Wayward Betty

It could be timing, or love or age or all three. In the end, we strive for a moment we can sit down and say, “I am happy. I have what I need, to stay put, dare I say… settle.” A friend recently sent me this quote: “With the adventurous lives that we live, the real challenge is seeing the adventure in stability.” After over two years of wandering and displacement, it seems I have finally found a comfort in “home” and love. With that, I have obtained an artist visa and decided to remain in Berlin to pursue my writing, life, and other endeavors.

After two years of living Wayward Betty, I am retiring the project. It is interesting to look back on her as a character—she is me, but I am not her. A friend of mine recently noted me that she gave me the kind of strength I needed, an armor and a kind of shield, the kind of person I would have been without weaknesses and doubts. She is the outfit I wore to face the world and I penned her with the greatest admiration.

I never believed in “finding oneself” through travel, but I do believe that new experiences, people, cultures and ideas can bring perspective. You will find this in your neighborhood, in your family, in your country: diversity is at large. Listen to it. This should continue on, whether we are 18, young and free, or 85 and bound. There is always something to learn or to experience: never be afraid to stray from who you think you are.

As a writer, my goal was to tell some stories, and to reveal a common humanity: we are all people, doing the best we can. Life is… drama…challenges, loss and regrets, relationships struggles, transitions, family, loneliness, and ultimately, a life-long negotiation with the self.

In the end, Wayward Betty had more to do with finding common ground (personally, spiritually, culturally, and politically) despite geographic distance. I never wanted to romanticize a travel lifestyle or to glorify another country or culture. If I have learned anything, it is the similarities in people and place, as well as the distinct desire we all have to find love and “home,” wherever that may be. And “home” has nothing to do with where we happen to land. It is where we find peace, with ourselves, and the ones that we love.

As an artist, all projects come to an end. As an evolving person, there comes a time, when reinvention, and letting go of a past-self is necessary to move forward. This is not to discount where I have been or what I have learned, but I have decided to recalibrate and refocus my efforts.

Like any story, Wayward Betty has a beginning, middle and end. I wanted to thank those who have continued to read and follow my work. On the upside, I am still making advances to have the collection summarized, expanded and formally published. At this point, the goal is closing a chapter on a writing project, a character, and a past-life. Any investment in this publication would be greatly appreciated and I will keep the website and FB page updated on its availability in print and online.

Again, thank you to everyone who has sent me emails, encouragement, and support along the way. Writing to the wind, is always a fear.

And with that (as I am, if anything, dramatic) …

Last week, a lawyer told me that the mayor of Berlin has declared it an artistic hub, and that immigration authorities should treat artistic visa applications kindly. The city is drawing artists from all over the world for its financial support of the arts, affordability, and the broad and varied arts scene. It is not surprising and the artistic qualities of Berlin manifest in its street life, history, and even in the everyday. I met a street artist the other day who sold me a few of his pieces and though he was not rich, he offered hope that there has been a city-wide personal and systematic investment.

Like New York and most international cities, in Berlin, you will always find the street musicians and performers, the painters who decorate the sidewalk, and the unexpected intersection variety show. There is also a kind of underground scene, even the graffiti or more fittingly titled “street art” that the authorities do not wipe clean. It’s refreshing and democratic and the artistic voices dominate the buildings and walls more than billboards.

The first time I met a real *artist*, I was in love. Though he was a highly trained and talented guitar player and song writer, it wasn’t his music that inspired me: it was his freedom in life and dedication to living passionately. He may have been the first person I ever met who fearlessly and abjectly denied a four-year degree to write songs.

There was his ability, and then there was his life. He picked me flowers off the street sidewalks and tucked them behind my ear. He drank beer with the homeless who slept along our block. He stayed up late playing piano and belting folk and blues like Tom Waits. He only paid in cash which he kept in a sock in his closet. His socks always had holes and he smelled like cigarettes and leather.

The summer I was studying for the bar, he brought me to a hidden lake in the backwoods at midnight to go swimming. A sign posted said the park was closed and I had heard of cops ticketing those who broke the rules. The water was calm, lit only by the veneer of moonlight, and I said to him, “I can’t.” I was afraid of getting a ticket at the same time my bar application was being processed by the Supreme Court.

Looking back, there were many things I feared unnecessarily.

To be fair, I had just picked him up in jail the week before after he was arrested in the same spot when he tried to fight a police officer. Young girls love anarchists, apparently. Every time we went to the grocery store, he would get caught with fistfuls from the bulk candy buckets. They would kick us out and he would laugh maniacally, throw his head back and ditch the remaining candy in his mouth before we ran out and jumped back on our bikes.

