i’ve got a jar of lone star

Everyone has different ways of coping with homesickness. Some people write about it, others embrace it.. but me? I carry a jar of dirt with me, yup — thats right. Texas dirt. Texas is the first place away from Denmark that i’ve ever felt at home or like i could stay there for the rest of my life; as a drifter thats saying a whole lot. I haven’t opened the jar since we left almost three years ago, the ground inside is from our little piece of land on the outskirts of town, the leaf was the first that fell and the empty bullet well thats another story.  My little jar of Lone Star sits by my bedside and comforts me when the days get too long. I think back to that brick house where the coyotes used to gather like fruit flies, where i ended up showering with a lizard and an angry scorpion consistently hid in my boots.

When night fell over Gazebo street our backyard became a fair ground of playing stars dancing for the limelight. We’d stand and watch them roll, shoot and shine for hours whilst the mosquitoes bled us dry. It was worth every minute.
I remember one evening when summer was turning to autumn. We slept with the window open. Around 4.30am i heard a high pitched eerie howl as beautiful as ever it could be. Outside my window was a lone coyote, right outside. I didn’t dare look but i could smell her breathing and i sure as hell could hear her singing. The wind was almost cool and soothing — rare for South East Texas.  In the distance a whole band of coy dogs began to yip and yawh, so my friend of the night disappeared into the brush. I will never forget that early morning, and though i was too freaked out to look through the dark for her, it is one of my fondest memories. I have a soft spot for coyotes and wolves, for farmers and ranchers they’re little devils, but to me they’re like me. Drifting from place to place and part of the pack.
My pack amounts to three, and thats how it should be.
So there on my bedside table is my comforting jar of dirt that wakes a memory or two.

where i lay my hat

It’s Friday the 20th of October and it 23:29 in the evening, we just finished watching ” The Last Of The Mohicans” with method actor Daniel Day Lewis — and sometimes something as simple as a beautiful soundtrack can make you ponder and leave you wandering in the forest of your mind for answers you know don’t rustle in those trees.

Home is a hard word — or rather a complicated one. I battle with it often trying to determine where i feel “at home.” If i’ve ever felt at home. Every place has it’s own drawbacks — and if theres anything i’m good at its finding the drawbacks. I’ve lived a long life for a 25 year old; i’ve lived many lives already and i’m far from done. Any expat will tell you that travelling over a long period of time will change you in ways you can’t comprehend. I’m not talking vacation or holidays — i’m talking living a life of travel, of moving from place to place and becoming a part of a new life. A self-sort gift as well as a curse as hard as they come. I’ve never much cared what happened to my life or where it ended up — i usually go with the flow of living and see where the wind blows me, still do. Sure there are things i want to do and accomplish, which i work on little by little every day but theres no place out there that i feel “yeah — thats home and thats where i’ll return to when i’m done dreaming.”

For me home is a person, a breath of air, a stroll to a mountain, a beautiful horizon resting on the sea in any place; a horse nickering in the early morning — thats home. Its the small joys that trigger memories of my family when i’m 4000 miles away in the back end state of nowhere.
So i lay my hat wherever i sleep at night — but never at home, because he already has hat.

where i lay my hat

A John Hancock

Im a very open minded person, i’m stuck in my ways but it takes a lot to surprise me.

Currently living in New England where the accents are strong and the people are a totally new breed for me. Having lived in the USA a while now i figured i’d heard it all. Most importantly, i thought i’d experienced all the awkward language barriers. I currently work on the harbour, sometimes on the boat and the rest of the time in the office.

This particular day was a whopper.
In the office you meet every kind of person. The weirdo who decides to talk to you about his prostate for 20 minutes and the current placement of his scrotum. The woman who wants to know when the 3:00pm trip leaves and the many more.

I’d already had a situation on the local bus where a bloke, who smelt like rotten pizza and bad decisions, kept trying to stare up my shorts. Every time i get on the bus he does this. Without fail. Every.Day. I’ve sat in almost every seat on the bus to try and avoid him. Today was just another day. Until i started to lose my cool and decided to make it obvious that i saw what he was doing. He didn’t stop. His black pervey eyes looking up my thighs like a damn animal in heat.

I got out my phone and openly took at picture of his general nastiness.
He hasn’t done it since.

So, i proceed to work. Already a little riled and a man starts talking to me about his prostate. Openly.
Lets call him Mr.Ball.

Mr.Ball: “Is there a bathroom onboard the boat? My prostrate is in a real way…”

Me: “Yes sir, there is a head onboard.”

Mr.Ball: “I have to pee every few minutes, my wife can hold her bladder for a whole night! Imagine that.”

Me: [smiling] “I’d rather not, Sir. I assure you, we have facilities on board. You needn’t worry.

Mr.Ball: You know, my parts just haven’t been the same since my problem started. They hang ever so strangely.

All the ladies in the office are staring at me and the poor old codger is adjusting his nether pendulums with his forefinger and thumb. Golly, i hope he washes his hands.

A few hours later and i’m pretty sure nothing else odd is going to happen today because what is more out-the-ordinary than talking about soppy bollocks for 20minutes? I mean really?

A man and his wife want to buy two tickets. They were very happy and high spirited, they were on holiday and the day was perfect for a sail. There was the usual pleasantries between the customers and I until he said something i was sure i’d misunderstood.

Sir: [very heavy Bostonian accent] So, do you want my John Hancock?

I was shocked and it happens so rarely i simply stared.
Me: I beg you pardon? What did you just say to me?

Sir: Do you want my John Hancock?

To my ignorant horror… I genuinely thought that he’d asked me to put my hand on his cock.

With his dear sweet wife quite in earshot.

I was stumped and battle ready quite rightly.

I looked at him pretty hard and said nothing.

I printed his tickets and he proceeded to explain what a John Hancock was.

To sign your signature.
I’ve never been more mortified.

What a day.
Just another day in the life of an expat i suppose.
Bloody hell.