No Longer A Rolling Stone. Kind Of.

Los Angeles, CA
in
Franklin Canyon, Los Angeles

Franklin Canyon, Los Angeles

The past couple of months have been one giant step forward followed by the sensation of finding my footing and praying to jesus christo I don't fall over or down. The step forward was an amalgamation of realizations, among them that I didn't want to live in Paris, I wanted to live in California, I didn't want to be a professional nomad, I still wanted to travel the world, and I wanted to begin creating a solid foundation for the rest of my life.

Cool, right? Up until the waning of 2016 post-college, I had mostly worked, saved, traveled, worked, saved, chilled, travelled with no real end in sight. That was all good and well until I realized I have the capabilities to create the life I truly want. A life that has roots with the possibility of regularly residing on the stems.

To really land on that directional shift and lean into it was a special kind of liberation. To realize structure isn’t an opponent of adventure. To realize creating a home doesn’t have to be settling. And better yet, that settling isn’t inherently a bad word. My child self was like "woah, this is some adult stuff!"

The most exciting of all is creating a life. Creating a life! It’s like being 5 years old again and only picking the Starburst flavors that make my tongue dance (pink, duh). I can aim for a career that allows me to bring in regular income and travel. I can live in a place that allows me to revel in the city life and the rural life. I can be a regular at a grocery store or a bar and walk into a new spot anytime I want and become a stranger like I would in Sarajevo or Copenhagen to get the mysterious fix I crave.

I can live somewhere long enough to foster a loving community of friends I’ve so longed for my entire life. I can create a home for myself where I can rest, relax, and retreat. I can leave that home whenever I want when I’m itching to be nomadic.

To really feel that the two opposites in me—the rooted Southern home-maker and the free-spirited, untamed renaissance woman—can truly coincide in harmony is a relief. But the day-to-day pendulum between the two is still a balancing act (one I look forward to expounding upon here in the coming weeks). 

The other side of creating a life perfectly tailored for me? CREATING A LIFE PERFECTLY TAILORED FOR ME?! Wait, how do I do that? Where do I start? What is this perfect job that’s going to allow me to actually make money and travel? Where is this community of people? Probably somewhere drinking champagne, meditating, and not eating kimchi. California is actually an entire state…Well, at least I got a state, but jeez, I could’ve picked one with a smaller land mass so I could have, ya know, fewer cities to choose from as home.

As it turns out, with one stone turned comes another stoned covered with beautiful, glistening moss I will gleefully and most likely awkwardly untangle. I can’t wait to see what’s underneath, but at the moment the thickness of the green is a sight to see and if I tried to step on it right this moment I would most definitely fall and bust my ass. Here's to breathing and patience. 

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Malibu couldn't be more of a dream come true. Thank you for all you've given me so far: inspiration, love, hope, spark, motivation, and stillness. Thank you for everything that is yet to come. My heart belongs to you. #malibu #california #malibumorni
As soon as I land here, my body drinks up the moisture and my skin and heart are revived. My body knows it was born and bred here. Traveling the world has made me so grateful for my home. Shout out to my Dad's '90s truck that still runs like new and
En route to Denver ⛰ #southernbelle #nomad #roadtrip
Nothing like day drinking in a tiny town. Helllllo, Durango 🦌
Dandelion wishes 💫

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Go Into The Arts, The Arts Alone

Paris
in

We run away from our roots for all kind of reasons. I know I had mine. I wanted more. Of everything. More knowledge. More friends. More experiences. I wanted to be more. More interesting. More cool. More beautiful. More thin. More likeable. More fun.

I finally bought a professional camera three months ago before I left for Paris. I know very little about photography. At some point in time I have been a writer, a musician, a singer, an actor, a dancer, and now I’ve added photographer to the list. I fluidly moved from one creative pursuit to the next trying to find answers to questions I didn’t even know I had. Let’s hope to god I don’t ever get to painting because I cannot draw and would like to keep one artistic space a grand mystery.

Photography, for me, is the least conscious artistic pursuit. Most likely because it is a hobby. The others were always presented to me as a means to an end. A record deal. A series role. A place on a Russian twerk team. Photography was just photography.

Walking around the Luxembourg Gardens today with my camera I kept following a trend I didn’t even notice was a trend. I always take pictures of trees. No matter where I am. The middle of rural America or standing by the Eiffel Tower, I look for the trees.

I never thought much about it until today.

My roots are rural. My roots are my nature. I was raised with a vegetable garden on acres of land with so many trees in sight. But I never paid much attention to them growing up. I was always coming and going and searching. If you haven’t noticed, I’m still coming and going. I run away from my roots towards something unknown on a daily basis. And I realized today that when I reach the unknown, the objects I see most. The objects I seek most. Are trees. Are roots.

At some point in time every other artistic pursuit has landed me on my roots. Writing lives in my bones. Music has lived in my soul since the first time I heard Patsy Cline on the radio. Acting lives in my heart as I try to understand and love every human story I come across. But somewhere along the way, they were all muddied by the more. I asked more of them. I asked them to make me more. They all looked me in the eyes and showed me my true colors. I asked them for more and they couldn’t give it to me. I asked them for more until I got fed up with rejection. I burned out. And I walked away from all of them.

