2/28/10: Watching the Wheels

People say I'm crazy doing what I'm doing,
Well they give me all kinds of warnings to save me from ruin,
When I say that I'm o.k. they look at me kind of strange,
Surely your not happy now you no longer play the game,

People say I'm lazy dreaming my life away,
Well they give me all kinds of advice designed to enlighten me,
When I tell that I'm doing Fine watching shadows on the wall,
Don't you miss the big time boy you're no longer on the ball?


I'm just sitting here watching the wheels go round and round,
I really love to watch them roll,
No longer riding on the merry-go-round,
I just had to let it go,

People asking questions lost in confusion,
Well I tell them there's no problem,
Only solutions,
Well they shake their heads and they look at me as if I've lost my mind,
I tell them there's no hurry...
I'm just sitting here doing time,

I'm just sitting here watching the wheels go round and round,
I really love to watch them roll,
No longer riding on the merry-go-round,
I just had to let it go.


-Watching the Wheels
John Lennon

Once the bus finally got on the road, the ride was thankfully uneventful. After appearing utterly incompetent just a few days earlier, my nemesis driver pulled us into Albuquerque two-hours late on this Super Bowl Sunday, but still ahead of the approaching storm.

There was to be no word from Chris for nearly a week. The last I knew, he was 20-miles south of Tucson and struggling to get out of Arizona. About a week later, I learned that Chris had made it to El Paso Monday, then hit an epic wall. He remained stranded in El Paso for THREE NIGHTS! To me, this is astounding! In two years , I have never gone a full day without a ride...let alone two or three...across the river from Juarez-the most dangerous city in Mexico!

Naturally, he chose not to pontificate on the metaphysics after what had transpired in Phoenix, but he didn't need to. When I learned that the occupants of his latest lillypad had made a 1,000-mile round trip to "rescue" him, I had all I needed. Remember them signs? They're not always pleasant! When we chatted later there would be no mention of that!

Also, his rescue nearly wasn't. After driving 500-miles, his friends couldn't reach him because of his dead cell battery. In fairness, he apparently didn't know they were coming and thankfully they happened to spot him on the last pass before leaving. Hearing this sent me into hyper-observation mode; curious to see how this would affect him, and what the reality of Austin would hold.

As for me, the initial idea was to remain in Santa Fe just long enough to kick "The Crud", then either return to Slab City, or perhaps east to Florida for a bit of Spring Training, then Atlanta and Nashville to see friends.

What I hoped would be a week turned into three. Whatever it was would not let go! As March approached, I finally felt better, had found a Rideshare to Tampa, and made tentative "plans" (ha!) to leave the last week of February...

You've heard how "plans" and I get along, right?

A Christmas Eve Mea Culpa

How's that for dramatic? To a degree, it's accurate but honestly I just wanted to use the cool title. In honor of the birth of Our Redeemer, I've decided to eliminate the full display of the f-word. For today and tomorrow, f*** will be presented as f***. Happy birthday, Jesus!

This was supposed to be a venom-filled rant tearing into some of the most basic of human weaknesses. I would like to say, "Christmas Eve is not the time for such things; I've been filled with the Holy Spirit!" That would be a disingenuous crock, although I concede that today is hardly the day to crucify anyone! Verbally or otherwise. I shant be doing much of that, but will offer a bit of some personal, clarifying insight into what's been happening with me over the last few months. It may or may not surprise you. What will surprise you is what made me realize it!

It would appear that these concepts of self-delusions and "faking beliefs" to fit a purpose have been much more powerful than I realized. It's inadvertently forced me to take another near-complete personal inventory, to "borrow" again from A.A. I've mentioned often that I've pummeled myself as much as Andre, Wendie, Chris, or anyone. It would appear, however, that I've been hammering away not only at me and my ego, but at the very foundation of my core-beliefs and looking for weaknesses. I was trying to actually CREATE then FIND fractures-of-inconsistency not only by provoking others, but myself. I must fascinate the mental health community! But, it's necessary. It bears fruit. What you've seen over the last 100 days is a public evolution!

The amusing part of this is how the simplest of things provided the proper perspective to see all of this from the inside. I was wrangling and trying to reconcile my agreement with Alison's violent rejection of "everything happening for a reason." A few scant months ago, this was a primary fundamental; synchronicity etc. Meanwhile, via the creepy-wonderment that is Facebook, I was reunited with a HS classmate, Jennifer, who commented on that post; on this very topic. In a flurry of thought, I realized that based on what she had read, she probably had NO idea that we were likely in near agreement on this. It was then thrown into momentarily crystal-clear focus exactly where I had ventured since returning to Santa Fe in September. I was continuing on a grand scale (and publicly) something I've done a hundred times in my journals over the last 5-years: subjecting my ideas and beliefs to brutal beatings to see if they'd survive. Or if I was just full of shit. As Chris so eloquently put it, I was "beating the f**k out of myself." Guilty. Not surprisingly, Chris is also of the opinion that I should be easier on myself. And by extension others.

Not surprisingly, I told him to go f**k himself. (Kidding. Or am I?)

So here's mea maxima culpa quod explicatus: If you've yet to notice, I tend to be a bit unforgiving & impatient of those searching for, or walking along the path I have perhaps already stumbled! My frustration (and anger) is born out of legitimate concern and love for people, believe it or not. I wasted too much time assuming "someone or something would show me the way" before realizing I was the one I was waiting for. So, realizing that, I have what I consider a gift I desperately want to give to myself 15-years ago! But, after digging thru my journals I was reminded of some things I learned a long time ago, and had apparently neglected to remember:

“Wisdom is not communicable. The wisdom which a wise man tries to communicate always sounds foolish... Knowledge can be communicated, but not wisdom. One can find it, live it, be fortified by it, do wonders through it, but one cannot communicate and teach it.”

"When someone is seeking...it happens quite easily that he only sees the thing that he is seeking; that he is unable to find anything, unable to absorb anything...because he is obsessed with his goal. Seeking means: to have a goal; but finding means: to be free, to be receptive, to have no goal."

And my favorite: "The deity is within you, not in ideas and books. Truth is lived, not taught." -Hermann Hesse

In short: Sit the f**k down, and shut the f**k up! Sound familiar?


