On Tenterhooks /ˈtɛntərˌhʊk/ [ten-ter-hook]

We were entering the library at the exact same pace.

I typically delight in the awkwardness this type of situation can create. Not willing to change my speed of swagger, I enjoy maintaining my stride to see how the stranger will react. Usually it is them who will tire of our new found synchronicity and jut out ahead or fall back in defeat.

Not this one. He stayed the course.

“Hi. How are you?”

I looked over at him, shocked, “Good. I’m good. How are you?”

“Fine, thank you.”

He was a large man. Mid-forties. Mounds of black curls fought to escape the claustrophobia of his baseball cap that, on account of all the hair, looked amusingly small atop his head. He wore layers; a white t-shirt, maroon button-down, red hooded sweatshirt, and denim jacket. None of them had been recently laundered.

His face was bright. The apples of his cheeks, preening themselves on their youthful brilliance, boasted a fine shade of flushed pink. He did not wear his smile; his smile wore him.

He wasn’t particularly attractive but I enjoyed looking at him the way moths enjoy gaping at porch lights. He radiated a certain ‘joie de vivre’ that was pleasantly incongruent with the dreary Seattle weather. His accent hailed from somewhere much warmer and uncomplicated. There is a good possibility this man was homeless.

He opened the door and motioned for me to enter first. We ascended the neon yellow escalator of the Seattle Public Library and I stood a few comfortable steps ahead of him.

“You shouldn’t think so much,” he remarked to my back.

I turned around to face him in disbelief. The glare of the acidic lemon walls gave him a certain spiritual glow.

With a sardonic laugh, I smiled, “Really? Is it written that clearly on my face?”

“Mmhmm, you’d be a lot happier if you just let it all go,” there was that smile again. “You live here?”

“I think so. For now. It’s kinda complicated.” Why I was I telling him this?

“Well, you’ll figure it all out,” he replied with cool confidence as if he had already read the book of Tayler and been satisfied with the outcome.

I raised my eyebrows, nodded my head, and displayed two crossed fingers.

“We’ll see.” I smiled and turned around. I didn’t know what else to do.

“Just keep it simple, little one.”

From over my shoulder I could tell he was looking down as he said this. Little one.

I bit my lip. Who is this guy? How does he know?

Our ride had ended and we stepped back onto solid ground.

“You have a good day now,” he nodded his head and took a sharp turn in the opposite direction.

“Yeah, you too.” my voice trailed off in a languid tone. I wanted more but I could no longer see him. Jesus Christ Santa Claus, what the hell just happened?

Sir, I’m not sure who you are or if you even actually exist, (maybe I was talking to myself on the escalator?) but thank you.

This little one plans to keep it as simple as possible from here on out.

So for all intents and purposes, my trip is pretty much complete. I am sitting at O’Hare admittedly bummed out and wishing that the rhythm of this month could somehow be maintained in some sort of lucrative and normal lifestyle. I have no money left. Maybe $300 to my name. I’ve decided to go stay in Seattle for a while to work for my Aunt who has flourishing online business who needs help casting custom address plaques. Plus my sister, cousins, friends, and family are up there. It’s a good in-between place to go. A good place to hide out and get my bearings (money) together, play music, and reflect on the past month to make an educated decision of where to go next.  As far as what I’ve decided moving-wise? After Seattle, Chicago is the most sure bet. Austin is the wildcard. A return to L.A. is out. I liked San Francisco.  And all I want to do is go to Europe. So I have no idea. I have a lot of things to consider and think about. And now I’ll have a lot of peaceful down time to do it.

But I would like to give thanks to ALL of the people who made this trip possible because its been an amazing ride. So if you will humor me for a moment while I role the credits:

(In order of appearance)

THANK YOU:

Mom- for the love, support, food (trio bars & coffee), and airport rides.

Seth- for the backpack, padlock, and encouragement.

Natalia & Brad- for being Natalia & Brad

Seattle Unit

Dylan & Jean- for being so hospitable and cool.

Stan & Darlene- for your tolerance of our crazy schedules

Liv- for the hospitality, the CAMERA, and the Bumbershoot fun.

Justin- for the wine and text messages

Portland Unit

Erik, Cathy, Sten & Siri- for welcoming me into your home.