I came to Paris and elsewhere and I started taking pictures. I’ve been taking pictures everywhere, every day. And today I have finally consciously seen a parallel path.

I keep looking for roots without even trying. And through that action, I can feel the other creative trees I had cut down sprouting roots again inside me. I have started to write again with pure love. Without asking more from it. I have started to go to the movie theatre again without feeling the pain of an industry I vehemently shut out of my life. I feel the desire to enter the mind of a character again. I had a heartbreak a few weeks ago and last night I sat down to write a song like I did when I was 12. Alone. On the floor with tears and asking no more from that piece of music than to help heal my soul. To help me live fully in my roots. Not more. Just me. 


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Malibu couldn't be more of a dream come true. Thank you for all you've given me so far: inspiration, love, hope, spark, motivation, and stillness. Thank you for everything that is yet to come. My heart belongs to you. #malibu #california #malibumorni
As soon as I land here, my body drinks up the moisture and my skin and heart are revived. My body knows it was born and bred here. Traveling the world has made me so grateful for my home. Shout out to my Dad's '90s truck that still runs like new and
En route to Denver ⛰ #southernbelle #nomad #roadtrip
Nothing like day drinking in a tiny town. Helllllo, Durango 🦌

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A Rant From a White Southern Liberal Millennial Woman Who is Sick and Fucking Tired of Being Nice to Nice People: Hope You’re Triggered

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If you have ever met me briefly, you probably identify me with the word “nice.” If you have known me for a longer amount of time, you might know me as “nice” or you might know me as a raging bitch. I’m not here acting like I’m God’s gift to earth, but in general, I’m an extremely “nice” person. In lots of circumstances, I am well-liked. In any number of them I also am holding my tongue, quietening my voice, or trying not to anger someone else.

This ends today.

I spent the first day after the election in disbelief. Then in grief. Then I tried to understand the roots from whence I came. At each stage I wrote a different article. Now I sit in rage. And wonderfully enough, this is the first article I’ve felt proud to publish because it’s the truest emotion I’ve landed on when it comes to recent history. (To any from-birth feminists (which I am not) reading this, I’d like to highlight just how fucking hard it is to even GET to this stage. Disbelief, where I was raised, isn’t accepted from women. Much less rage for anything you’ve been spoon-fed by your community.)

I grew up in a town in the rural South where everyone was “nice” to “the other.” No one was ever overtly rude to anyone, but here is where the silent majority lurks.

Black people, okay???
Slight hesitation.
But oh I have to be nice.
So I’ll be nice.

Gay people, okay???...
Slight hesitation.
But oh I have to be nice.
So I’ll be nice.

Trans people, okay???...
Slight hesitation.
But oh I have to be nice.
So I’ll be nice.

Muslims, okay???...
Slight hesitation.
But oh I have to be nice.
So I’ll be nice.

If I had a penny for every time I heard “I don’t have a problem with black people…[somebullshit]” growing up, I’d be a fucking millionaire. Chances are if you have to say out loud you don’t have a problem with black people, you probably have a problem with black people. And this makes you, you guessed it, racist.  

For the most part, my community was nice to everyone. But HOT DAMN I knew if I ever came home dating a POC or a woman, I’d be kicked out of the house and my community would look at me like a modern Hester Prynne. I knew, without being told so, that these relationships were not acceptable. In the best of cases, it would merely be tolerated. And in this case, toleration just looks more like ignoring an entire flesh and blood human being.

Now isn’t that a fucking metaphor for all those white people saying “I’m a Trump supporter, but I’m not racist.” You may not be lynching people, but you’re setting up the stage and adorning it with lights while drawing your own curtains, sipping sugared tea and saying “but you know, *I* don’t really have a problem with black people.”

When it comes to being nice, most of you were perfectly willing to expend energy to look like a “good person.” But when it comes to the safety and wellbeing of millions of Americans at the cost of some “way of life” that is NEVER COMING BACK, you basically said “I’m ignoring you. You don’t matter.”

And fine. No one has told you this to your face yet, but your way of life isn’t coming back. Your jobs aren’t being stolen by immigrants and people in other countries. They’re being stolen by machines and a world that requires different skillsets. And no one ever got a laptop and said “yeah, no thanks, I’ll go back to a world where I input financial records manually.” NO ONE. (See: later discussion about what to do when we ALL get taken over by AIs.)

You’ve essentially pled for a world that is dead and you’ve mobilized the people fueled by the future of love who are going to walk all over its fucking corpse. I’m proud to say I’m one of them.

I have too much rage to correctly formulate all of my thoughts so I’m going to end with this. I am too to blame. I took your point of views and was “nice” back to you. I called you my crazy Republican Uncle or brushed you off as dumb or even showed you compassion because I really wanted to believe you didn’t know any better. You did; you just didn’t care.

