Why I Travel - Update

"Find a place inside where there's joy, and the joy will burn out the pain." Today, Juliet and I embark on one of our most ambitious journeys to date. We fly to Europe tonight for 20 days, and most of those days we will be doing things we have never done before. Sure, we have been overseas enough times to classify us as veterans, savvy, or some other descriptor our friends and colleagues assign us. However, this will be our first adventure sailing in Greece and a trek in The Dolomites. My posthumous tutor Joseph Campbell taught me that quote I began this piece with, and the lesson, in my opinion, can only be achieved by exploration.  One must indeed "find" a place where there's joy. Joy does not simply come to exist. And at the same time, it is not merely the place that manifests joy, but one's existence in that space, at that period.

The transitory nature of joy is precisely the hook. Finding a place where it exists is no easy task. For there are few spaces in my history that have provided joy and have managed to do so more than once. Italy, I love the place. I go all the time. In the past few years, I have seen a marked decline of joy I have been able to bank internally from these trips. No fault of the country, it is me who has fallen into a travel rut. I have invested far too much time and energy into learning the language and culture of Italy to abandon our regular visits. So, this time, we are doing our first multi-day hike in The Dolomites. There is a chance it will be a new well of joy. There is a chance it will rain misery upon our hiking parade. Choosing to do new things is risky. I am not suggesting risky as in perilous, but rather, as in ROI. Losing the investment of time, money, and the vulnerability that comes with trying new things are all possibilities. However, if one does not risk, one does not seem to have the reward.

I am not penning this post to solicit sympathy. I am aware that my life is unique and outwardly must appear like an inexhaustible well of adventure. The truth is, I spend far more time at a desk than one might imagine I do. I also deal with copious amounts of creative rejection and indifference on the part of photo editors and clients. I certainly signed up for all of it, but it does not make the experience any easier. So, when I take the initiative to do something new, I am wagering the known return of a familiar experience for the possibility of something far greater in the unknown. It is this gamble that opens the door for a possible JC experience. Campbell had his time reading in the woods. This period was seminal to his development into the thinker he became. I crave my own Woodstock. I seek my own time to read, write, create, and process the experiences which I believe will foster a forced evolution of myself.

I am not sailing in Greece because I have some list that suggests my android life will not be complete without a personal Homerian Odyssey. I am sailing because my friend asked me to. As a person who spends upwards of 20 hours a day either alone or sleeping, the chance to be in the community of other travelers is of high value. I am hiking in Alto Adige because I like hiking, and also because Nassim Nicholas Taleb and I share an opinion on the misery of exercising in a gym. Walking in nature allows me to process nature.

Exercising in a gym only allows me to distil that which is laid out before me. I am not trying to win you over or judge any fitness aficionados here; I just hate gyms. Life in The Bay Area is a treadmill. I do not need to give any more of my time to the conveyor belt.

Now, my reasons for choosing this itinerary may seem ill-conceived.
I am flying on five planes, riding three ferries, and driving one rental car in the course of these 20 days. However, the drug of joy and its allure is nothing for which to scoff. Without the possibility of joy, I would not even get out of bed in the morning. I am not able to solemnly plod about dutifully to a cause created by others. Life is the cause and living it to the very best of my aptitude and initiative serves me and those that know me.

I am the best of myself when on the adventure. I am closer to that place inside where there is joy when I see something with fresh eyes. There is no return to "normalcy" for me because discovery is my normal. My imagery, my sense of beauty, and my devotion to my wife are all hinged upon the continued pursuit of the small spaces where the pain is assuaged and incinerated. The dreams that I may fulfill in these sacred spots and minuscule moments is inversely proportionate to the times I exist in pure joy.

As a kid, I would often sit in my dark closet with one speaker from my little SEARS stereo joining me in the abyss. In there I would envision my path to exploration. I knew once I broke free from the surly bonds of my hometown that I would likely never seek this mundane chapter of my existence again. Now, five years on here in the Bay Area and the wanderlust is getting the better of me. It is time to set the sails and strap on the trekking boots. If you are looking for me in the coming days, I will be carving a path through the darkest part of the forest.