Before accusing me of backtracking, bite your tongue! Nothing would be further from the truth. Self-delusions are a peculiar human epidemic, but alas: perhaps they must be for the vast majority of people. We're born, bred, and die immersed in illusion. If you don't believe that, imagine a year long power failure. In this presentation, comfort & illusion are what keeps most of us sane; from contemplating the reality of mental/societal slavery. Huxley's SOMA, or Cypher's Matrix. Take your pick, but people...

"given the choice, will select entertainment...over information; citizens will prefer to have someone else handle the responsibility for their lives rather than face the burdens...; we will willingly choose slavery over freedom. Political and intellectual slavery are noting more than accepting the security provided by a benevolent authority."-Donald N. Wood Post-intellectualism and the Decline of Democracy p. 211

This is a quote that, when I first read and contemplated it, rattled me out of my progressive stupor. That being said, it's vital to understand one simple thing: I've not been intentionally attacking man-en-mass. My method is to attack ideas. The manipulation of truth/self-delusion is an idea that is, unfortunately, attached directly to the individual; identifiable on an individual level. Identifiable in all of us if we look hard enough. (Notice I didn't say "long enough"; it's there right now!) I used my previously futile attempts to quit smoking, and how the identification of them helped me to quit last month in order to illustrate it in myself. I could use many more over the last few years. In fact, I already have. Those on the email list already know, after 14-emails, what I'm talking about! I'll elaborate for the rest at the end, but if you look to the right side under archives, you'll see "2006" has appeared. So shall 2004, 2005, and 2007 very soon. Wendie (for me) and Andre in particular were powerful examples but, unfortunately, so am I. In fact, I'm living in a town I despise because of these self-delusions! Allow me over time to illustrate.

All of this probably wont mean much to my pathetic blob o' blogosphere. It's an egotistical waste of time to "try" to educate people. It's arrogance to believe you can intentionally instigate a Magical March to "Enlightenment." Why am I doing this then? Good fu****g question! It's alot of work! But, I've found my "voice"; it's just something...I...must...do. Like departing in the first place: it just must be done. That's the one thing I've written that will make artsy douchebags smile! Don't get cocky hippie; that ain't an opening.

Once I add a bit more to "2007," you'll get more of a clear understanding of what I mean by "voice." I'm not referring to the Moody Blues song The Voice or the internal compass I've repeatedly referred to. This time, I mean the message that some people feel compelled to convey. Comedians struggle to find theirs, as do radio folk. I never quite got there consistently while behind a microphone. I had access to the ideas, passion and fire, but never had the proper, comfortable venue. It's hard to talk seriously about the illusions of life between live reads for Bob's Used Car Palace and Connie's Fecal Art Emporium. Capiche? That voice is something I've been struggling to harness for a long time but as Herr Hesse just pointed out, my voice needed me to just let go. Again, one of those things that are likely to sound like jibberish unless you have a frame of reference.

That's been my week. How's yours been?

Tomorrow's Christmas, and I have a gift for all of you! This 100-days has ended. No more Don Quixote. No more self-delusion. The topic may come up again later of course, but now it's time to turn my head to what lies ahead, and there are some grand things! Laina & I are going to Boise for New Year's to meet my "new" sisters, Lynette & Shelly, and my nieces and nephews. (Not sure if Dave's kids consider me an uncle but to hell with it. I'm lumping them in!) Shelly's flying in from Ohio for the holidays, so we figured this was a ready-made opportunity to introduce everyone. Just as important to me: it's symbolically fitting! Considering what 2009 was, ending it and kicking off a new decade with Lynette & Shelly is perfect and needs to be done if at all possible. I'll write more on this after Christmas.

Is it me, or does he look like Val Kilmer c. The Doors?

After Boise, I'm literally days or weeks away from setting off again, this time for the ENTIRE YEAR 2010! Thanks to Katie, several Craigslist bargain hunters, and eliminating cigarettes, I've figured out how to budget from January thru December. Details are slow in coming, but I'm steadily zeroing in on a departure date, likely the middle of January but possibly sooner depending on how things go in Idaho.

Let me know if any unaltered f-bombs snuck through.

The Big Quit

With everything I've written and said about Don Quixote and a commitment to self-honesty, an ironic thing happened. With all my scathing self-righteousness, I quickly became further disgusted with myself in one area in particular. Smoking. Specifically, the empty talk and proclamations that I was "gonna quit." "Gonna" seeming to always be the operative word, rather than "quit." "Words are important." (Shut up Andre. I get it.)

Always "gonna." When might that be? Was I waiting for C.O.P.D.? Perhaps deep down I enjoyed spending $10 for a pack in New York City? No. I even managed to convince myself upon leaving Bash Bish State Park that I just "wanted" a cigarette...after "patching-up" and going 24-hours without one. "Well, no shit you wanted one, fool! You're an addict!" With my new-found focus on "self-delusional awareness" I could now say for certain that this and every other excuse was utter bullshit. Not that it took a genius to figure it out; I still remember Chris's smug look of amusement.

The final insult to injury... literally... was in Boise, and it happened to be photographed. My 16-year old nephew, Ben, and I somehow got into a friendly wrestling match. While it's essential to stress that I did NOT lose, at the end I was on the verge of cardiac arrest! Not only was I unable to breathe, while I had him pinned on to the floor, (despite what you may hear otherwise, he WAS pinned- squirming futilely, not unlike a roped steer), I literally felt ALL of the energy in my body drain out through my feet! What the hell is that? That, and the fact that even in my emaciated state, I still had him by 10-15 pounds and struggled due to poor conditioning was a cold smack in the face.

I told Lynette or Dave, right there, (after 10-minutes of loud wheezing) that this was it. I WAS quitting. I got the same look I received from both Ben & Brad in Ohio when I told them I'd be hitching to Boise to see them: "yeah, right!" And, I still remember Chris's smug look of continuing amusement at Bash Bish.