I am heartbroken that it has taken the election of a sociopathic, narcissistic, inexperienced, crusty fucking Cheeto to make me come to the realization that I’ve been letting you slide. But come hell or high water, I am NOT letting you off the hook anymore. The road to hell is paved with good intentions and I promise you that the chickens do indeed come home to roost. 

 

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Malibu couldn't be more of a dream come true. Thank you for all you've given me so far: inspiration, love, hope, spark, motivation, and stillness. Thank you for everything that is yet to come. My heart belongs to you. #malibu #california #malibumorni
As soon as I land here, my body drinks up the moisture and my skin and heart are revived. My body knows it was born and bred here. Traveling the world has made me so grateful for my home. Shout out to my Dad's '90s truck that still runs like new and
En route to Denver ⛰ #southernbelle #nomad #roadtrip
Nothing like day drinking in a tiny town. Helllllo, Durango 🦌
Dandelion wishes 💫

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How Living Beyond Fear Opened My Life

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Looking back on the last year of my life, I don’t know how I could’ve planned it. Wonderful friends and mentors have waltzed into my life under the most unassuming circumstances. I was dead set on moving to Paris despite the fact that it's insanely expensive and through some miracle I did. One year I had no clue what I would be doing a year from then and for many months I lived in fear of not being able to live the life I wanted to live.

My entire life changed the moment I changed my mindset.

Instead of looking at the future and feeling scared, I started looking at my future and feeling wonder. My life is a mystery that could become anything, and I started seeing that as a fact of extreme excitement rather than a point of crippling fear.

I began to imagine the way my life could turn out wonderfully, and almost instantly, it did.

I imagined myself moving to Paris. I imagined myself finding employment that would allow me to do so. I imagined myself living in LA in the interim. I imagined myself being my own boss. I imagined myself finding a mentor. All of these wishes came true. I actually ended up finding 2 mentors. Lucky me.

This is not to say that I made wishes and *poof* they came true. I worked. A lot. In the real world and in my inner world. But my attitude towards my life drastically changed the outcome of my work.

And here I sit in Paris actually living a dream. I’d like to say I don’t know how I got here, but I do. I moved past my fear and manifested this life for myself. I gave myself a goal and believed it would happen. In trusting it would work out, I opened seemingly inconsequential doors in my every day life that I would’ve definitely passed had I been in the mindset of inevitable failure.

I started to look at life as a series of opening little gifts over a long period of time. And as the great Mary Oliver once pointed out, even the gifts of darkness, sadness, and failure are gifts all the same. If I had kept on living in the mindset of fear, I would still be sitting in a room with a pile of unopened gifts, terrified of opening boxes for fear of opening a bad one. What a shame. Now every day is my birthday. I’m opening gifts left and right. Some of those gifts have included losing a job and ending a friendship. They’re not all roses. But I also opened new friendships. And a life in Paris. And a new creative wind. From now on I will open and receive all the boxes and whatever they hand me. Because I’ll never open the lavish wishes of all my dreams if I don’t continue tearing off each wrapping paper with a fearlessness about what might be inside. 

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Backdrops 🙌🏼
Malibu couldn't be more of a dream come true. Thank you for all you've given me so far: inspiration, love, hope, spark, motivation, and stillness. Thank you for everything that is yet to come. My heart belongs to you. #malibu #california #malibumorni
As soon as I land here, my body drinks up the moisture and my skin and heart are revived. My body knows it was born and bred here. Traveling the world has made me so grateful for my home. Shout out to my Dad's '90s truck that still runs like new and
En route to Denver ⛰ #southernbelle #nomad #roadtrip
Nothing like day drinking in a tiny town. Helllllo, Durango 🦌
Dandelion wishes 💫

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Indecisiveness is a Bitch

Paris
in

Today I had an epiphany in a grocery store. Am I a Southern woman or am I a Southern woman?

To tell this story, I’ll have to back up a bit. These last few week have been a tumultuous roller coaster for me.

After a month of backpacking, I returned to my apartment in Paris for only 3 days before departing for Northern California to celebrate the wedding of my closest person and her soulmate. I spent a week in Northern California and now I’m currently sitting at a wonderful little haunt in Montmartre.

I won’t bore you with the details of my recent past, but I will say it has been one hell of a ride. My insides were all over the place. And at the end of this vague time period, I was one month out from starting this blog and am now 0 days shy of writing a business plan for my own startup. (‘Bout time, turns out I’m a beast at helping other people’s dreams come true, might as well start working on my own.)

Short-hand recent past inner-monologue: Do I want to continue writing on a blog that’s titled in a way that pigeon-holes me? What if I settle in one place for longer? Does that mean I'm no longer traveling "'round the world?" Shouldn’t I just write under my own name if my goal is to present my authentic self? Should I move back to California? I feel at home there. So many of my loves are there. But I need to be in San Francisco. That’s where all the start-ups are. Paris is too settled in its ways. No one is innovating there. People just walk around and drink coffee and wine. They aren’t hustlers. I need hustlers. San Francisco has hustlers. But I couldn’t be there full time. It would be too much. So maybe LA? But I don’t want to be there full time. Same problem. Too many loafers and schmoozers. Now that I’m back in Paris, I don’t care why these people are slow. They have all the croissants and all the champagne. I’m never leaving this place.