Art (and anarchy) were in his blood and I have always remembered and cherished this about him. In many ways, he changed my life, allowing me to forget about rules and expectations and allowed me to see myself without degrees or licenses or jobs and money. Who we are, is really, more tangible, more alive, when we let go, stripped down, even if it means illegal skinny dipping at midnight.

Though the musician was definitively prolific, the second “artist” I met in my life is anything but. She is eccentric, creative, brilliant, but cannot seem to finish anything. Her artistry, is not in an form or end, but in a kind of freedom: reckless and larger than life. The woman is connected to something that transcends the material world. She makes children light up. She is bright, weightless, and free. Despite her fraught aimlessness, she continues to be one of the most inspiring people I have met. She wears big hats and her car is a trunk full of clothes.  This is how I remember her, as she was always drifting between L.A. and New York, depending on the weather.

One year on her birthday, she shamelessly appeared at the restaurant in a short, yellow, layered, busty, satin $600 Betsey Johnson dress, fishnet stockings and 6-inch leopard print heels. Fabulously obnoxious, she also carried a dozen yellow roses to match. After dinner we went to a club called “Happy Endings,” an old Chinese (ahem) massage parlor near Chinatown. When the dancing slowed and the crowd trickled out into the night, I remember the trail of petals out of the club and onto the dirty Lower East Side streets, the way the roses fell behind her, tracing a path as she jumped on the back of a motorcycle and tore off down Delancey.

It is still one of my favorite memories of her, and of New York.  

My friend Auley here in Berlin works a 9-to-5, but wants to leave his office work to be musician. He is classically trained though never considered himself an “artist.” He hesitates when I use the word to describe him. I think this is why he has been reluctant to pursue his vision, even though his passion has been clearly articulated (at least to me). He is also a professional dancer, guitar player, and genuinely committed to all art forms, but more importantly, a creative life.  

I said to him, “But, you are an artist, so you will always have to create no matter what you are doing.” This got us to talking about what it means to be an “artist” and at what point the term applies to you or your life. I am also in the throes of writing an application for an artist visa, so it seemed particularly fitting to examine the question. As I explained to him one day, I always envisioned the arts very broadly and for my purposes consider artists both as producers of art but more importantly, having a vision, and living with creative purpose.

Still, there is a fear in letting go and in using the “A” word (I have found it difficult myself). I think for some, the question has to do with income—are you supported by your art or are you just creating alone? Born into capitalism, we are in many ways, defined by what we are paid to do. This can make any artistically motivated person strapped by an identity crisis— the same reason writers become professors, publishers or critics, and painters become therapists or teachers. We are desperate to define ourselves, even at the cost of our passions.

I think the most important part of being a creative person, or an artist, is letting go, of fear, of expectation and of self. It occurred to me that I could not encourage Auley to let go of artistic fears, without also letting go of my own. Artistic progression demands risk and there are always parts of the self that we are unwilling or reluctant to share or express. We had a brief conversation about the difference between the image projected by artwork versus truth: reality versus desire in interpretation.

Still, artistic work must be vulnerable. 

I decided it was high-time to release some (amateur, raw) recordings I have kept hidden, but for a few friends. Serendipitously, while sitting at a bar in Kreuzberg, contemplating this blog, I sat next to an American who works for Sound Cloud in Berlin. Encouragingly, he quickly set up my account and helped me with the coding. I thought it fortuitous, and a sign.

I am adding some anecdotal history, because in the end, I am still a writer with a need to explain everything. Here are some raw, very simple recordings and a few stories to put them in context.

Big River (2009). This is one of my favorite Johnny Cash songs I covered a few years ago when I first landed in New York. I always liked the very stark tonal change that shifts when a woman sings a man’s song, or vice versa. More importantly, this song reminded me of  the pain of women lost and of a woman who still chooses the wandering river over a man.

Who Will it Be (2009). I wrote this song for a lover, who threw down the gauntlet, in an age-old struggle over impassioned, but ultimately unrequited love. Most of the lyrics were inspired by one line he said over pillow talk: “You were built for unconditional love.” I could only take his words as an insult, for he saw me as a source of love, but not an object worthy of his own ‘unconditional’ affections. It occurred to me then, though, that it was better to be built this way, to risk love, than never to give love at all. I lost him to his own inability to love (I believed), though in the back of my mind I was always haunted by the idea that someone else would change him or give him the inspiration to love back. I obsessed over her, who she was, how she would captivate him or make him love, in a way that I hadn’t or ever could.