When November began, so had my plan. It was time to just shut up or do it. I've tried to quit several times using the gum (nearly had a heart-attack after chomping on it for an hour... not realizing that's a no-no!) and the free-patches. The only things that have worked? Boot camp and a well-timed case of the flu. Taking cigs out of the equation. The flu immediately followed my aborted bicycle tour. Aborted for reasons similar to Ben, except entailed cycling my then 190-pound ass and my 85-pound bike/gear up Colorado mountainsides. Another story for another time, but that quit lasted for a month or two, then found me progressively smoking "one or two" more-and-more, until I finally gave up upon our return to New Mexico to play "radio" with Skippy the Super Douche.

I've regretted re-starting since that job ended, but nicotine's a motherfucker. People who have never been addicted think it's so simple, and when they say, "Just don't LIGHT them!" I wanted to inflict harm. If only it were that easy. It becomes a significant part of your psyche; part of who you are; especially after 23-years. (Yes, Einstein, I'm saying I was 6. This isn't math class; keep reading.) Even when you quit, it can be like losing a good friend, and that "urge" to smoke never really goes away although it does become manageable. It's like a mental scar; a lifelong rude reminder, and that's what the urges eventually become: persistent reminders of how powerful nicotine really is. The brain reacts in much the same way it reacts to heroin, and that's why people will continue to smoke while hooked up to ventilators, knowing full well that it WILL kill them if they don't quit. Some people would rather smoke than live. Or, perhaps it's better to say they would rather die than quit. Either way, it IS that powerful.

I knew ALL of this going in, and to my credit had been gathering weapons to add to the arsenal when/if the time came. During our time in Michigan this June, I talked with Brian about the prescription drug Chantix, since he had quit two-years before and raved about how it had worked for him, despite still living with a smoker. Having been he and Joey's roommate for nearly a year, after first working with him, I know how he loved his cigarettes! When he described how the drug works, it made sense. It simply blocks the receptors nicotine uses in the brain, while triggering a tiny stream of dopamine. Dopamine's the chemical the brain produces, in massive quantities, when you're smoke or drink (among other things.) Its effect is a sense of euphoria so addicting that lab rats will literally starve themselves to death if dopamine is an alternative to food. They would rather die than quit. Dopamine's fascinating, and there's a reason NO A.A. meeting is ever likely to be smoke-free.

Chantix may be a wonder-drug, but it is also expensive! One requiring a prescription, which meant an out-of-pocket doctor's visit; the Vagabond, Inc. HMO is a bit thin on coverage! This is where October and these notions of self-delusion, became a powerful and ultimately continuing & essential asset. Plus, seeing the cost, playtime was over! I was forced to ask myself IF I wanted to quit at all, and if so, why I hadn't quit yet. The flimsy excuses were no longer working because I knew they were excuses. Funny thing about self-awareness: it's not always convenient. On that Tuesday 11/3, in a moment of motivation, bravado & haste, I called the office Joe had suggested and luckily got an appointment for that Friday, 11/6. That was the first big step but the smokes were far from done with me, and how clever they can be!

The next day I found a laptop on Craigslist. A brand-new HP "desktop replacement!" 4GB RAM! Upgradeable to 8GB! Dual Core Processor! Windows 7! 17" screen! It.. was... fucking... perfect! It even came with the receipt, so if I wanted a different one I could return it; the last computer I'd need for years and would cost more than $200 less than it was new! I sent an email, offering $100 less than he was asking, thinking there's NO way he'd bite. He bit.

There was no way I could afford to get both the laptop AND the Chantix, so I quickly rationalized that if I spent the money on the laptop, it would force me to quit smoking on my own! THAT surely would be better for me! It would teach me something and Pfizer would get none of MY money! I quickly agreed with my inner Rationalist, and at 6pm that very evening I picked up my shiny, spiffy new laptop. It WAS perfect.

It was re-sold the next morning.

Shortly after picking it up I came to realize what I had done. I had created my own little delusion; my own special narrative. I knew damn well that if I canceled that doctor's appointment I'd still be puffing away come July... still talking about how I'm "gonna" quit. When I realized what I was doing, I literally told myself to shut the fuck up. ***It's a bizarre feeling to be disgusted with the outdated and antiquated voice-of-habit- in your own head! I wanted the laptop, was afraid of what it would take to actually quit, and the computer was my habitual excuse to avoid it. Simple. Disgusting. But, a glorious sight to behold from an outside perspective!

I immediately called Laina to see if her co-worker was still looking for a computer. She quickly called back to say that Katie, the woman I had been house-sitting for, wanted one and asked me to bring it in to show her. She liked it (of course... it WAS perfect!), and that night I had recouped exactly what I had paid, losing nothing yet gaining some invaluable insight in the process... and into myself for once. That theme would continue.

I was a bit concerned about getting the prescription that Friday morning, and felt a little dirty about "asking my doctor if Chantix was right for me." I haven't been to a doctor in at least 15-years (probably much longer) and was NOT eager to take part in the drug-dealer charade. Plus, the cost was ridiculous considering what she was doing: asking & answering questions then writing a prescription. The process was painless and before I knew it I had my coveted salvation pills. I later chatted with Brian & Fast Joe (he used to work for Pfizer) saying thanks and asking more questions about the drug and its creepy "Quit taking Chantix IF..." laundry list. I laughed realizing that the drug's side-effects sounded awfully similar to nicotine withdrawal! How the fuck would you know if the drug's making you psychotic... or it's the jonesing for a smoke?!? Silly Pfizer.

The morning/night regimen started that Friday, 11/6. You continue smoking through the first week, supposedly to let the drug build up in your system, but I noticed effects almost immediately. First, the almost metallic taste to the smoke. Plus, I was smoking like a chimney; not getting my usual buzz. That Sunday, I felt what were later seen to be my first withdrawal symptoms, despite still smoking... albeit less. The symptoms? I was a raging prick. Unpleasant? Sure. Expected? Absolutely. A general change in demeanor? Not likely. That theme would continue.

Luckily, Katie and her husband had unexpectedly needed to return to California again, so I had another week house-sitting; one that coincided perfectly with the quit. My first dosage increase was Monday, and early Tuesday I noticed (and later in the day finally identified... with an ironic laugh) more severe withdrawals. The identification was hindered, again, by the fact I was still smoking, and a bit freaked-out by the "You may go apeshit!" warnings from Pfizer! I wasn't going apeshit; I was withdrawing. The drug was obviously doing its job, and there wasn't a damn thing I could do to stop it now. Even if I chain smoked, it wouldn't matter. After I came to understand what was happening that was a HUGE help. The gun's chamber was all but empty.

