Run away. Run away to traveling carnivals, that is into a twister of outrageous gobs of music, colors, foods, games, rides, sweats and shouts.
— I ran until I was lost with pennies in the pockets. I ran in carnivals playing California, New Jersey, New York, Chicago, Alaska, Minnesota, Oklahoma, Texas, Georgia and Florida. I ran to the mountains of the “real” Mexico to see the home of the new face of American carnival workers.
— I ran a golden Ferris wheel and a ride of flying elephants and they called me a ride jockey. I ran pool games and the Tubs of Fun and they called me a jointee. I ran with Ward ‘King of the Sideshows’ Hall’s freak show and was an outsider among insiders.
— I hitchhiked between carnivals along the Alaska Highway to US Interstates 5, 10, 25, 30, 35, 40, and so on to 95— and parts of fabled Route 66. I covered 36 states, traveling about 15,000 miles across the United States, Canada and Mexico.
— A carnival owner steals money. A friend dies in his 20s. Walking home at dawn nearly dead when the carnival is strapped down and bolted.
–Where are my childhood-friends and family. Where is my eight-year-old daughter Grace. Where are the people I wish to understand and where am I.
–This year, I am gloriously unmoored in the hard wonder of traveling carnivals.
– -Breaking away is the road. And my road is to the interior.