Amy- for the quick drink & dance!

Austin Unit

Jacob- for the Gchat tour guiding.

Sean- for keeping me company on the ride from the airport

Val- for getting me OJ for my hangover, and introducing me to new friends.

Ross- for having an English accent.

Jamie & Susan- for the hangover breakfast and tourist adventures.

Grace- for letting me into the other room at 6am.

San Francisco Unit

Brendan- for not murdering me in the woods & facilitating my 1^st successful jam session.

Nicole- for being such a wonderful, hilarious, and gracious host despite your ankle injuries.

Dinello- for being so laid back and accommodating.

Ema- for beer and the smiles.

Jackson- for the karaoke, coffee, and cinnamon rolls.

Boston Unit

Lyndsey- for the encouragement despite our schedule conflicts!

Micah- we tried!

The makers of Theraflu- nuff said.

The sweet girls from Manchester that bunked with me- for keeping me sane.

New York Unit

Jasper- for not making things weird.

Jessie- for the AWESOME homecooked meal.

Matt- for Beatles Rockband

Bergen Bagels- for the best bagel in the world

New Orleans Unit

Jeanne- for being such a wonderful, generous, and kind hostess!

Robert- for trusting me with the beautiful condo in the French Quarter

Shannon- for the travel tips

The staff Jacque-Imos- for mistaking me for a food critic and letting me sample the menu

Milwaukee Unit

Dad- for opening up and making me realize the insane amount of similarities we have

Jana & Gary- for letting me stay in their home while they were away.

Jim & Carolyn- for adhering to my diet restrictions over dinner.

Chris & Shelly- for the quick hi/bye

Chicago Unit

Emily- for being my best friend

Chris- for being so tolerant of all the ladies

Beth- for being hilarious

And of COURSE all of my followers on Tumblr- your overwhelming positive feedback has been flattering, encouraging, and altogether humbling. Couldn’t have done it with out you.

Now rest assured, this blog is not finished. I still have tons of unpublished entries. I haven’t even touched on Chicago yet.

So stay tuned.

My travels are never over.

Thanks and love,

Tayler Lynn

Train whistle blows down a rusted worn out track,
And I can feel the ghost of it too.
Spikes shaken loose from the trips gone forth and back
A small white flag hangs, edges torn, from the caboose.

And me, I am the penny whose been flattened on the line
While I maintain the faint impressions of my days,
The structure of my form is no longer well defined
The copper barely shows the signs of Honest Abe.

It’s not pity that I seek as I lay prostrate on the rail,
Nor sympathy, nor condolence, nor regret.
I’m content enough to say that I have lived to tell the tale,
From whiskey, wine, from gentle sighs, to cigarettes.

It would be fair to say that I’m no longer to be used,
For the purpose unto which I was assigned,
But I look forward to the change of something altogether new,
However raw, or indistinct, or unrefined.

For while all the other coins make their exchanges through the globe,
From homeless cups, to wealthy hands, to wishing wells.
They’re begrudged by their monotony, the constant to and fro,
Their endless rides on fruitless circus carousels.

“Not  I!” is what I’ll cry; my frame outstretched and smoothed,
“I’m am now of an entire different breed!”
My existence to this point may have all just been a ruse,
But your conventions are no longer what I need!

Train whistle blows down a rusted worn out track,
And I can feel the change coming strong
As I encourage other pennies to no longer fear the flat
And wonder why its taken all of us this long.

-Tayler Lynn

When I left New York, I cried on the AirTrain to JFK. This is extremely uncharacteristic of me, I loathe crying in front of people. It was also immediately after incessantly bobbing my head to a Santigold remix on my ipod so passengers sitting around me must have thought I was extremely bipolar or at least severely premenstrual. The crying wasn’t out of sadness though, and it wasn’t audible sobbing, but I let tears stream freely under my sunglasses and down my cheeks as I waited to be dropped off at the JetBlue terminal.

I cried for a monumental sense of relief. I cried out of total emotional liberation.