Winter’s Come and Gone (2008). This is the first song I ever recorded(a Gillian Welch cover)  in my bathroom in Minnesota as you can tell from the weak vocals and repetition. I loved my apartment in the attic; this room that felt like a tree house. There were raccoons in the trees, bats in rafters and always birds on the windowsill. I liked the idea of winter and the mood of seasons expressed in the organic shifts; the ability to take signs from nature; the tender range of human experience simplified in the color of a feather.

Lighthouse Keeper (2010). I love this song, which was first sent to me, converted from a rare 45 by my (ex) fiance before we left New York. At the time, we were in love and the song represented to me the secret desire to find respite in the storm. I liked the idea of a lighthouse keeper (a symbol of the soul), but also, dreaming of dedication to one that is aware, a true protector with a hyper-sensory connection and a keen sense of the world and the exploratory vision that is…the sea.

Last weekend, Auley and I took a road trip to Prague and stayed in an old dance studio away from the tourist hub, with large skylights and bouncing naked acoustics, where we had two guitars and created a kind of freedom of space to explore what I have dubbed, “art brain.”

We carved out these days to embrace our detachment in dance, music, lyrical experimentation in a way that gives way to the creative. Letting go, we spent the weekend, exploring the back streets of Prague, sitting and scribbling at cafes, then returning to the studio to sing and dance and work on some new music—we are both affixed to folk given the one voice-guitar duo, though (fearlessly) pushing some boundaries towards the electronic.  

Freedom comes first: a freedom of mind, freedom from fear and freedom from “self.”  

We let go…and then…we make art.

My first floor Tucson apartment was infested with stray cats. At night I heard them scratching, screaming, fucking beneath the basement floorboards. They made stray cat nests next to the heaters and swaddled cat-babies in the alleys. The ghetto-living was punctuated by a shattered window next to my bed, which looked starkly into a dusty alley lined with desert weeds.

One morning, I awoke to a patch of sun and something else warming my feet. It was furry. When I moved, it moved. Within seconds, I felt the slow crawl of hunting paws first along my legs, the my belly and slowly onto my chest. Before I could wrestle with nature’s invasion, the stray cat put its face in mine and gave a long, almost grateful, “Meeeooooooooow.” After breathing her cat morning breath in my face, she pounced towards the window and made an escape before I had time to offer a cup of coffee.

Throughout that summer, the cat would return occasionally and she was, sweet for a stray, prowling for bowls of milk, or just a summer cuddle. Knowing the raw elements, I didn’t begrudge her.

As I was packing for Berlin, my father said to me, “You are just like a stray cat, always in and out.” I have been honing my instincts, and, I think this is befitting. Cats do not need leashes, they master surroundings, explore with fearlessness, and always somehow manage to make it “home.” Also, stray cats are, decidedly resourceful.

It always starts with fear. Displacement inspires a quickness of the mind: a letting go, of comfort, space, and security. Sensory awakening is critical—new sounds, and smells. The mind is processing and deflecting, coping with new warning signals (crosswalks, sirens, language). Constant adaptation is exhausting, literally: I think that the mind expires. What people consider the weariness of travel, is just the brain working overtime to adjust. Like animals, we go into survival mode, in a way that demands constant evaluation, a breaking down of the norm, and a return to animal instinct.

I arrived in Berlin with a severe case of jet lag coupled with two days of clubbing, which is disorienting, both in time and space. This meant, for at least a week, I was never awake or sleeping at the right time. We are only blocks from several world-famous clubs, which means the thrumming techno beats are often streaming through my windows at night.

Being stuck in this kind of Twilight Zone meant catching Berlin from an odd angle, at least at first glance (like that girl who has a beautiful profile, and then turns her face). Trying to adjust to daylight, I sat at a coffee shop while tripping club-goers navigated the cobble streets back home. Delivery men go to work. Lovers say goodbye.

The historical landscape of the city makes it difficult not to think about the war, the bombings, the meaning of the Wall. At the same time, Berlin’s own history seems to be eradicated by its very presence (culture is on overdrive). Still, I watched a man with long, thick dreadlocks and a half-mohawk push a stroller and a small baby, some kind of incarnation of a beautiful, blonde Aryan icon and thought, “Hitler would have been proud.” These are the kind of thoughts I am trying to keep to myself.

I moved into an apartment in Kreuzberg, a neighborhood I would compare to the East Village: same hipsters, but ridiculously cheaper. We are in a 5^th floor walk up with rooftop access and an open terrace with a bar that faces the city streets and canal. The three-bedroom flat is also rented out weekly and there have been, since I moved in, Italians, Lithuanians, Australians, Americans, and the French circulating the apartment, among others. The rotating door can feel like a college dorm, but there is never a shortage of memorable interactions (Lithuanians rapping, an Italian carbonara feast, and one night of French bootie dance hall lessons).