Needless to say, I get caught in my indecisiveness a lot. It bogs me down like a pig in 10 feet of mud. Good god it’s exhausting.

Then last night, post-nearly 18 hours of international travel, a dear friend of mine sent me a text telling me to check my e-mail. I love surprises.

He had sent me an article titled “What happens when you take full responsibility of your life.” Click the link to give it a read.

I have struggled with indecisiveness my entire life. Despite lots of self work, I still struggle with it and I might as well accept that I always will. But constant work on my self has sometimes allowed me to dig deeper and figure out what’s really going on.

Prior to reading this article, I once told someone that my indecisiveness presents itself in its most monstrous form AFTER I’ve made a decision. I will choose what I want for myself, but what follows is a period of second-guessing and self-doubt and fear of failure and fear of making a mistake. My authentic self chooses something and then my “dark side” (what I like to call it) says OH NO I DON’T THINK SO.

Per the article, I realized that what really lurks in my brain is a fear of commitment for a multitude of reasons. That dark side is a tricky mother fucker.

That paragraph up there? The one with all the concerns and worries and shoulds and should nots? Yeah. Fuck that. Fuck all that noise. The logistics don’t matter. This is what my authentic self has chosen as of this moment and I want to publicly make a commitment to myself right here. I commit to:

Writing

Building a supportive community for women

Traveling

Staying healthy / self-care

Connection

Creating a home wherever I am

See: grocery store epiphany. These commitments to myself don’t exist in a place or in other people or in a blog title. They exist in me. All the worries I listed above were, in a sense, asking for outside sources to love me back. I wanted Paris to embrace me and shift to my needs. I wanted different parts of California to embrace me and shift to my needs. I wanted my blog or my business venture to give me validation for the kind of life I want to live. In letting the indecisiveness and self-doubt take over, I looked everywhere outside my self for ANY KIND OF ANSWER. Because let’s face it, that dark side bitch wants to ruin my life.

But just like a relationship with any person, trying to force it to change to your own will taints it. You are no longer truly giving love to the authentic Paris or Los Angeles or San Francisco if you ask it to change for you. And trying to change myself to fit into a place or blog title taints my own authentic self. No matter where I am I'll always miss somewhere else. And if I were just writing under “Tanna Key” it wouldn’t give the site space to grow. I want other Southern voices up in here.

I vow to commit to the things I’ve listed above. And the list will grow longer. And I will change my mind all the time when it comes to logistics, but the core truths of my soul will remain constant. And through true consistency I will nurture my authentic self and foster my own validation of my own self worth that has existed within me all along.

Cheers, y’all. I need to finish my champagne. 

 

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Malibu couldn't be more of a dream come true. Thank you for all you've given me so far: inspiration, love, hope, spark, motivation, and stillness. Thank you for everything that is yet to come. My heart belongs to you. #malibu #california #malibumorni
As soon as I land here, my body drinks up the moisture and my skin and heart are revived. My body knows it was born and bred here. Traveling the world has made me so grateful for my home. Shout out to my Dad's '90s truck that still runs like new and
En route to Denver ⛰ #southernbelle #nomad #roadtrip
Nothing like day drinking in a tiny town. Helllllo, Durango 🦌
Dandelion wishes 💫

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Throwing Rotten Peaches Into The Flames: A Sexual Assault Story

Paris
in
Portrait-Magic-Lite-Image.jpg

Before sitting down to write out this story for you I went through multiple vicious cycles of self-doubt, unworthiness, invalidation, and silence.

This is an article about sexual assault. I was not physically harmed in any kind of serious way in this assault, which is why my mind initially thought “it could’ve been, and has been much worse for so many, this isn’t a story worthy of sharing.”

Never having been a victim of what my brain has been washed to believe is “real” assault, I felt it unimportant to speak up.

In a cascading swoop, it dawned on me that this is what women who are “actually” raped feel like. Well, he didn’t touch me. Well, he didn’t take my clothes off. Well, he only put his hand on me. Well, it wasn’t painful. It must not have been assault.

As much as I like to believe I am confident in the line between right and wrong as far as how someone else treats me, it appears my mind, through conditioning, still questions whether or not I have been treated with respect. It still gives the benefit of the doubt; he’s still just pulling my pigtails because he actually likes me.

****

Outside a bar in Munich I ran into a guy who heard my American accent, ran up to me, and said “Hey where are you from?” I replied,

“HOLY SHIT. I’m from Georgia. Where are you from?” With his initial question spoken in a ridiculous Southern accent, I expected him to reply with Alabama or Mississippi.

“Germany.”

Turns out he had studied for a year in Tennessee when he was in high school.

We walked inside and got a drink and started an incredible conversation about fried chicken and education systems. It is rare to find anyone from another country that has truly lived in the Southern United States and understands its charms and faults.