Our little home in the Dolomites. It only went downhill from here :-)

For Juliet, On our Eighth Anniversary

Dear Juliet,

I never really thought much about the vow "In Sickness and Health" till 2017. I certainly have now. For the first time in our lives together we had to cancel travel for illness, my illness. I contracted pneumonia in January and was convalescent for all of February and half of March.I felt like a burden to you, and to myself for those six long weeks. I began to believe that I was going to remain sick, and my hopelessness began to even creep over the stability of you and me. I began to wonder if you could endure another day, another surprise doctor visit, or another night of my fever. I began to ponder my mortality, my career choices, and whether or not I was going to become invalid. I am still battling with residual effects of illness and the paranoia that it could return. I still freak out every time I cough or have a body ache. However, I have discovered that the S&H vow is one you plan to keep.

While I was in a fog of life, you worked as hard as you ever have. You kept the lights on, the food stocked and nursed me from near and far. You showed me a side of you that was so much tougher than what I had already witnessed, and although you have always been strong, this was a part of your makeup that I did not know. I am typically the guy who keeps the truck on the road and the train on the trestle. I simply could not do it for most of this year. It had to be you. It was not the easiest thing for you, and you are tired, ready to see something new. I hope this is happening. As you read this, we are likely awaiting a flight from London to Rome. The familiar FCO airport awaits, and a new Italy road trip will begin. We celebrate today with a grand tasting of pizza from one of the greatest pizza makers in Italy (which means best in the world). But this is not what this day is about, not this year.

This day, April 30, 2017, we will celebrate vows that seem almost cliche but are distinctly poignant. It is no accident that we are here at year eight. We talk to one another, assess, coach, and postulate about what we have seen, what we want to see, and who we want to become. We are not bound by age, demographics, race, religion, or place of origin when determining our goals for life.  The universe did not weave us from the same cloth as many, and we have long known this. We fit few accepted norms of behavior, and we place few (if any) limits upon ourselves for the choices we are free to make. However, all of this could come to a grinding halt if our health fails us. This illness is now part of our collective experience. We saw the Housewrighter travel and discovery engine come to a very abrupt stop. However, you know what this did for me?

This malady made me love you more than I knew I was capable of loving anything. It gave me the realization that while I took that vow eight years ago, I now know that it is real. Yes, I know I "should have known" it was true then, but let's face it, I am human, and I haven't exactly had the best luck in relationships (till I met you). I mean, if you can love me through the shitshow of early 2017, let's keep this caravan moving. We have no idea what kind of time either of us has on this earth. We don't, and that is the card we are all dealt. What we can do, and what we choose to do, is never let a day go by that we do not seek to better ourselves, ennoble our love, and tell each other I love you, and that we are not going anywhere, in sickness and health.

I heard a classic song the other day, and I sang it out loud in my car as I drove down to my photo class. I belted it out vociferously and pictured your beautiful face and sweet demeanor as I crooned. "My love, just thinking about you baby just blows my mind....all the time."

Happy Anniversary Juliet!

I love you.

Michael

To Juliet on our Seventh Anniversary

To Juliet on our Seventh Anniversary continues an important tradition for me of writing a public post to my wife, on our anniversary each year. In the case of this year, this is also the very first post on my newly minted website. Seven years ago today, after two days of rain in Austin, the sun came out, and in your white dress and lovely shoes you stood in the soft grass of Mercury Hall. As our beautiful and succinct ceremony transpired, you and your sharp heels began to sink into the still muddy earth. I had to pry you from the soil after we completed our vows, and as we danced towards the reception hall, the muck slung from your shoes onto your dress like mudflaps on a '77 Ford. This crude reference is the metaphor for what we do and how we choose to live. We bury ourselves into the mire of work and life in some place. We get to know it through a process, and most of it is enjoyable, poetic, and emotional. However, after time, we begin to bog down deeper into a social world, the dirtier parts, the softer places that hold us comfortably or routinely. We suddenly feel an insatiable urge to fly, and this is when the music starts, and one of us tugs at the arms of the other, which have begun to stretch to their limits, and we plop from the swamp of complacency to seek the rebirth of our curiosity.

