In My Head: The Stuff of Travel

I want to go and travel. I'm on a budget. I can't go willy nilly despite having a passport that says I can leave when I want. It's sort of like that comic saying: What do you mean I am overdrawn? I still have checks.

I want to go visit Bob in Panama; he was my first employer in Oregon and now he lives close-by. I want to tell him that when I was employed by him, I often took a straw into the walk-in refrigerator and opened beers and drank. I hope he will laugh at this point in time. I want to re-visit the UK because when I went before I was as sick as a dog and I feel gipped.

I want to go to Africa. Anywhere in Africa because I am of African American descent and I feel a need to see where my ancestors might have come from. I want to go too, because I love Black people. I like they way they look and I think I will feel comfortable in the presence of those that never left my Motherland.

I want to visit Tbilisi, Georgia because I have a Pen Pal there. I want to see Petra, in Jordan, because I heard that one needs to take a donkey to get in the narrow passageways to the intact ruins. I love the idea of being hoisted upon a donkey.

I want to go to Morocco, I'm sorry to say this, to metaphorically flip off my ex-husband. I am thinking Marakesh and a fist fight on the square. Maybe I will wear something skimpy too. You know, just to be evil. And maybe I will find the address of his family and yell out his name as I am carted away.

I want to go to Haiti because I saw Henry Louis Gates' PBS program about the legacy of Africans in Latin America. I saw someone on the program- that specific Haitian episode,- that said enough that made me think the place was fascinating.

I want to return to Germany because everyone seems to be GIGANTIC there. I like feeling petite. I liked being surrounded by men that stand over me like Pantheon pillars. I need another fix. I miss my friends too.

I want, I want.

I want to go to Taiwan because when I lived in Vermont and taught the Taiwanese community English, I fell in love with the laughter we shared. I fell in love with the food that was cooked for me and the things I learned about cooking and food preservation. I would love to go to Taiwan with my old friends. I would love to see what they missed and loved about their home-towns.

I wish. I wish.

I want to go to Singapore because I recently began a correspondence with a man that lives there. He seems interesting. He seems worthy of a face-to-face jaw wag. Through his photos, Singapore seems so too.

I want to take the Siberian Rail. I want to travel across a continent that takes me through multiple countries and lands me in Asia. I want to begin in English and end with another language. I want the experience of a train that loads me on and carries me along while I witness others boarding that speak various languages. I want to experience the rocking motion, with each new passengers' ascent onto the train. I want to look out my cabin window and see great pines shooting to the sky. I want to imagine myself in a great Russian novel. I want to meet new friends. I want to hear of their stories. I want to offer candies in friendship. I want babies thrust in my arms while others use the bathroom having trusted me to do so. I want to contemplate Tolstoy and Lenin.

Yes. Yes. Yes.

I want to go to Cuba because The United States says, I can't. I want to see automobiles that are still intact from the 40's and 50's. I want to see the hybrid of the African diaspora in the face of Cubans. I want to be on an island. I want breezes flowing and sea gulls undulating with knowledge of food. I want to fall in love wherever I am.

I want to return to New York City. I miss my old friends. I lament the fact that I am not the one to host them any longer. They are my oldest fiends and I miss them. They are the legacy and witnesses of my life. They 'knew me when'. They know my shit stinks. They are beloved, by me. With no exception. Sometimes I miss the street activity. Those interactions, those anonymous interactions. There is nothing, or no one, that has the chutzpah of a New Yorker.

I miss, yes, I really miss... This is my hometown... I miss it most.

I so crave. I crave. I crave. The ocean. Water. Give me water. Tell me where I must go to view the water. The ocean. The sea. The gulf. A grand river.

Bring me to that place which you love; that draws me in. That place where I must go... Share with me. Share with me...

Diane Tose 1942-2020

In part, Diane’s passing marks the end of an era. The end of a time in history when the work in HIV research was experimental and run by mavericks. Diane was a ‘maverick’ in the truest sense of the word. We all were no matter the discipline we worked in. We were trailblazers. Diane was a complex woman. If you didn’t come to know her she was just a tall British woman who put the fear of God in you. She was pragmatic, demanding, and proudly British, even though she confided in me that she felt much more American than British. Diane liked things just so. An inch either way would be enough for her to voice a strong opinion. Opinionated women can often be alarming, but in Diane I found a heroine. I admired and looked up to Diane. She was no-nonsense. I can remember her calling patients into her office for pelvic examinations with a loudly overheard: Let’s have a look-see, or a get those feet up in the stirrups. I am sure that had she been a man she’d have been reported into oblivion, but

My Plantation Sown With Sorrow

I recently found this academic paper while going through things in my home. It is a book review of Dorothy West's novel, The Wedding. It was written sometime between 1994-97 when I was working with the Dean of Empire State College, James H. Case , who served as my mentor. I do not know how to put footnotes in Blogger so I will be using asterisks with an associated number which can be found at the end of the piece. Two days ago I closed Dorothy West's book, The Wedding, and fell straight to sleep. I had a dream. I was out shopping but had an appointment with E's therapist later in the day. I was supposed to meet E there. I called twice to say I would be late and finally arrived when the session was over. When I arrive, E and the therapist are friendly. The therapist tells us of a party we might be interested in going to later that very evening. E and I agree to go. We arrived at the party and I immediately split to go sit with the gay men and begin to yuck it up as onl

Consider This

This post was inspired by my dear friend Sue, a psychoanalyst on the west coast of the US. It was a conversation we recently had where she asked me how I control or deal with being bipolar. She said that my experience was important and that I should write about it. So here we go. I’ve been in therapy on and off for 50 years. Periodically I return to therapy when I need to tease something out that is going on with me where I want a second voice. In another conversation with Sue I asked her if someone could be given a diagnosis at one time and with therapy work through and out of that diagnosis into either another diagnosis or to more awareness, self reflection and control over the things that led you to therapy in the first place. She responded with an emphatic: Yes. Think of it this way: A diagnosis helps to focus your awareness to go further towards your healing and self awareness; gathering self respect along the way. Your awareness expands within the diagnosis and with that expansi

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