Somewhere in the conversation, we landed on politics. A man standing nearby butted into our conversation and asked what we were talking about. These were bars chats so whatever, the more the merrier.

He begins to tell me about his work and says he's from [English speaking country] and asks me where I’m from. I tell him I’m from Georgia.

“Are you a Georgia Peach?”

“Well, yeah, all women from Georgia are Georgia Peaches.”

“Not true.”

“Seriously, dude? You’re going to question my own fucking roots?” [genial, sarcastic bar talk]

“I went to [Southern state] and they say everyone knows that besides being from Georgia, there are two things that make you a Georgia Peach: you can hold your alcohol and you would never ever be a dick.”

“Be a dick?”

“Yeah. You’re not a Georgia Peach. You were already a dick just now. Georgia Peaches never cause any problems. They don’t ask questions. They don't make waves. They’re just fun and hot as fuck and never say any stupid bullshit back to you.”

[Post-writing proofreading thoughts: "Wait, did I mishear him? Was I in the wrong? Was he just kidding around?"]

“You mean like when you’re raping them and they just lie back with no objection?”

Cold. No response.

“You mean when you harass them and they stay smiley and still and silent?”

Cold. No response.

“You’re despicable.”

“You’re an asshole. See, I told you you weren’t a Georgia Peach.”

I ran out of the bar and the first thoughts that moved through my mind were: ANGER.

How DARE he disrespect my home state? My home girls? Who the fuck are these [Southern state]ian people making my home girls into silent pretty faces who learn to drink their alcohol and never peep of discomfort? Who the fuck does he think he is to talk to me like that? Why am I at this fucking bar? What means Germany? Go home dude, you’re drunk. I’m too fucking CHILL for this shit.

My larger group of friends were in the upstairs of the bar, so I headed back through the darkness, grabbed my newfound Southern German friend and, in turn, felt another hand grab me forcefully.

“I didn’t mean to make you upset.”

I yanked my arm from his hand.

“Of course. [Laughing] Overreacting like a typical American.”

That was it. I ran upstairs to find the bathroom.

I made small talk with my friends upstairs who hadn’t seen me for 20 or so minutes. Long enough to ask where the bathroom was, holding back rage and propping up dams.

I found the door, opened it, closed it behind me, and I lost it. I broke down into the most fervent tears I’ve experienced since the last time I was verbally harassed.

I call this stage: TRAGEDY.

And as much as I’m not trying to make myself out to be any kind of martyr, I couldn’t help but feel a new kind of tragic rage. I cried for all of the women who have been conditioned to embody this perception. I felt their silent voices speaking to me the words they never felt were valid to say. He disrespected me. He hurt me. He assaulted me. He raped me. No, I'm just overreacting. 

I have never felt so violated, so empathetic, and so lucky at once. I cried for myself, for others, for the man with so much hatred in his heart. And then I was able to walk back to my circle of friends, unharmed. Because nothing happened to me. I was fine. Totally fine.

FORGET.

Some divine intervention occurred that night. My Southern German friend got it. He listened. To what I could explain. And he understood. Always look for the helpers. I will always be grateful for the space he gave me to speak and feel.

I spent the rest of my evening at my joint birthday party of October birthdays with beautiful strangers I’d only met that evening. We finished eating our cake. I was driven to a dance club via a stolen shopping cart (sorry, Munich). We danced until 7 AM.

I am a Georgia Peach because I am unrelenting. I am a Georgia Peach because I am kind. I am a Georgia Peach because I am loving and giving and imperfect. I am a Georgia Peach because I use my voice loudly and proudly. I am a Georgia Peach because I don't give any fucks what you think of me. I will take back this title and I will not have it be tarnished by gross superiority and control. And I vow to give my heart and my space to any Peach or man or woman who has ever felt like they have had their dignity tampered with as if it were a faulty smoke detector. I want to hold your hand and help you ring the alarm.

This is not okay. This is not okay. This is not okay. This is not okay.

REMEMBER.

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Malibu couldn't be more of a dream come true. Thank you for all you've given me so far: inspiration, love, hope, spark, motivation, and stillness. Thank you for everything that is yet to come. My heart belongs to you. #malibu #california #malibumorni
As soon as I land here, my body drinks up the moisture and my skin and heart are revived. My body knows it was born and bred here. Traveling the world has made me so grateful for my home. Shout out to my Dad's '90s truck that still runs like new and
En route to Denver ⛰ #southernbelle #nomad #roadtrip
Nothing like day drinking in a tiny town. Helllllo, Durango 🦌
Dandelion wishes 💫

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What Moving From City to City Has Taught Me About Influence

Vienna
in
One of my favorite pictures that shows the scar on my forehead, the cellulite on my thighs and behind the scenes of what most photoshoots look like. No mirrors. Photo credit: Easton Schirra. 

One of my favorite pictures that shows the scar on my forehead, the cellulite on my thighs and behind the scenes of what most photoshoots look like. No mirrors. Photo credit: Easton Schirra. 