I have established certain patterns to help myself acclimate. I survey and recon like a cat, remembering the blocks, then the streets, then the neighborhood, until eventually I take a one way train, knowing I can look at the windows and have a sense that there is, at the very least, a one-way track to get me back to where I need to be. Though, there is nothing like getting on a train, watching the station signs and realizing that they do not match the ones on your map (you are going the wrong way).

My American friend, “Auley,” (a Burning Man enthusiast, windmill tech engineer by day, guitarist/electronic musician, costumed dancer by night), has lived in Berlin for 6 years has been teaching me lessons. The first week, he sent me on a 4-mile excursion in heels just to see if I could navigate the cobblestone streets leading to his office. A few days later, he sent me home on the train alone, without a map and vague directions to and from the station where I was supposed to land. I lumbered from the platform with a stupid look. My lack of direction at midnight and then another long walk home in heels made me borderline pissed. After the isolated near-tears disorientation, I decided, it couldn’t really get worse, and I learned my lesson (I am now carrying a map). Also, memory saved: I will never forget that train stop, or that intersection. I have conquered the fear of being lost and riding the train (alone).

A bonus lesson in learning the streets, I got a hand-me-down bike from my former French roommate, Felicia. Just my luck, I am living with a guy who has a business building fixies (tagline: “My legs are my gears”) and (I already mentioned the hipster thing), so that’s what I’m flying around on these days. There are a bunch of hot twenty-something fixie riders at his shop around the corner who have been more than helpful fixing the squeak of my chain. The bike is probably the best way to see the city, though I must admit, I miss my little hybrid back in SF.

In another twist of, “Let’s see if ’Wayward Betty’ can survive,” Auley took me to a club that demanded a long-bike ride through some Berlin backwoods and some trail hiking (again in heels). After a couple hours of dancing, then alternatively, warming next to the large trash cans that functioned as fire pits, he left me and went home with a girl dressed as a unicorn (he had to, it was his birthday.) If you are picturing “sexy unicorn,” stop. She was mysteriously blanketed and looked like a stuffed animal with a horn. My only advice was, “Don’t turn around.”

Not speaking German has proved difficult, if only because it is hard to read tone here. Stereotyping (if I must), the Germans are a particular group of folks. I heard from several ex-pats and experienced it myself that NO ONE jaywalks. It is a serious (moral more than legal) offense to cross the street when the crosswalk is red. You will get yelled at, especially by mothers “setting an example” for the children. Also, for a week, I thought everyone was shooting me the stank-eye until I realized that was just the default German face. You will never see that German stank face exhibited more clearly than when they are lined up, facing each other at an intersection. No cars are passing, and everyone seems secretly embittered by their own compliance. Still, no one is willing to make a move, sending the silent stank: “DO NOT break the rules.”

Now unlike the Germans, the Turks have been my go-to resource. The Turkish have a unique cultural position here, which has been compared to Mexican immigrants in the states. Though I have heard complaints about gangs and crime, the Turks always seem to have what I need—directions and cellphones, to name a few. My favorite little coffee shops are run by Turks and a couple have already memorized my morning order, saving me the embarrassment of trying to speak German.

Berlin is an easy place to get lost in a shuffle, or swept up in a crowd. I got lost last week at 3 in the morning, missed my stop, and wandered by foot back to Kreuzberg alone. On the bridge, I met two Americans, one, a 45-year-old transient ex-pat who was playing for change on the bridge. After sharing a couple beers, we all decided to go dancing and, though he was just short of becoming a stalker, he kindly shared his life story and walked me home where I found my roommate locked out and sleeping outside the door (another stray cat).

I usually get my hair done by a traveling dread and extension artist in the states who is usually in Minneapolis, San Francisco or New York. She hooked me up with another traveling stylist from Amsterdam who has long, sticky blonde dreadlocks. We met at small shop where he does merch set up and design in Mitte. On first arrival, he gave me champagne and I nicknamed him Sideshow Bob for the dreadlocks and his name (“Bob”). While he did my hair, we traded stories of leaving the Midwest and a certain affinity for wandering.

I have mastered the neighborhood, the streets, and have gone to taking long runs along the canals toward the Berlin Wall checkpoints, past the graffiti to the sounds of morning trains. Yesterday, my German friend, Jan who I met in Australia made a surprise visit. Last weekend, a high school friend came in from Cairo and shared stories about the revolution. All of this, again, reminds me how small the world is, depending on how far you stray…

The Lithuanians have left me behind a pungent fridge full of indecipherable meats and the kitchen is perpetually full of empty bottles and fruit flies, but things are good, and, like a cat, I am making a little home in Berlin.