I fully intend to make moving to New York City a giant adventure. The thrill of culture shock will just provide so much creative ammunition, there’s no way I can pass certain things up.
It looks like I will most likely end up there around the end of September, making my wild rumpus due to begin in the month of October. My absolutely, hands down, most favoriteist month of the year.
Also, it happens to be the perfect month to start the adventures I’m currently planning. I have a mad desire to go soak in the atmosphere of some historical locations that also happen to be haunted. I want to go indulge my inner goth child who never grew up, hang out where Dylan Thomas drank himself to death, and go see Poe’s haunted banister.
I’ve loved listening to true ghost story podcasts and Stephen King’s Bag of Bones while working on this, little dark plot bunny shadows keep skittering off to the murky corners of my journal. The thought of walking this map in October is just dark chocolate icing on a pumpkin spice cupcake with bat sprinkles.
Another great thing about all these upcoming outings, I get to brush off my photography skills. My eyes suck, so I set photography aside as a serious pursuit long ago. I like my little free Craig’s list camera for family pictures and some nature treasure hunting, but now I’m throwing tourism into the mix with a decent budget, it’s time to brush off my skills and start researching cameras for the awesome upgrade.
So, I’m designing a couple of photo safaris for myself, some of them adventure related. Around the house, the thought of a straight up domestic set of photos bores me, so I’m going to think of ways to inspire stories with what I do. Like, I don’t know about staging a still life with fruit, but maybe a subtle implication of murder.
I’m not exactly sure how such a project will help me take better photos of haunted banisters and the Statue of Liberty’s toe, but I’m sure it will help me somehow in an important way and therefore it must be done.
I’m just so excited about all the possibilities coming up for getting out of the house, you don’t even understand. My old friends from high school would. They knew all about how I grew up a chronic runaway, and how even when I was happy I would still want to wander so badly that I frequently left parties for long walks until I drove the itchy impulses out of my legs. Sometimes they came with, but usually they didn’t because those slackers could never keep up.
I’ve lived in Tulsa for over a decade. I moved here in a state of crisis and poverty, and my main forms of transportation have been my feet and the public bus system. Going to the grocery store has been “getting out of the house” for years. Years of years, even. I feel like a minister’s daughter about to head off to a co-ed university in another state.