It always hits me like a rare song from my childhood I haven't heard in 17 years. No matter how often it comes, it's always the same poignant feeling. Every single time I move from one city to another, I feel a shift in influence. It's so great it cannot go unnoticed, but it's only the changing period, the greatest period of noticing, that I can hear its full effect at loud speaker volume. The before and after speak more quietly. And it's only recently that I've begun to listen to those interim voices.

I used to feel the same dissonance when I moved back and forth between Georgia (where I was raised) and California (where I went to college). In Georgia I would feel such a strong nostalgia for "home" and childhood. On the flip side, California felt like freedom. Like my own song that had been raging within for 18 years finally set free. And the two always felt in conflict. At least I assumed they were in conflict because at that time I didn't trust myself enough to believe what my body knew.

Different circumstances open up different parts of ourselves. They can sweep us back to our youth and pull on our inner child's heart strings. They can make us feel open and limitless. But either way, I believe we feel, see, take in and project whatever is in front of us. We mirror the qualities of our surroundings by spitting back the only thing we know how to spit back: what already exists inside of us.

And we have a choice. We can take in influence and mirror the best of ourselves or the worst of ourselves.

I just left Budapest this afternoon. And now I sit at a bar in Vienna. I feel my mood shifting. What follows is my own exploration of my inner self:

Class difference. I come from money. Growing up, there were stipulations that came with that. Saving face. Looking pretty. Cleanliness: literally and metaphorically. Vienna has that poise of wealth I know. I am more in my "comfort zone" here. But the remnants of Budapest still lurk in my shoulders. Dirtiness. Scrappiness. A night crawler. A little more edgy. No paying attention to money. No wealth but the ability to survive.

At this moment I feel Vienna and Budapest coexisting within me. Some of the reflections good. Some of them bad.

And in these moments. The moments of grand awareness. That's when I have the brilliance of clarity. The clarity I strive for every day. The realization that though these influences shape me, nurture me and help me grow, I have the power to choose which mirrors I look into.

I do not have to look in the mirror of vanity. Or selfishness. Or class systems. Or unworthiness. But I can choose to look in the mirror of loyalty. Of faith. Of strength. And in the rare moments of pure unadulterated bliss, I can authentically look into no mirrors at all. I can simply be, reflection transcended. 

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Malibu couldn't be more of a dream come true. Thank you for all you've given me so far: inspiration, love, hope, spark, motivation, and stillness. Thank you for everything that is yet to come. My heart belongs to you. #malibu #california #malibumorni
As soon as I land here, my body drinks up the moisture and my skin and heart are revived. My body knows it was born and bred here. Traveling the world has made me so grateful for my home. Shout out to my Dad's '90s truck that still runs like new and
En route to Denver ⛰ #southernbelle #nomad #roadtrip
Nothing like day drinking in a tiny town. Helllllo, Durango 🦌
Dandelion wishes 💫

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Fluxury: The Art of Traveling (and Living) the Way You Damn Well Please

Budapest
in

Fluxury = Fluctuating Luxury.

I am a Francophile. I think they do #fluxury pretty damn well. Photo credit: Easton Schirra. 

I am a Francophile. I think they do #fluxury pretty damn well. Photo credit: Easton Schirra. 

In short, I define fluxury as sometimes living in the skating-by range and sometimes living like Beyoncé.

The concept is very simple, but I’ve realized the actual action of living this way is much more difficult because in its truest form it’s about figuring out what you like and choosing (here’s the hard part) to put your money towards the things you choose.

When you find yourself under the influence of friends, old people, an ad on the back of a milk carton, or a highly curated Instagram account, you may find yourself placing value on things you don't really love. Lots of entities vie for our attention, trying to talk us into putting our hard earned money toward hand-welded water bottles with rich mahogany finished caps.

If I had all the money back I have spent on things I didn’t care about, I would definitely be rich enough to travel for a year without working. Easily. Money for drinks at bars I didn’t want to go to. Money for gyms I talked myself into going to even though I strongly dislike gyms. Money on food and wine that were at best mediocre. 

At the moment I have the luxury of traveling alone meaning I run into less instances where I feel like my true nature is compromised when it comes to how I choose to live. Every now and then, however, outside influence creeps up on me.

For example, I’ve had more than a few people say to me “OMG YOU HAVE TO STAY IN A HOSTEL YOU’RE MISSING OUT ON SO MUCH!”

For a second I feel some FOMO. I feel like maybe I’m not experiencing everything I should be experiencing as a nomadic twentysomething. But this is absolute bull malarkey. Hostels? Nope. No thank you.

I don’t stay in hostels because I don’t want to stay in hostels. I like the quiet of my Airbnbs where I can work and relax and have a place to recharge after being out all day meeting people. I like that my hosts are locals who can give me city tips. I like that I can generally find Airbnbs cheaper than hostels in almost every city.   

There are a number of things that 99% of the time I don’t pay for while traveling despite the fact that they are widely accepted and advertised traveling purchases. Multiple drinks a night multiple nights a week. Run-of-the-mill guided audio tours. Group tours. Tours. Cover charges of any kind besides museum entrance fees. Transit unless walking is completely out of the question. Flight upgrades. Tourist food; I will go hungry before eating tourist food. 