5 years ago I was on the same train, I was flying in to New York to see a boyfriend who had just moved away to go to school. I was nervous, afraid, and head over heels in love. It was a week of pure naive 20 year-old bliss. We divided our time exclusively between fantastic food and staying horizontal in his Brooklyn loft bedroom that boasted no windows so time didn’t exist; it was a regular Vegas casino of coitus. The trip began a chain of events that put me under the placid haze of long-term commitment and complete devotion for 3 years. He moved back to Seattle and I quickly learned the values of compromise, complacency, and codependency; perhaps a little too well. It eventually ended up spawning a knee-jerk reaction from him; after living together, traveling around the world, and raising an evil kitten to cathood between us, he got restless, boxed in, and frightened. We were 22 and living lives twice our age, so he fled our eerily contented life in Seattle and went back to New York sighting school, work, and overall life goals as the main reason; it’s not you, it’s me.

With no ties severed but no promises to keep them intact, I was derailed. It was more of a blow to my ego than anything else.

“How could you choose anything over me?’

“It’s not about you, Tayler.”

“Bullshit, it’s not.”

In hindsight, his was a natural honest reaction that I am grateful he had the gall to make. I was too immature and too narcissistic to put it in perspective, but in my defense, no one wants to be left alone

I made the defensive decision to move back to Los Angeles with a sort of “I’ll show you who’s out to achieve their life goals” credo. The next two years were spent in a neurotic spin-out of desperate attempts at self-justification for all the wrong reasons. I just wanted so badly to be over it. To put the whole thing behind me. To go bed without thinking of excuses for reasons to call him, write him, fly to New York to see him. I drank, I smoked, I chopped off all my hair, I dated smug self-centered Angelino men who treated me like I owed them for their time. I searched for some form of relief through self-deprecating, self-sabotaging acts of conscious masochism with the logic that hurting myself more, will numb the pain I was already feeling. You know, like when you welcome a blister on your foot if only to distract you from your headache.

They were dark times. I threw myself into work, writing, improv, performing, partying, anything to let him and everyone else know that I was “doing fine.” “Staying really busy, onwards and upwards!” Distraction, distraction, distraction! But the fruits of my labor only further displayed my desperation. A vast majority of the ‘art’ I was churning out was just the poisonous byproduct of the toxic waste that I was willingly ingesting.

It wasn’t until the “eureka” moment of this past summer when the fog finally cleared and I realized I was completely miserable with the life I had created for myself on a false and desperate foundation. It was no longer about getting over him, I had now grown accustomed to the pattern of self abuse. It had turned commonplace. I had brainwashed myself into thinking that I deserved every bit of the misery I was creating.

The events of the next few months are what led me here (which is currently a coach bus en route to Milwaukee). I quit my job, moved out of my fantastic apartment, said goodbye to the few legitimate and wonderful friends I had, and snuck out of the city.  I went in search of the self I had lost somewhere in the foothills of Hollywood. Or perhaps, I never took her there to begin with.

Sure enough, somewhere between the nights spent sleeping on deflated air mattresses in stranger’s basements, laying in parks with my luggage and a dead phone wondering where the hell I was. Between meeting up with long lost friends, and making new ones, between staying in hostels 14 to a room, foreign boys on southern river docks, walking endless city streets and making wrong turns, I found her again. I found me again. In music halls, and nightclubs, and backyards, and rooftops, and outdoor movies. In taco stands, and corn cobs, and brisket, and hangover breakfasts. In thunderstorms and humidity and sunshine and…oh hell, you get the picture. I was back, I free, I WAS HAPPY.  And it was for real this time.

So when I stopped in New York, I decided it was time to test the authenticity of my newfound sense of self. Maybe a bit of the masochism was still intact but it was the only way I would know for sure that my feelings were legitimate. I would meet him for a drink. Just a drink, it was just a drink. Besides, he was my best friend for over 4 years, I missed him.

He was alone in the corner of a dark bar reading Vonnegut when I walked in. I couldn’t determine if it was premeditated or perfectly exemplary. He looked exactly the same. I decided the best way to forego the awkward introduction was to throw my purse five feet across the way and directly into his face (for those of you devout readers; yes, it was the giant vagina purse). It scared the shit out of him and I was satisfied. I was determined to make this light. We’re talking about a man who’s seen me pee, it was going to be easy. We were old friends and that’s the only side I wanted to see right now.

