Left my home in...

There's something about being... homeless. Effectively, homeless, I guess. I'm a gypsy; I rely on the kindness of my friends and a few strangers.

Portland could really feel like home, if I ever stayed here long enough to grow roots; but I'm not committing to anything. Mostly because I hate committing to something and then not following through. So far, every day, I have to committ to breathing. Taking the next breath. For a couple of days that was just out of this weird pain, like a boulder in my chest. I chalked it up to another big adjustment and carried on, as usual. But it was made manifest this morning.

The gypsy had to take the bus to the emergency room this morning because she hasn't held down a job long enough to get health insurance. Anyway, it's a good thing I did because I caught it before it became something much worse. It's just a viral upper respiratory infection. I caught it like the day after I quit smoking. The irony, I know, but it certainly does help you stay quit. And, god bless you, dr., he gave me the inhaler I need.

It's good to be back in Portland. I took for granted how much everything just makes sense here, not that a language barrier has ever held me back. But, no, I love the bus, I love the bumper stickers, I love the grocery stores. It's just when I smile or I go to bed at night, it feels like something's missing...

I guess nothing says "I'm not talking to you right now" like a week's worth of silence. In a way, I was preparing for losing him the whole time. There's very little in this world you can keep, and in the life of a gypsy, friends just aren't one of them.