The rest of the week at Katie's was calm, quiet, and boring. I played on her (what had been my) laptop most of the time, and ate. I began to count my cigs, and had gone from 12-18 down to 3-4 a day, and they were simply out of habit. A persistent habit. On Brian's advice, I signed up for the online "Get Quit" program that's part of the purchase, and as my (their) quit date approached with Friday, the fact that this was real began to set in. I knew damn well I wasn't quitting Friday, and didn't bother to try. It was as though I knew a friend was leaving, never coming back, and I wanted another day with my pal of 23-years! You may surely laugh, but I'm not kidding!

Saturday was my quit date, and after dumping the rest of my loose-leaf tobacco in the toilet with much fanfare Friday night, I did well on Saturday while somehow failing miserably at the same time. I decided to drag Laina to see 2012, both out of a perverse interest in seeing the world end and killing 3-hours in a place I couldn't smoke. However, the movie had sold-out. This was the day after my final dosage increase, so I was a special kind of menstrual. Being pissed off at the sell-out quickly escalated into just being pissed off at Santa Fe in general, then to anyone who looked in my general direction, which led onto "The Fuck It Express": smoking the final pack, which had been left at the house when I went to Katies. No one said this would be "easy" even with the drug; this was a punch in the gut to remind me.

Lighting the first cigarette on that Saturday evening was accompanied by an old, familiar, exiled and unwanted friend: the shameful, self-loathing and disappointment of failure. This time however, my awareness of the delusions & the narratives went to work. I was actually able to identify something very important, and something that should serve me for a very long time: The old-habit of escaping into excuse filled self-destruction when internally things inevitably become challenging. There were similarities between this moment and buying the computer earlier in the week: the flight instinct. This was an intensely interesting moment because it was old, yet persistent THINKING at work, something I thought I had sequestered securely away, only to witness it again on full display: naked!

Like picking up a cigarette was a nagging habit, so was this mental reflex.

I could see it, but didn't fight to stop it. I absorbed it, felt it, and focused on what had happened and what running to that cigarette meant. I smoked that cigarette with quite a cranky scowl, and perhaps  would have kicked a puppy had one been present.

I smoked normally the rest of Saturday night. At about 11:00, I was ready for bed and had a decision to make. By then, I'd had the time to process everything that happened throughout the course of the day and could clearly see, now, that just knowing the tobacco was at the house had given me all I needed to first fabricate, and then direct my little drama all the way from "Sold-Out" to "The Fuck It Express." Self-serving delusions? Alive & well in Santa Fe.

I was right in my Quixote assessments. We will conjure up anything to fit the narrative! But realizing that and fighting them in reality is like fighting the ego: a constant battle only made possible (far from "made easy") by awareness.

Knowing this, it was time to ask myself a very simple question: "Todd, are you going to keep finding excuses to smoke despite the fact that, if you do, it will kill you?" With that, the cigarettes were no longer killing me. I was. Nicotine was no longer the cast as the villain of my self-destruction. I was. I finally "owned" it.

I stepped outside, had one final cigarette with NO fanfare, then, silently and alone, dumped the rest of the full pouch into the fire. There was no sense of grandiose euphoria. There were no accolades or self-congratulation. I just sat there, watched the tobacco and the package symbolically burn away, and went to bed.


The first day, 11/15, was of course the hardest but also the most rewarding. All the ready-made excuses went out the window with the first full-day. Then again, and more so, with the passing of that first week. Laina and I finally succeeded in seeing 2012 in all its apocalyptic glory on Day 1 which helped immensely, as did the unwavering support she offered throughout-despite dealing with a cantankerous prick. I can't overstate how important it was to have someone to talk to!

Later in the week, I discovered that there were a plethora of things that kept me distracted. Writing for one. Imagine that! I managed to physically write more in that first 10-days than I had combined since February. The urges to smoke were still there but, again, I made an effort to own rather than avoid them, and it's worked. They've steadily decreased in frequency & intensity, and are now little more than pesky reminders. There was such an incredible surge in energy after a few days (when the carbon monoxide was gone), that I actually started running...and I hate running! It almost killed me the first day, but has gotten easier as my lungs and heart have been recovering. I just feel progressively better...and it's nice not to spend money on those things.

I know it's been only 19-days at the time of this writing. I also realize...it's been 19-fucking days! Those who know me know exactly what I mean! What's important is that the nicotine addiction is gone, taking with it any real excuses to smoke. The mental scars, the reminders, may always be there to some degree. Looking back, I have the mistakes I made with my '06 quit to learn from: allowing myself the (at-first) occasional cigarette. Looking forward, it's in my hands and the decisions I make. The addiction's been contained, so there are no more excuses other than compulsiveness, self-destruction, or plain & simple stupidity.

I guess I was "gonna" quit after all. "When might that be?": November 15, 2009. This, partnered with the powerful self-assistance from these introspective "October Rants" has once again provided a powerful new tool in dealing with these oft-problematic Quixotisms: Self-experience making tangible an organic yet, until then, only abstract theory.

As in August, this apparent "down-time" where I often appear lost in "idle reflection" and engaged in (as Chris called it) "cave thinking" rather than seeking out adventure and treasure in far-off lands, has begun paying real dividends, beyond the imaginary, anecdotal trips to band-camp.


Oh, as for the nagging thoughts of hubris and/or arrogance? Label me what you like, but it's only hubris if I'm wrong.

9/22-10/9/09: Santa Fe- "Unpacking"

After a quiet day at home on Tuesday, the house-sitting gig started Wednesday amid wild anticipation of spending the entire week on the computer or buried in my notebooks writing for hours on end. I knew that I had much to process and, as always upon returning home, felt highly motivated to get it done immediately in supposed marathon sessions. But, as usual, it didn't happen that way. Rather than a narrative, the writing promptly displayed a tendency to create more questions; deeper layers than I originally assumed were there. That's always a good sign for me personally, but not always pleasant. Especially when many of the hardest new questions revolve around...me.