We talked for hours. It felt good. It felt great. It felt comfortable and familiar while altogether new. We were different people. I was a different person. I had hatched from my cocoon of self-torment with an arsenal of newfound self-respect and personal confidence. I was eager to tell him about my life and just as eager to hear about his. We danced gracefully but honestly around conversation, timing each careful but genuine step around any mention of past heartache or drama. We talked about the failed lovers we’d taken after each other and laughed at the follies and missteps that had led us both to be content with out current status of being ‘independent and single.’

We found ourselves splitting a bottle of wine at a French bar somewhere around 1am on the Lower East Side. Blissfully drunk and monumentally relieved, we got to the part of the evening where we stood on the street corner and talked about going home, but didn’t actually do anything about it. “This is ridiculous,” I thought  “He’s held my hair back while I puked, watched me trip and fall on my face, seen my most unflattering angles and ugliest moods, he’s practically family” Family that, in my wine soaked state of mind, I just wanted to kiss. You know, just to see if I was really OK. It was for the sake of science, for the sake of psychology.

So I took one for the team and kissed him, or maybe he kissed me. I don’t remember. But there was a distinct moment where I realized I had the choice to tip over the tower of blocks I had built and go back to Desperate Tayler lying in pieces on the floor or take this for what it was: a fine reunion of two people who have strong mutual love for each other but no desire to take it any further than a random night of drunken catch-ups. It felt good. It felt empowering. And most importantly it felt mutual.

I’m a drunk dialer, a drunk texter, a drunk talker. When I drink, I feel an overwhelming urge to tell people things that I know I wouldn’t ever tell them sober. I know this isn’t an unusual trait, its quite a common side effect of almost everyone who has ever consumed alcohol. But one difference is that I seldom regret the things I say or, at least remember saying.

Somewhere in my stupor I remember saying “Hey, you know I’m gonna love you no matter what.” This is a dangerously loaded statement and without the proper prologue could make me look like I was still pining for a relationship that was long since dead. But I didn’t feel scared when I said it, I wasn’t worried that it would be taken the wrong way. I didn’t feel needy and I wasn’t afraid that my subconscious would speak up and scream “What the hell are we doing back here again?!”

It was honest, it was true and there wasn’t anything more that I wanted from him. I didn’t need him to say it back to affirm how I felt. There was no longer any gaping hole, in fact, there wasn’t any room at all to fit any sort of return of affection. I had filled in the cavity with beautiful and righteous independence, strong self-respect and a new level head (despite my current blood alcohol content) that was chock full of perspective. I knew I had finally let go because I was openly and honestly able to whole heartedly love him and want nothing more in return.

And when I said goodbye to him, I didn’t wonder when I’d see him again. I didn’t hope it would be soon. I didn’t ride away thinking of ways we could run into each other again. I knew he would stay in my life in some capacity, I wanted him to, for sure. But I didn’t want anything more than a “Hey how are you?” every blue moon, maybe a Christmas card, a drink when we happened to be in each others respective cities.

High fives, she’s not only over it, she’s found true peace and understanding! This girl is unstoppable!

So back to the JFK train, and the mascara running down my face. This is when it hit me. I remembered where I was 5 years ago and I compared it to where I am now. Lightyears, it was lightyears away. In “Letters To A Young Poet,” Rilke explains his philosophy that you should savor your misery and loneliness to better understand your suffering when you come out the other side. To personally examine every aspect of your depression because it will essentially turn into the steps that will lead you out of the dark place you’ve gone and into acceptance and understanding. To be patient with your emotional evolution because it is a process and a journey like anything else. In my darkest hours I remember reading this and thinking it was complete bullshit. That only the weak needed time to heal, the strong could simply soldier on, throw themselves into something else and leave the pain behind. Not true, young sad Tayler!

It was on this train that I finally realized I was out of it. I was leaving New York with no other thoughts than how excited I was to get to New Orleans and how the bagel I ate that morning was so delicious (seriously, best ever). I wasn’t pining, I wasn’t scheming, I wasn’t yearning, I didn’t need anything My heart filled with relief, I was overwhelmed with strength and empathy; excitement and liberation.