Travel, perhaps the most jarring action one can voluntarily accept that can rip a person from the doldrums of everyday existence, and thrust them into a mode of survival, awareness, and unfamiliarity. With mud flying from the wheels of our rolling duffels, we gleefully jump into that Uber to our nearest airport, and we become the people we love the most, every time. In the case of our life now, I drive by San Francisco International airport once or twice a week. Each time I pass it, I glance to see the aircraft coming and going, and I immediately imagine you and me on some journey to another far-flung destination. We are rarely comfortable for the next however many days. We are often edgy, nervous, and testy throughout the transition of regular life to airplane life. We send farewell notes to our families; we shore up last moment loose ends with our daily lives, and then we put ourselves at the mercy of the universe, its people, and our instincts. And we have never regretted it. For many, our path is unconventional and perhaps inconceivable. For us, it feels something like home and a lot like love.

We have done some cool stuff since we got married seven years ago. Our upcoming trip to Italy in two weeks has become one of our longest standing traditions. There is something over there that fills us with childlike wonder and a sense of living that we carry home with us and share with our guests year round. There is also some part of us that feels perhaps a little more at home there than anywhere else we have been or lived. This trip marks nine years since we began traveling for your birthday. How many places have you seen on this day? How many meals? How many friends met around the globe? At the same time, not all of the dirt disappears from our shoes when to get on these flights. The questionnaire asks if we have been on farms. I think that goes both ways. We bring dirt each way. We do not overstay our journeys. We left Italy last September, forlorn, and wanting more. Because when we travel; we cannot let our heels slip too deeply into the soil, or we could ultimately lose the wonder of it all.

My photo career has grown at a rate I could have never expected. Seven years ago I owned a travel company and was opening a restaurant. One of those tore me apart, and the other nearly did us both in. Part of this journey was learning when to pluck one another from the monsoon-soaked earth. You are in a place where your expertise and work-ethic grants you the freedom to pull up the stilettos when your heart gets the call. You have given so much of yourself to our relationship and my career. You are fully into the richest days of your adult life, and I am honored you share them so generously, and joyously, with me. You are the brightest light in any day I live on this earth. I love the image of you here, standing on the holy grounds of the mighty Alhambra. Your fixed gaze rife with curiosity and amazement, this shot is the Juliet I get to experience when I tug you from the quagmire, and sit close to you on a train, holding your hand, and loving you more than anything on this earth.

Happy Seventh Anniversary Juliet. Hang on; I am going to give you a pull!

I love you,

Michael

Housewrighter Featured on Alamy Stock

At long last I get to share that I am now a featured photographer for Alamy Stock Photography. My work will now be shown to some of the top advertisers and buyers of stock photos in the world. Alamy will also house my professional portfolio here . This distinction of being featured among the many talented and important photographers on Alamy is an honor for me, and quite humbling. When I started down this path of storytelling, four years ago, I was not sure when, or if I would get this far. Now, I see some light at the top of the climb. Without the enormous support of my wife, Juliet, I would never have been able to make this career transition. It was her belief in me, when I was feeling like I should return to something I knew, that kept me going. I want to thank Amy Pang for her sharing my name with her colleague at Alamy. Amy is an amazing supporter of my efforts and was a real uplifting wind in my sails this year. My family has always remained in my corner and has never told me to just follow in line with the rest of the drones. They have let me be me, and I hope that I may continue to do good work to honor that support. I remain without delusions however. This is no guarantee of work, sales, or success. This is precisely an opportunity. For those of you on Social Media, and through my blog and professional interactions that have supported my work, thank you! This life is not possible without patrons, and you dear friends, are my patrons. Thank you again to Alamy Stock, and Alex for making the Housewrighter a featured photographer on your site.