As I started to get near the heart of Andre's story, I noticed an intense feeling of personal wariness, especially about that Sunday, 9/13. The apprehension's intensity was quite rare, but I understood that his was no ordinary story and I was forced by its content to take a microscopic look at both my own insights and, more painfully, who I have become over the last year and where I was going. I had expected the simple moral question about how much detail to share, but the demand for self-analysis was something that was surprisingly bitch-slapping me at the same time! If I was going to offer acute criticism of others, I was going to be providing it to myself. Like it or not. A handy, oft-inconvenient & unpredictable tool I've acquired somewhere.

As I started to verbally spew into the computer, making connections to both past events and those in Port Townsend, an interesting contrast developed; something that would ultimately lay the very foundation for the immediate future. Despite the persistent questions, the words flowed; again a good sign. Nothing was forced or contrived and, after questioning, challenging, and examining my insights, it was obvious that they were solid-if not pleasant. They themselves then began spawning other multilayer ideas. Yet, the potentially toxic, uncomfortable nature of these observations set off warning signals throughout my psyche. Was this just my ego going nuts?

I began seeking out other opinions and through conversations with Laina, Chris and The Sage, my impressive, redneck vocabulary again went on display as I described these intense, nagging emotions as "feeling like a dick," even though I felt like I was dead-on, even after psychologically beating the hell out of myself and beginning the process of asking "who the hell I thought I was" in writing these things. It was then that I came to realize that I'd had the sense that "I" wasn't writing these things. It was Stream of Consciousness-despite of myself! More than once, I (again) thought back to Randleman, and Pastor Snake...which REALLY set off ego-alarms! Seeing this was encouraging of course, but created more turmoil than it relieved.

The Sage suggested something that I had considered a few times: keeping two journals. One: the run-of-the-mill, fluffy "travel journal" variety. Something easier to comprehend, accept, and escape within (my description). The Second: one presumably written with my actual thoughts... therefore not causing any immediate discomfort to the protagonists. I seriously considered it, but not for long, as I slowly came to realize that the self-doubt wasn't internally based. It was the "critic's" voice; the self- censor voicing the imagined criticism of others. Furthermore, as Laina astutely and repeatedly pointed out, "editing for comfort" would be selling out; doing the very thing that I swore not to do. Reading these passages is voluntary after all, and the notion of producing shallow "bathroom fodder," as Chris puts it, is repugnant. No, this is by its nature occasionally unpleasant and very difficult. It's the "hard" that makes it worthwhile, even though it's sometimes unflattering, even to myself.

I knew coming in that it would periodically be difficult, but I HAVE made myself accountable by having the courage to present it for consumption. It seems cowardly (and suspicious) to consider yourself a man-of-purpose then hide in your journal; the foundation of critical thought is to test ideas by allowing them to stand up to scrutiny! To cower, or worse: put on an "act", would be something I wouldn't be able to stomach, and that I even considered it made me question my own motives and presented the entrance to yet another powerful investigation: the difference between being "clever" and being right, which can lead to the egoistic practice of selfishly protecting a possible flawed point-of-view through linguistic voodoo & rationalization. Later in October, this directly led to my humble, uncomfortable Don Quixote revelation (stay tuned...if you dare!). Good, organic stuff!

With the end of the house-sitting gig came the end of September. As October began and I returned home, my "internal motives" question persisted, but I decided to push forward and allow people to react however they chose. Thinking back over the summer, I reflected on how I had likely severed the pathetic "relationship" with my own father and two of my sisters through simple uncomforatable honesty. Considering that The Hens had chosen to "de-friend" me on Facebook, choosing their traditional method of conflict resolution, avoidance, it suddenly seemed absurd to offer this blatantly self-interest-driven courtesy to Andre; something I had denied much more significant people!

There was much more to come as I contemplated my time with Andre in Portland. As I finally wrote up The Vanity Plate, Now What?, and Navigating the Rubicon, more agitation and an accompanying flood of ideas that was the byproduct. Surprisingly, much if centered around, of all things, The Bible...

9/19-9/21/09: Greyhound-Portland, San Diego, Santa Fe

The ferry ride to Seattle was surreal. When I called Shalain and gave the all-clear to purchase the ticket, it finally hit me that this intense phase had ended, and it a couple days I'd be back in familiar surroundings, being mauled by my cats. Nagging regrets lingered, but I was OK with it. I was mentally spent, needed a break, and would see some interesting (and new) parts of the country on the way.

Wendie's predictions were in fact accurate. I got to see some of the city, albeit from the backseat of a cab, and was surprised at how much I actually liked it, reminding me a little of both San Francisco and Denver. The $8 cab got me to Seattle's shithole Greyhound terminal with 45-minutes to spare, and before I knew it I was nestling into a window seat on a nearly abandoned 1:15 bus and riding right back down I-5 toward Portland. I had honestly hoped that I would meet some interesting people, but all that was offered was another backpacker... with a demeanor that made me want to beat him. Rather than petty violence, I settled for my Mp3 player. Following stops in Tacoma and Olympia, I found myself back in Portland for a 90-minute service layover.

Portland felt much different from this vantage point! As I crossed the Willamette into the western section of downtown, I gazed at the river and laughed out loud at the realization that only a week ago, I was boating beneath this same bridge with Andre. Now, I was re-entering the city less a conquering vagabond- via the least glamorous mode of travel I could think of other than the back of a patrol car! It was quite odd! Despite my time there, this was the first I'd seen of the bus station, and was rather impressed: it was the Taj Mahal compared to Seattle! Clean. Modern. Didn't smell like pee. I considered calling some of my new friends while I was there, but it felt like overkill. What was we going to do with an hour? I settled for a short walk, a pack of cigarettes, and putting a charge on my phone. Leaving Portland on I-5 south took me within sight of the Oregon Yacht Club, and Andre's house. I hopped across the aisle to take one last look at the floating home, the Master Craft, and the spot that had held so much intensity the previous week. Believe it or not, it was more nostalgic than August when I retraced the route I had traveled in Idaho more than a year ago.