When I do encounter luxury it’s the luxury I choose for myself. A luxury I can afford because I no longer spend money on things I don’t choose with my heart. It’s my own definition of luxury.

For me, this typically involves really, really good food and the occasional stay at a nicer Airbnb depending on the season and location. But mostly my luxury equates to nice-ass restaurants with heaven-is-inside-my-mouth food and holy-shit-dead-grapes-can-taste-like-diamonds wine. There are few things I love more than a well-crafted meal, not to mention the cultural and historical knowledge that accompanies tasting the best native food wherever I am.

So I say to you: travel how you want to travel. And by extension, live how you want to live. Stop spending money in places where your heart isn’t and never let anyone tell you you're "not doing it right." What’s the point of having pieces of paper that get you things if those things don’t reflect your truest choices?

#fluxury

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Malibu couldn't be more of a dream come true. Thank you for all you've given me so far: inspiration, love, hope, spark, motivation, and stillness. Thank you for everything that is yet to come. My heart belongs to you. #malibu #california #malibumorni
As soon as I land here, my body drinks up the moisture and my skin and heart are revived. My body knows it was born and bred here. Traveling the world has made me so grateful for my home. Shout out to my Dad's '90s truck that still runs like new and
En route to Denver ⛰ #southernbelle #nomad #roadtrip
Nothing like day drinking in a tiny town. Helllllo, Durango 🦌
Dandelion wishes 💫

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“You Don’t Look Like You’re Backpacking” and Other Sexist Shit I Hear While Backpacking

in

“You don’t look like you’re backpacking.”

For Tower Bridge's 7th edition of Art at the Bridge, 15 women were selected to display their art in honor of International Women's Day. Click the picture for a link to a few outtakes. 

For Tower Bridge's 7th edition of Art at the Bridge, 15 women were selected to display their art in honor of International Women's Day. Click the picture for a link to a few outtakes. 

I have gotten this most often, typically when wearing a dress. Fine, I get it, I’m not literally living out of a backpack with a tent and sleeping in the forest every night. I am, however, living out of a backpack for months on end.

I am lucky enough that the smallest piece of socially acceptable clothing I can wear on the street is a dress. Women are winning at something, eh? 

Naturally, I pack mostly dresses in the summer because they keep my bag light, my body cool, and they’re a breeze to wash.

The fact that I’ve now taken 3 minutes out of my day to explain how and why I backpack wearing dresses is beyond me.

 

“You’re traveling alone?” 

Sometimes this is said out of worry, but I don’t hear many solo male travelers tell me almost everyone they know has expressed concern for them being by their lonesome.

This comment carries doubt in my ability to take care of myself. With my safety level as a lone female traveler shifting depending on my location, I do understand and appreciate it in certain contexts. But like, a woman can chill totally fine on her own in London for god’s sake.  

 

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

This question and its inherent sexism has been thoroughly recorded in recent media thought catalogs, yay! To those who genuinely ask this question because you are interested in someone and you GOTTA KNOW RIGHT NOW if you can ride off into the sunset to “Thinking Out Loud,” I get it. But even still, you could both have this feeling and be otherwise committed. HUMAN BEINGS DO NOT OWN OTHER HUMAN BEINGS.  

As a backpacker, I notice the underlying sentiment of “another man owning a woman means she’s off limits” takes on even deeper meanings.

They ask, where’s your boyfriend? As if he must be around here somewhere because a woman cannot travel without a man.

They ask, do you have a boyfriend at home? As if the person who “owns” me is so far away that I might go outside my relationship sentence either to lend a hand in playing out their affair fantasy or let them lend me a hand in my assumed lonely sex life because I have no body property owner near by. 

 

“Oh yeah? I think you’re just trying to get a dick trophy in every country.”

Yes, my only purpose in life as a woman is to proudly and intentionally collect as many penises as I can with my vagina that inherently belongs to the men attached to those penises (and then turn around and be shamed for the number of ones I've had). This one takes the cake and the icing all in one giant bite.

I have done many forgiveness exercises for this man. When I recall this moment now, it evokes deep sadness and compassion for those whose superiority has cut off their true connection with the world. In one sentence, he effectively invalidated my love of travel, my love of culture, my gratitude for my body, my ownership of my body, the bodies of those I've been trusted to touch, and my voice, and he said it as if he were hungover making Sunday brunch plans.

 

Afterthoughts for the Unconsciously Misinformed (NOT the Dangerous)

I conclude by saying this: I am a bad feminist. I’ve gladly accepted men (and women!) buying me drinks and dinners and inviting me on boats and into homes. I’ve chosen to look at these offerings as humanistic rather than sexist, and I honestly don’t know which ones were which. I don’t want to take life too seriously and see no reason to berate a man or woman about whether they’re trying to flirt with me or simply be kind to me; this solves nothing.

In all the instances above except the final, I have continued talking to whomever made these comments. Like I said, I am a bad feminist, but I also have intentions in continuing these conversations.