I urge anyone interested in my work to view my portfolio and reach out to Alamy or directly to me for any inquiries about photo work, or image licensing.

"If we do meet again, why, we shall smile...

The Great Anthony Ridley - (Photo from OA Online)

If not, why then this parting was well made."

Julius Caesar - Act V Scene 1

Anthony Ridley sat alone in the men's dressing room. Outside in the green room, an ensemble of 19 to 22 year-old college kids were cacophonous. The man, working  among children, went about applying his makeup and his line recitals undisturbed for a few moments. As soon as the other actors made their way into the dressing room, with some like me late for their call, the chatter began, and it became unbearable for him. Here was an equity actor providing a living example of how to be a professional of the craft, and here was my 19 year-old self acting like a futureless hack. I remembered thinking, when Anthony accepted the role of Shylock in Merchant of Venice, how much fun it was going to be to work with him in this setting. I had assumed we would smoke cigarettes, and he would regale us with stories from his days in NYC. Like most things I discovered in the early years of adulthood, being a pro was not something one could simply turn on and off as one pleased. Effort, dedication, and focus were three facets of the craft that were necessary to succeed, and I was void of all three. Anthony, whom I generally enjoyed as my Theater Arts teacher, became the bane of my existence during the run of this show. He barked at me and the others who he perceived to be taking the production less than seriously. He would storm out of the dressing room and recite his lines outside, as I thought to myself how little fun he must be having. It turned out that his performance was extraordinary, and mine was monochromatic, at best. In this show, he was a beautiful master on the stage, and I was a punk.

I didn't realize it at the time, but I had played the role of Gratiano with an obvious Texas accent. The accent I came to college with, and by year two as a theater major should have been able to mask it for the stage. I didn't have a clue how I had sounded. Anthony did, but he didn't say anything to me, at least not during the run. During the courtroom scene, in the final act of the play, there is a wonderful exchange between Gratiano and Shylock. Gratiano screams at Shylock at one point "Can no prayer's pierce thee?" and Shylock responds with disdain and dismissal "No, none that thou hast wit enough to make." I had delivered my line like a spoiled child, and he had orated his like a master tactician. I am sure that my sophomoric humor and disregard for other actors' needs, while in the dressing room, gave Anthony all the subtext he needed to break down my character, both onstage and in real life.

He was so good in the role, I remember losing my willing suspension of disbelief (almost every night). I thought, no way any of us could have convinced a judge that this guy was actually the one who welched on the bet. I think Anthony's version of Shylock would have known this was an inside job, and he would have taken that giant knife right to Portia before sticking it to Antonio. But, he was a pro. He never pulled me aside to shred me as my teacher. When he said anything to any of us, it was as a fellow actor trying to ply his trade in a sea of immaturity. No, he was not pedantic, he was simply better. A good actor, at least an observant one, would have taken his behavior as an example. A punk like me took it as pomp, and dismissed him as I dismissed anything that railed against my tendencies toward chaos.

A few months later, after a fellow student had told me that she loved my choice to play Gratiano as a redneck, YIKES! I was working on a monologue with Anthony. I asked him about my accent, and without hesitation, he pulled a a ballpoint pen from his pocket and said, "what's this.?" I said, "a pee-un" He said, "No, what is this?" Again I said, with gusto this time, "A PEE-UN" He smiled, handed it to me, and said "it's a pen, you are saying PEE-UN." I was stunned, embarrassed, and wanted to run out of the drama building. He gave me a list of words and sentences, and told me to go home that night and repeat them over and over into a tape recorder. He suggested I play the recordings back, listen to myself, then repeat the exercise until I was able to pronounce the words with a neutral American accent. It took me about five hours of punishing work, in front of my mirror. I kept hearing Anthony's voice, "Pen, it's a Pen." It has been "pen" since that night.