The sun sinks early out west, and soon enough I was sleeping the rest of the birthday away. Aside from a quick stop in Eugene, the rest of the night... and most of the trip to LA... was the standard Greyhound experience. We passed into California and I remember hearing an announcement for Redding but didn't bother to open my eyes, let alone get off the bus. Sacramento was my first transfer, early Sunday morning, and being spoiled by the empty vessel ended abruptly with this over packed Los Angeles express!

Central California is nothing to fawn over, however once you get near LA and begin crossing the mountains, it becomes quite gorgeous. The western side of the California mountains (the areas that will be swallowed by the Pacific) have always exceeded my curiously low expectations... with the exception of the Los Angeles cesspool. As we passed through Hollywood, I began to see familiar, iconic sights and signs... like the Capitol Records building and Melrose Place. Now, that's some culture!

The 3-hour Los Angeles layover was the part of this bus trip I was dreading! The last time I bused through LA, I was 14, and we had our luggage stolen from the downtown terminal. I naturally assumed (since it was Greyhound) that little had changed and we were headed back to the same spot. I was pleased when we bypassed downtown altogether and pulled into what can only be described as a "compound" on the south side of the city. The terminal is the most secure I have EVER seen, complete with cameras, fencing, razor wire, automated bus gates, and a security checkpoint that is closer to airports than Greyhound... which generally has NO security whatsoever. The LA station was quite nice after all!

The highlight of the ride same in San Diego and was a nice elixir for the mental upset I had experienced about ending this early. I finally got to meet my friend Amber. I had called after leaving LA, told her my bus was stopping for a short time, and that if she was free it would be great if she stopped in to the bus station so we could finally meet face-to-face. Amber happened to be downtown having dinner, and walked in shortly after the bus arrived. It was nice to see an actual face, and we quickly discussed possible, theoretical travel ideas down the road. I was curious to see if the vibe was the same in person as it had been via Couchsurfing and email. Indeed it was, and the possibilities of someday traveling with her seemed encouraging. San Diego and I seemed to agree with each other. It was one of the last cities that I hadn't seen, and wanted to. Although I didn't get a chance to explore, I liked what I saw and want to return. Soon!

Sunday ended on an interesting note in Calexico, California which, as you can no doubt guess by the name, is ON the Mexican border. I assumed we would get within a mile or two, but the stop was literally within sight and a stone's throw of the checkpoint. Looking for ways to entertain myself, I took a small amount of joy in that I had essentially gone ocean-to-ocean and border-to-border since April. This little side trip was also practical & useful because it was quite close to the Salton Sea, Niland, CA: Slab City. Chris and I have discussed The Slabs numerous times as a possible joint-destination over the winter and this gave me a chance to see the landscape first hand for the first time. I was also privy to numerous Border Patrol ID checks. Along I-8 and I-10 close to the border, Border Patrol would stop the bus, come aboard, and demand immigration papers/ID. They also pull random luggage from beneath the bus and let their dogs go to work. In addition, the highway was blanketed with Border Patrol SUVs shining spotlights into the desert hunting illegals. It was a bizarre experience, but in retrospect should have been expected.

Soon after Tucson finally came New Mexico, and Las Cruces for my final transfer and the last 200-miles up I-25 to Albuquerque. I slept the entire way, but only after learning my father was nearby in Alamagordo on vacation with his RV. I found it putridly ironic that someone I had never met before would meet up with me (Amber), but my own father wasn't approachable. It was a quick, bitter realization, but an important one. I believe that book finally closed for good when I came up with a new moniker for him: Ward. As in Cleaver. Daddy of the Year!

From Albuquerque, I caught the New Mexico Rail Runner commuter train for the last 60+ miles to Santa Fe. This was the first time I had ridden it and highly recommend it to anyone traveling from Albuquerque to Santa Fe. Greyhound had appeared to eliminate their stop in Santa Fe, but I was happy to wait the extra hour to take the train! We later discovered that the bus still stops here, but there are no schedules listed on their website. That's fine, maybe having to take the train to Albuquerque will keep me off Greyhound and out of Denver?

I finally arrived home at around 6:30pm on Monday, 52-hours and a world away from Seattle. What happens next was anyone's guess but along with quiet, yet frantic decompression, the preparation began almost immediately.

9/14/09: Portland Finale-Now What

From its beginning, Monday held a distinctly different feel; as if I were back in Santa Fe on that weekend before I pointed myself towards Devils Tower, trying to figure out how this next phase was going to look. However, the difference was also glaring: I had relinquished control and left things in Andre's hands. Cody was growing increasingly restless, despite Andre's constant demands to "stay present." He apparently didn't take into account that it is much more difficult when the "present" is constantly changing and the control of another, even if you are their dinghy! Andre had apparently underestimated the extent of what needed to be completed before departing for Vancouver. However, keep in mind that he wasn't preparing for a simple sailing trip. Included were the treatments in Vancouver, and a trip to England to undergo further, experimental procedures to deal with the brown recluse bite. As morning became afternoon, it was obvious that the possibility of an early evening departure had faded away. The details were never-ending, and he seemed to surrender late in the afternoon. After taking the boat out one last time to clean it's hull, followed by another short sight-seeing seeing tour, Andre set midnight as the new target.

And so it went. Cody had learned that, due to Andre's chat with her boss, Cody's mother had decided to accept his offer to fly her from Ontario to British Columbia, and join them on the sailboat. I thought this was beyond cool, and remember thinking that he had somehow married different aspects of his nature by giving Cody's mom the opportunity to eliminate excuses, AND taking further control of the situation by proactively taking her boss out of the equation himself. That was ballsy AND effective: Andre at his best. There were problems, however. The uncertainty surrounding our own departure made setting a time for hers difficult; coordination was needed in order to meet her. In addition, there were complications in purchasing an Air Canada ticket from the US. Andre curiously seemed mostly oblivious to all of this.

