Curse of the Nomad


The travel bug has bitten.

The little asshole (whom  I love) often sneaks up, sinks its teeth in, injects its nomad venom, then scurries off again. The bugger.

I have a rare 4-day weekend coming up around July 4th. All my adult life, I have gone through cycles of self-employment, then working for others. The reason: I like working for myself, pursuing my dreams, doing what I want to do. It’s how I stay sane & passionate about the things I love. But, you see, that is a tough road to travel. At times, it is easier (on both the bank account & the pragmatic side of things) to slide into a position with a steady paycheck.

Also, I get bored when I have no challenge before me. Once I master something, I get hungry to try a new venture. I need newness. My nomad blood demands it.

A few of my passions lend themselves well to this undeniable part of me. With my art: I try new media, techniques, subject matter. With writing: new formats, a different voice, a fresh premise. With travel: an unexplored place, unique people, first-time experiences.

Until about 4 months ago, I was in the phase of my cycle where I was full-time self-employed. I created most every day & traveled at least once per month. Now, my income is predictable, my checking account is more robust,  and my schedule is more methodical. Which is, of course, both a blessing and a curse. It’s great to have steady cash flowing in, but it sucks to be locked in to a schedule set by another—one which hinders the thump of my nomadic heart.

So, with the freedom of a 4-day weekend: What to do? Where to go? How far can I venture in that short time frame? What is the best use of that time? How many newness-junkie experiences can I squeeze in? Should I stay closer to home so I don’t burn up all my time with travel? Or should I allow the actual journey to be the destination? Can I overcome the timesuck by hopping on a plane? Is there something on my bucket list I can check off: hang gliding, perhaps? Should I just stand by the side of the road, pop up my thumb, and see what hitch hiking adventure awaits? Should I strike out alone, invite a friend, meet up with a stranger to connect with as a travel companion? Will some random follower of my blog or Twitter extend an invitation to come out for a visit?

Priceline has been fried with my possibility-searching: a flight to Seattle to visit a friend I haven’t seen in years, a jaunt to Toronto to spend America’s Independence Day in another country,  pricing for a ticket to Iceland, a trip to NYC, LA, Las Vegas, Hawaii? My account has been updated & pushed to its limits; I sent out a dozen messages to interesting folks in random places. My brain is whirring with the potential of it all. My mental gears are churning, my brain-lightning is flashing, my backpack is twitching.

I am totally open to crowd-sourcing this adventure.

I don’t have a plan yet, but have almost 3 weeks left to discover one.

Which seems like a long time, but really isn’t.

Not knowing how the road will fork from here is part of the thrill. An intersection is coming. I can see it, like a mirage, up ahead. All I know for sure is that the travel bug has bitten, the heat of the rash is spreading, and I must scratch the hell out of this nomad itch.

Seriously, I need this. The more random, serendipitous, and memorable—the better. Feel free to take part in the randomness. I’m wide-ass open.


I’m heading out this morning to lovely Massachusetts. That’s great because I can use a getaway from the midwest, but the downside is I’ll be internet-free for a week. Off the grid. Unplugged from the matrix. In a sense, I am leaving the virtual world in the rearview mirror as well.

The upside: I’ll get a good amount of time to write and edit while I’m gone.

Since I’m rushing out in ten minutes and won’t be posting for awhile, I figured I’d pop up the first 250 words of Freeborn before I go. It’s still rough & all that.


Katia shuffled down the busy sidewalk, hunching over her cane. Mindful of the surveillance cameras, she periodically stopped to adjust the scarf securing her gray wig. Though her disguise was fake, her Infection was real.
Every face that passed wore a government-issued prevention mask. The virus did not discriminate, but attacked the elderly, children, women, and men alike. None were immune. Even though Katia had taken every precaution, the sickness had wormed its way into her blood. The parasite now squirmed in her gut.
A pair of heavily armed Doctors blocked her direct route to the building. One tiny prick from one of their portable infection detectors would unravel her disguise. They often slammed the infected to the ground—just for kicks—before hauling them off to a quarantine center. That was the Doctors’ role: enforce the laws of the Surgeon General, mess with the rabble, keep the streets clear of the infected, and toy with them along the way.
Katia held her breath and shuffled behind the Doctors. Their voices turned towards her as she passed, but they didn’t address her as she mounted the steps to the ten-story structure. Like many other corporate buildings, this one had been converted to housing in order to accommodate the soaring population caused by the Infection.
The rebel in Suite 940 was Katia’s last hope. While most referred to the woman as a witch, she called herself Ilythia. The rumors claimed she could help the infected through the horrific final stages.

‘See’ you all soon. Get enough Internet usage in for the both of us.