“I consider myself more a vagabond, on a spiritual quest. A spiritual nomad; I don’t see myself homeless, honesty. Wherever I live is my home.”
It started right after identifying her body. My wife died on Thanksgiving evening, the last sign from her was a receipt for a Tuborg six-pack she bought just outside of Chicago. When she came into Iowa city, she went off the embankment, the car rolled six or seven times. I went in, got her few possessions, notified her mother, and I left on the road within 24 hours. On the last night at our apartment, I tried to set the coach on fire, but felt bad and put it out.
I i-80’d, and about two weeks into it, people picked me up outside of Denver. They took me to their house, washed me up, I’d been on the road for almost two weeks at that point. I was in a bad shape, drinking heavily. They showed me a different way to live. They were hippies and they taught me about travelling kids and a place called Rainbow; they changed my life. I’ve been doing this off and on ever since.
I consider myself more a vagabond, on a spiritual quest. A spiritual nomad; I don’t see myself homeless, honestly. Wherever I live is my home, I know it is a cliché to say, but it is a personal feeling inside that I get that justifies what I do. I knew such a thing existed, I know you could live out on the roads. People who are a little different, they are not out there because they are forced out or they gave up on life, they are here because they seek something else. There is a flow out here, a spiritual flow, and it washes even on dirt. And if you are honest about what you need and don’t ask for excess, you survive, not easily, but comfortably. All depending on your comfort level, of course.
Being on the road also keeps me away from hard drugs. I can’t get into a rhythm where that becomes the main objective. My main objective when I wake up, fortunately, is to go to the bathroom, but second is find something to eat, then decide if I need to move or hang out for a while.
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