As for me, I was feeling like a ping pong ball. The idea of sailing in Vancouver was, surprisingly, not a big deal. I wanted to see Vancouver, definitely wanted to learn to sail, and loved the random nature of the trip. However, it seemed more and more to be checking something off of a list, rather than something I was supposed to do. Plus, considering Cody's situation with his mom, this seemed like it may be a good time to bow out gracefully, and let them have their time. I could take it or leave it, and considering the potential complications at the border? Well, I had a decision to make. My options were relatively simple. I could just continue on the path I was walking 4-short days ago: reuniting with US-30 toward Astoria. Or, I could take my chances getting into Canada. If that failed? Then, I'd be sitting in northwest Washington state somewhere near Bellingham, but this wasn't bad either. Chris had since arrived at his sister's place in Port Townsend, across Puget Sound from Seattle, so reaching Wendie's little haven would be relatively easy provided I could figure out the ferry system. I ran the idea past Chris via email, and they all seemed fine with it despite an appreciated warning from Chris that we would be sleeping in the yard, and a mysterious, tense "weirdness" on the ground in Port Townsend. Monday evening, I leaned toward going for the gusto. I really liked the idea of "going international," knew Vancouver was gorgeous, and perhaps a different setting, however unlikely, would allow Andre and I to further discuss things. If I was denied entry? Well then...fuck Canada, eh! It would be a good story...eh!

Shortly After midnight, Andre surprised me and decided to sit down for a chat that began with a surprising, brief analysis of ME for once! How ironic! Andre had many nice things to say about me, reiterating how he had been impressed with my compassion and adding descriptions like honesty, forthrightness, and one that stunned me because, to my recollection, I had never heard it applied to me before: noble. I was flattered, but a bit taken aback. It was not lost on me that the terms "honest" and "forthright" are double edged; easy to appreciate when their blades are not facing you! Yet, I also took his choice of adjectives as an indication of things he respected and appreciated. We would, obviously, see!

We then briefly revisited both of my proposals from Sunday, and discussed some of the logistical details and problems of the assistant position we had superficially discussed late Saturday. I was a bit surprised, but he seemed to be moving in a positive, yet pragmatic direction with it. Andre moved on to make a point to observe how he had liked an earlier comment of mine, "Portland seems to like me," saying it sounded genuine, and had a tone that resonated with him. It was genuine, I explained. I had always gotten a great vibe from Portland, and Oregon in general. If anyone would have told me that this visit would increase it ten-fold, I would have gone into hysterics. Yet, wonderful things happen here. I've meet tremendous people like Andre, Dave, Karen, Stacie, Bree, and others in Portland; there is an energy here that powerfully agrees with me. I laughed out loud as I realized, for the first time, that I had made more friends in Portland over the last 4-days than I have made in Santa Fe over 2 1/2 YEARS! When I expanded that to the previous month and hitching from Wyoming thru the Dakotas to Oregon? Well, it became a comical, yet fierce personal indictment of Santa Fe! I began to ask myself, again, "what the hell am I still doing in Santa Fe?" I'm a recluse whenever I'm there, having no further interest in "tuning in" to its special breed of pretension. There is most definitely "something about Santa Fe," as they like to say, but it's not what they would like you to believe! I've said it before numerous times, Portland and its inhabitants,on the other hand, seems to be much more genuine. Don't ever let them tell you that "everyplace is the same" or that "people are the same wherever you go." There are most certainly different personalities everywhere.

I tried as best I could to explain this to Andre, and he got it. Then, he began to suggest other possibilities for me--IN Portland-- naturally latching on to my radio background. When I emphatically explained that I had NO interest in re-entering the corporate-media cesspool, he added that he knew the owner of KBOO, one of the most renowned, public, progressive, radio stations in the country. And, one I had been introduced to at Dave's in 2008. I conceded that this may be something I'd be interested in, but not now. Andre was trying his best, but still could not completely understand this compelling need to continue what I'm doing...right now. "All who wander are not lost!" I repeated that I knew I was where I was supposed to be, and that any sort of "vocational opportunities" would need to be explored in that context; in conjunction- not as a replacement. I elaborated that I would, however, likely be very interested in a part time position at KBOO, if I were also working with him, and possibly learning more about his land development concept at the same time.

With that, the conversation returned to Vancouver. He wisely admitted that it was too late for him to make the drive all the way there this late; it would just have to wait until morning. He asked where I wanted to go, and I countered by asking what was on the table. Andre stunningly offered to drive me to Astoria if I liked, and when I mentioned Chris being in Port Townsend, he offered to drive me there as well! It would be a longer drive, but he would enjoy the route, being more scenic than I-5. Of course, he added, I was welcome to come along and try my luck at the border. I asked him if I could let him know in the morning, he said sure, and we were off to bed to get rested for what shaped up to be a pivotal Tuesday.

8/16/09: That Uppity Ego

Dennis has become a major catalyst for a sobering perspective shift and a stunning transition. This has been a vicious personal process, considering I knew him for five short hours 15-months ago. I often talk high-minded about “lessons,” and if there is a small positive that I may be able to take from this sad story of Dennis, maybe it’s the long- overdue, deep seeded acceptance of “give & take” and a significant reinforcement of the Big Two of 2009: “The Side Car” and “The Center of the Universe.” The last two weeks has also made me view the next few months much differently.

I have been forced to re-evaluate how I view myself and the connections I’ve made while traveling. I long ago stopped believing in random “coincidence,” and while I will not invoke the Celestine Prophecy and claim that every interaction is of some importance, oftentimes people arrive in your life, or you arrive in theirs, at just that right time. What is hard for the ego to grasp is that it is not always for you. But, it is the height of arrogance to assume that every person is a bit player in each of our own personal dramas; that “fate” has only our particular interests in mind: Center of the Universe. Yet, each of us periodically falls into this bear trap, and it is difficult to observe while in its jaws.