So I cried. Shoot me, I got girly and emotional and happy and I cried. And it felt good and I didn’t care who saw me, I was proud of the tears. If ever there were a time when white doves could’ve flown out of my ribcage, they would have been then. Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately considering the small confined space in the traincar I was sharing with strangers, they did not. But my heart grew ten sizes that day because it had the room and the time and the newfound strength and permissions to give and receive love freely, honestly, and with the greatest of ease.

So the question now is:

WHO WANTS IN ON THIS?!

I’ve often had trouble answering the question “What do you do?” while on this trip.

I got sick of the obligatory: “WellIusedtoliveinHollywodandIhadabandandIwaitedtables. ButnowI’monthissabbaticaladventuretosomehowfindmyself. SoIdon’treallyDOanything”

There have been a few times I’ve just told bold faced lies to skirt the issue. Most of the time I just say yes in response to the question.

“Oh are you a muscian?”

Yep.

“Oh are you a student”

Mmmhmm.

“Are you unemployed?”

As a matter of fact, I am.

Last night I was sitting outside a bar in New Orleans waiting for a band to start and, I’ll admit, I was texting like crazy. Not because I wanted to (I’m perfectly capable of being places alone without being glued to my phone) but because I was trying to secure a place to stay during the next week. Totally justified.

A man came up to me and asked, “Are you a writer?”

Not quite catching on to the witty albeit slightly douche-y line yet, I said

“You know what? I am.”

And he came back with an extremely self congratulatory “Well you must be writing a novel in that phone of yours!!”

“No jerk, I’m trying to find a place to sleep next week.”

Annnd here comes my story. From LA All You Can Jet  5 weeks No money blahblahblahblahblah. He wasn’t really listening anyway.

“So have I ever read anything you’ve written?” he asks

“Probably not.” I replied. “I said I was a writer, it doesn’t necessarily imply success.”

“Well my Dad is a successful writer”

“Awesome, good for him.” I was expressionless.

“Yep and you know what he told me? He said ‘Steven, on the cover of my book it says New York Times Bestselling Author,’”

At this moment his eyes darted at mine searching for an impressed reaction to which I did not oblige. He continued on:

“’But what it does not say is New York Times BEST author.’ So you see, its all about the sales. It doesn’t matter if you’re any good. You don’t sell any books, all you’ve got is a good diary.”

FREEZE.

This is the part where the world stops (on a really ugly expression from “Steven”) and I talk directly to the audience.

I wanted to punch this man in the face and run away crying. I didn’t travel across the country to a tiny bar in the south for this. Here the LA was to stand for Louisiana, not Los Angeles. And what was he trying to accomplish with this line? The only thing he could possibly be proving was that he and his father were selfish and money grubbing and cared nothing about the sanctity of self expression. Abort, abort conversation Tayler.

So I decided to stay honest, I stayed true.

UNFREEZE.

“You know what Steven? At this point, I would honestly be more satisfied with a really well written diary.”

PEW! PEW! POW! POW! LIGHTBULBS! HELLO! BREAKTHROUGH! WHAT UP! DING! DING! DING!

Steven took the hint as I smiled to myself and started back at my phone. Much to his salvation, it started to rain one of those warm unexpected Southern downpours at the very same moment it could’ve gotten very awkward.

“I’m gonna go inside, the bands about to start.”

“Yeew should come insiiide with uss babe, yer gunna getwett.” his drunken friend had not picked up on the current demise of our conversation.

But I didn’t go inside. I didn’t care about the rain. I just sat on the bench repeating that line in my head.

“At this point, I would be more satisfied with a really well written diary.”

“At this point, I would be more satisfied with a really well written diary.”

“At this point. I would. Be more satisfied. With a really well written diary.”

I experimented with different emphasis on different words while getting wetter and wetter with each accented syllable.

But it didn’t matter. I was sitting alone on a park bench in New Orleans with a Heineken in my hand (yeah, everyone drinks in the street) in the pouring rain and I finally knew that I was on the right track.

A well written diary? Tenterhooks? All I have to do is keep doing what I am doing. Stay true, stay honest. Don’t bother with the money, the sales, the notoriety. It’s not what I want. If all I want is a well written diary, if that will satisfy me, then what is all of this worry with monetary and famed success?

So its not about L.A., its not about making a name for myself, its not about bragging rights, and its certainly not about the money.