I grew up in the Southern United States, which, despite best efforts by some, still has heavy, stubborn dregs of racism. Some of the side effects of this upbringing include genuinely unconscious racism. For example, looking at a painting of a hazy cotton field in rural Georgia passed down from my ancestors, I thought it was beautiful. It took someone with enough openness and kindness to explain to me that it was a boastful painting of a slaver owners’ possessions working in the fields.

What will make this world a better place? Connection. Choosing to set aside assumptions about someone's authentic nature based on simple comments, however hurtful. Instead of condemning and fighting and creating opposites of genders and/or sexualities, I try to be patient and kind. I try to connect.

A brilliant night in Brussels, Belgium.

A brilliant night in Brussels, Belgium.

I do not fight fire with fire. If I feel I am fully physically, mentally, and emotionally safe (crucial), I fight it with a giant ass fire hose. And when I do, something magical happens. We connect. We both cool down, I from my anger and the other from their pre-dispositions. My actions, ever so slightly, change the way they view me, and I secretly hope this revolutionary idea of equality begins to carve out new neural pathways.

This in no way applies to the dangerous and/or predatorial. In this case, I fight fire with silently running as far and fast away as I can. Full mental, physical, and emotional safety for myself always comes first. They are welcome to burn in the house they set on fire if they so choose. 

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Malibu couldn't be more of a dream come true. Thank you for all you've given me so far: inspiration, love, hope, spark, motivation, and stillness. Thank you for everything that is yet to come. My heart belongs to you. #malibu #california #malibumorni
As soon as I land here, my body drinks up the moisture and my skin and heart are revived. My body knows it was born and bred here. Traveling the world has made me so grateful for my home. Shout out to my Dad's '90s truck that still runs like new and
En route to Denver ⛰ #southernbelle #nomad #roadtrip
Nothing like day drinking in a tiny town. Helllllo, Durango 🦌
Dandelion wishes 💫

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I Travel Because I Can

Budva, Montenegro
in

I am privileged. I am quite possibly the most privileged because not only did I grow up with comfortability, but also with the good ole Southern teachings of humility, kindness, and hospitality. From the honest to goodness bottom of my heart, I do not know what I did to be given the life I’ve lived so far.

When I graduated from college, there was always a lingering question in my mind: what do you want to do with your life? There were the intellectual answers: I want to afford to live. I want to be happy. I want to put my work toward something I’m good at. These were all valid, but they weren’t my essence. My essence always answered this question, and still does, with another question: what will make the world a better place?

Growing up on a remote farm in bum fuck Egypt, Georgia, I was naturally inclined to the “other.” The other defined as anything other than my own bubble. I always wanted to go to Atlanta, the “big city.” Post-visiting New York City for the first time, I wanted to go back time and time again. No one was surprised when I went intercontinental and landed in California for college.

Today I sit on a balcony in Budva, Montenegro looking out on mountains topped with whispys of water vapor from what I, as a tiny human being, can only guess is the Adriatic Sea. (In my spare time, I like to imagine all water vapor is comprised of baby water molecules from all seas everywhere.)

I don’t speak the language here, but I can walk to the bodegas and smile at the man down the street who sold me his own “vino” even though I didn’t have enough euro coins to pay for it. He said to me “it’s okay, you pay tomorrow.” The magnitude and simplicity of that community and camaraderie with a stranger brought me near tears. It took me back to a recent world. I was 11 years old in my childhood front yard making Pokémon card bargains with my “neighborhood” boyfriend who knew in his heart of hearts I’d never slight him.

What will make the world a better place? Connection. Common ground. Understanding. Hospitality. Kindness. Community. Love. The ridding of the “other.”

Yes, I am privileged. I grew up in a comfortable home. I have no student loan debt. I studied freely without a nation telling me what I could and could not read. I was allowed to go to college. I am allowed to walk on the streets alone as a woman (in my home country). I have two legs that carry me through this life. I have two hands that can touch and love another. I have two ears that still hold melodies from my mother who always sang to me as a child. I have two eyes that can see these incredible crevices that this giant ball in the middle of the universe has carved out of nothing. It doesn’t care whether anyone looks at it or not.

From this moment forward, I choose to take my privilege and move through the world with it in the only way I know how to make it better. I choose to travel. I choose to take my body as far as it will carry me and to meet every person with the most authentic openness I have ever known. I choose to dispel the word “other” from my vocabulary because it does not exist. I travel because I can, and I can because I travel. 

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View fullsize Malibu couldn't be more of a dream come true. Thank you for all you've given me so far: inspiration, love, hope, spark, motivation, and stillness. Thank you for everything that is yet to come. My heart belongs to you. #malibu #california #malibumorni
View fullsize As soon as I land here, my body drinks up the moisture and my skin and heart are revived. My body knows it was born and bred here. Traveling the world has made me so grateful for my home. Shout out to my Dad's '90s truck that still runs like new and
View fullsize En route to Denver ⛰ #southernbelle #nomad #roadtrip
View fullsize Nothing like day drinking in a tiny town. Helllllo, Durango 🦌
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