I hated working with masks. I was too dense to grasp that working with a mask would help me to engage my body, and to communicate in a more convincing way onstage. I preferred to play ultimate frisbee, and chase girls who never had any intention of anything more than friendship. The mask workshop was scheduled for 9am on a Saturday. I was hungover. I never showed. After class, on the Monday after the mask workshop, Anthony called me in his office, and asked why I had missed the mask workshop. I told him matter-of-factly that I didn't want to come. The man lost it. "What the fuck do you mean you didn't want to! You didn't want to? This is your fucking major! You don't get to decide what components you want and don't want to accept. Theater is a collaboration, fuck!  You should know that by now. You let everyone down when you just "don't want to"

Rather than accepting his dressing me down, and apologize. I didn't show any remorse for my actions. It was near the end of the semester, and I strolled into Carpenter Hall and promptly changed my major. "No one was going to fucking yell at me." I was so abjectly immature that I could not even begin to see that Anthony's frustration was meant to slap me into reality. Running away was always so easy for me, and I sprinted over to that damned ugly building with "I'll fucking show you" all over my face. I was going to be the best damned Politics Major that ever quit the Drama department!

Fast forward to next semester, and I had rushed through my first essay for the Aristotle's Politics class. Leo Paul DeAlvarez was not the kind of professor for whom one could rush an essay. I sat solemnly staring at the chalkboard when, without a word, he sat the D- paper down on my desk. Among the gyroscope of red lines criss-crossing every paragraph, I was able to make out 1 comment, very clearly. "This is perhaps the worst sentence I have ever encountered." As I ran to Carpenter Hall, at a humiliating pace, I knew I had fucked up. I knew I WAS fucked up. I ended up dropping every class that semester. I earned 0 credits, had no credibility, burned 10 grand in loans, and was just about to walk away. I sat drinking Budweiser and smoking menthol cigarettes on the porch of my student apartment, while everyone else was taking finals. I pondered how the hell I had gotten there and what was I going to do. My options were limited, but one thing was certain. I needed to see someone before I left.

I found Anthony in the theater. He didn't seem surprised to see me. He didn't have a hint of ego, anger, or dismissal in his voice. We talked only briefly. I asked him, quite sheepishly and almost in tears, if I could come back to the drama department. He said yes. He issued no terms, no caveats, and not even a wry smile. He knew that the department was likely my only means to a degree. He absolutely knew if I was going to make it, I had to come back. For the first time in my life, and certainly at UD, it had occurred to me that I was being given a benevolent opportunity. I had one foot and a 1978 Olds Cutlass headed out the door, and Anthony Ridley steered me back. I was not going to fuck it up this time. I assumed Anthony would be my advisor going forward. PK returned the following semester, and Anthony was out.

I only saw Anthony one other time in this life. It was backstage at Shakespeare of Dallas. I went to congratulate him after a performance. He played a small role, one well below his talent and his status. He was brilliant. I awaited him backstage with a reverance typically reserved for clergy. I had been to Rome since our last meeting. I had even earned a high GPA that spring, just prior to seeing him in that show. We talked only briefly, as there were many waiting to speak to him. I told him of my turnaround. I thanked him, but not nearly enough. He not only had allowed me to salvage my college career, he had made me a better person. Like many of my classmates, I still tell his stories. I still see his face when I recount the many encounters we had as a drama student and an exceptional professor. Who among you doesn't remember the tale of the old couple on the front row, at the Sunday matinee? Who hasn't shared a smoke and listened to Anthony espouse the beauty of a glass of sherry?

I always imagined I would see him again, perhaps on one of these trips of mine. I assumed we would have dinner and talk about the world, as professionals. I like the sound of that word. I believe he knew I did, because he was the one that taught me how to pronounce it.

God speed Anthony Ridley.