God, all I want to do is travel, and write, and sing and live a comfortable life where I can do all that with people I love and be happy. So I’m shifting my sights and staying true. I’m going to find a place where I can do all of that and achieve a high level of personal success.

Will I ever be able to answer the question “What do you do?” I don’t know. And at this point, I don’t care. As long as the answer is not “I work a dead end job and sold my soul for a spot on The New York Times Best Seller list,”

I think I’ll be just fine.

Salami Arms

-by Bill Withers Tayler Lynn

“It’s all a bunch of bullshit!”

This is my Grandma Georgina’s reaction to most any mention of newly discovered carcinogens.

“One day they tell you drink wine, the next they tell you you’re going to die. I say you’re going to die eventually anyway, do what you want.”

So she does. She smokes, drinks, and lives off a diet of primarily coffee, buttermilk, and animal fat.

She also pays no mind to sunscreen and worships the sun on a religious routine. As a result, she is always a gorgeous shade of deep brown that seems to glow underneath her pearly white hair.

Her presence has always fascinated me; so strong and prominent with such stalwart grace. I’ve spent hours just staring at her. I used to sit on her lap and poke and prod at her face, perhaps in search of the secrets that make her such an unyielding force of a woman. It was during one of these examinations that I came across her ‘salami arms.’

It was mid-summer, mid 1990’s in muggy Michigan and she was at the peak of suntan status. Her arms were taught, muscled, and slightly marooned. We would lay on her couch on Friday nights after sunburned days at the lake; windows open and crickets chirping through endless marathons of  ‘The Twilight Zone.’ I pulled at the skin atop her forearm as I cuddled against her.

“It looks like something,” I said through pigtails and crooked teeth “Something I like.”

“What does? My arms?” she asked.

“Yeah. They look like salami. Genoa salami. No! The kind with the peppercorns in it!”

My vast knowledge of salami types was entirely her fault. She kept back stock of our favorite varieties in her refrigerator along with Ruby Red, cottage cheese, and Yoo-Hoo. I had quickly become a connoisseur of cold cuts and chocolate milk. Ah, the refined palate of a chubby 9-year-old girl.

“They do not!” she remarked, slightly self-conscious though I did not take note.

“Do so!” I insisted. “Look!”

I pointed out the darkest freckles.

“Peppercorns”

The liver spots.

“The meat.”

And little white age-spots she could never quite tan.

“That’s the fat! It’s salami, Grandma! Just look at them!”

I was so proud of my analogy, unaware that an aging woman might not want her skin compared to the likes of dry cultured meats. She took it graciously though, for there was no denying, her arms really did look like salamis.

“I love it!” I screamed, “I want salami arms!”

This was the truth. I genuinely did want salami arms. They were marks of honor. Marks of living. Freckles of joy, heartache, poverty, and riches. Age spots of struggle, self-employment and non-conformity. Proud melanomas of sons and daughters, grandchildren, and massive holiday meals. Not to mention they looked delicious. Even at my young age, despite the absurdity of my naïve indiscretion, I knew her arms were enviable.

A few days ago I was lying in Delores Park in San Francisco among children, tourists, and hip young picnickers. I was alone reading my new copy of The Believer and sipping lemonade. I grew bored and as I lay looking at the sky I started to examine my forearms. They were fair with a smattering of random freckles here and there, pretty run of the mill. It wasn’t until I started to look closer that I saw the beginnings of sun damage, scars left from kittens and serving hot plates, and ever so slightly, those little white spots that couldn’t quite tan.

Early onset salami arms! Eureka! Could it be that I am paving the way for my own adventures full of joy, heartache, poverty, and riches?! Struggle, self-employment and non-conformity. Sons! Daughters! Grandchildren! Massive holiday meals! And though I’ve often felt like I’ve been bumbling through life thinking “Where did the past five years go?,” I can take comfort in knowing that just like Grandma Georgina, my struggles and achievements will physically manifest themselves like badges of honor directly onto the most visible part of my body. I’m hoping this trip may bring out a few more “peppercorns” of my own. And if I don’t always make the healthiest, most well-informed decisions, it’s all going to be ok. I might as well go for broke.

I mean, after all, “you’re gonna die eventually anyway.” Right, Grandma?