Thank you, my big red tumor:

Life in a bag, a big fucking bag granted, but still a bag, is not necessarily what I'd have expected it to be.

I've traveled a bit before (1), six weeks here, two and a half there, but after some point in time, it no longer counts as "travel," as much as life. I have no home. I have no cups, plates, or semi-decent cutlery. I have no stationary point (unless you count the Internet) where someone can send me "Happy Bastile Day--glad you aren't in prison" cards. Life is constant change, that, and my bag. The change I like, the bag part is not as simple.

I've always liked the idea of paring down life to the basic necessities: a few pairs of briefs, a good pair of jeans, a computer (with a couple of solid poems (2)), and a handful of books, not to mention a stolen paycheck, or two. Simple, easy living, without all the misery that more stuff brings you. Beautiful really, until the realization that a weeks worth of clothing, an iTouch and a handful of books weigh the same amount as a 3 year old child on Maury Povich, 50 pounds of physical and emotional burden, to be almost exact.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining about long days on the beach or seeing some of the most exotic/beautiful/etc. cities in the world, I'm not even complaining about having to dig through five plastic bags of clothes, four different jugs of shampoo/lotion/soap/deodorant, three books, and two cans of bug spray just to find my last pair of "clean" quick-dry underwear. No, I'm complainig about its complete and utter ubiquitous presence in my life.

I get on the bus, it's there. Off, the same. I go to bed starring at it's vibrant, if mildly bold, colors. I then wake up to it, starring at me this time, asking if we will be leaving today, because it's bored of sitting in the room all day. Even when I leave it for the day, its presence is felt, threatening to pick-up and leave me for some other, and no-doubt more local, owner. Constant. Ever-present. Necessary.

I try to apply Benjamin Franklin's not-so-apt saying--"Necessity is the mother of invention"--whenever possible. When applied here, however,I learn that I'm either a miserable inventor or Benjy is full of shit, because with each passing day it becomes more and more "necessary" that my bag carry itself and that doesn't seem to be happening.

Instead, we travel. We walk, talk and occassionally fight our way through this land they call South America. Arm in trusty shoulder sling without the slightest bit of space, unless you count the thinly veiled piece of cotton separating our ever-moistening connection.

Nope, no separation, just me and my big, heavy, corpse-ly bloated, red backpack. It's like a tumor I cannot rid myself of, not because I can't, but because I don't want to. And sometimes this makes me happier than I've ever been and other times it makes me long for my own apartment with my own couch, but much, much cleaner.

(1) I've also vacationed, the difference being whether you can take your Rollie suitcase everywhere or not.

(2) I wrote in porns, but iNotes duly corrected my vulgar "misspelling" to poems. In case your wondering, I have neither with me, Beth is disgusted by poems.