People much more articulate than I have written it, but it seems that sometimes we need to resign ourselves to servitude; the Brush rather than the Artisan. I have concluded that was my role with Dennis, but while I wrote at the time that I knew I was of some potential use to him, my primary focus was on the egoistic thought that, “Hey! Maybe I’m fucking right about all of this!” Pathetic, yet understandable. On the other hand, I could have done nothing to “save” him. The ultimate responsibility to reclaim his life and identity WAS his. Conveyed words and ideas are useless to he who is blind and deaf. Staying with him that night was pointless, and considering the vibe and his ultimate fate, out of the question. My instincts were solid; what else could I have done? Nothing. You can extend a hand to the man lying in the gutter but what if he refuses to pull himself up? We are always given the black and white metaphorical choice: Fate v. Freewill. Maybe Forest Gump had it right and it’s both. I am also rapidly coming to believe Rush’s notion that blaming venomous fate is victimist thinking. Fate can influence and provide us opportunity, but our decisions define us. Or, perhaps fate is influenced by our decisions? I’ll let someone else crawl into that paradox. My regret resides not in my actions, but in my ignorance as to its significance.

Days of thinking about all of this and a couple other events have caused me to step back, relax and, to borrow A.A.’s term, take a bit of an inventory. I have asked questions that have resulted in frightening and intimidating answers. Ones that require relinquishing a degree of control. I am not entirely sure at this point that I want, or even know how to accept that entirely. Then again, it’s too late to have any choice in the matter, isn’t it? That time has long past. Fighting it only prolongs and complicates the inevitable.

I have fought individual and collective battles with Uppity Egos over the months, and I believe I have begun to see where mine has been dragging me. It is also becoming clear where the good half of that duality has been not so gently nudging me with that oft-mentioned “irritation.” My purpose has little to do with developing technical schematics for the secrets of the universe. They are secret for a reason and it is laughable to think that I (or anyone) is that clever. Even if I were to come to conclusions and decided to share it, how would I then be any different from Mormon Missionaries? How would I be different from the Christians who trade charity only in exchange for the chance to impose their doctrine? I believe mine is a process of learning how to remain “awake,” or tuned- in while returning to 2008’s mindset of riding the wave; seeing what characters take the stage, but also with a keen focus on when I am playing the role of the bit player. Staying tapped into what Brian called Flow; the unseen but tangible energy of life that we can touch, feel, and use to guide us; the source of Joy. Those of you familiar with Joseph Campbell will probably recognize it as “Bliss.” For the record, I have yet to read or watch any of his material except for a few excerpts but here is one:

“But if a person has had the sense of the Call -- the feeling that there's an adventure for him -- and if he doesn't follow that, but remains in the society because it's safe and secure, then life dries up. And then he comes to that condition in late middle age: he's gotten to the top of the ladder, and found that it's against the wrong wall.

If you have the guts to follow the risk, however, life opens, opens, opens up all along the line. I'm not superstitious, but I do believe in spiritual magic, you might say. I feel that if one follows what I call one's "bliss" -- the thing that really gets you deep in your gut and that you feel is your life -- doors will open up. They do! They have in my life and they have in many lives that I know of.

…When you are at a certain age…and look back over your life, it seems to be almost as orderly as a composed novel. And just as in Dickens' novels, little accidental meetings and so forth turn out to be main features in the plot, so in your life. And what seem to have been mistakes at the time, turn out to be directive crises…

Life seems as though it were planned; and there is something in us that's causing what you hear of as being accident-prone: it's something in ourselves. There is a mystery here… Can anything happen to you for which you're not ready? I look back now on certain things that at the time seemed to be real disasters, but the results turned out to be the structuring of a really great aspect of my life and career. So what can you say?

And the other point is, if you follow your bliss, you'll have your bliss, whether you have money or not. If you follow money, you may lose money, and then you don't have even that. The secure way is really the insecure way and the way in which the richness of the quest accumulates is the right way.” –Joseph Campbell “An Open Life”

You will either sense a familiarity with that, or have no clue what the hell we’re talking about! It’s useless to attempt explaining it; you get it or you don’t, but it is the foundation of everything. It’s your “Voice.” The one that so many artists have tried to capture. Unfortunately, I don’t believe everyone is capable of acquiring that frequency or maybe they’re so lost in ego and corrupted identity that they simply can’t hear it. Many more can hear it, but have no idea what it is and are incapable of articulating it beyond a feeling. A “Splinter in the Mind.”

I am a Spiritual Anarchist. Each person’s beliefs are his or her own; to find on his or her own. That thing I term the Voice, Campbell calls Bliss, and some refer to as Consciousness, is not be dictated by, confused with, or confounded by any doctrine. I believe that was what I was trying to convey with the “Dragon Parable.” That basic, ancient concept of self-discovery IS the essence of spirituality and the Voice’s vocal cords. The “spirit” in spirituality refers to yours, and only you speak its language. It is tuning in to your sixth sense. The Voice, Frequency, Bliss, call it Broccoli if you want; terminology is meaningless. Snake and other Christians refer to it as a “calling.” Eastern religion describes it as God Within, using meditation (Sit Down & Shut Up?) to engage it and become that Sidecar. Of course, none of this philosophy is anything new. What are new is where it is taking me, and how the course has been altered.

It’s easy, when discovering something you think will help others, to become excited and want to give it away. Brian’s insight has resonated well: mirroring is the way to inspire people, by offering them the opportunity to quietly and privately inspire themselves thru introspection. In my opinion, “Peace Pilgrim” is a hypocritical nut job, and I do not buy her self-righteous claims about “finding total peace.” No one finds total peace, unless they’re named Buddha or Jesus, but there is one wonderful quote in her little pamphlet: “You cannot change anyone but yourself. After you have become an example, you can inspire others to change themselves.” I have noticed that at work several times from surprising sources when I have not spoken or written a word. It usually begins through a series of serious, heartfelt questions usually in an attempt to understand and fight fear. It’s remarkable and humbling, but I personally do not aspire to be The Great Sage of the West, nor some self- appointed Leader of Men. Beware of those assuming or preparing for that particular title. Our past is littered with these egomaniacs: Manson thought and convinced others that God put him on earth to lead following Helter Skelter. Hitler "knew the path" to domination for the Aryan Race. I am sure there are more than a couple “vacuum fillers” embedded in the various militias around the country waiting for the collapse. The best leaders do not have to campaign; they are just followed.

Looking Forward

Over the last week, I have decided to abandon the Seattle plan, and perhaps Oregon & California. Such is not my path. While Chris and I share many of the same beliefs, our focus now lie in significantly different directions. Over the past month, whenever I would discuss the plan to ride with Chris, Penney & Robert to Washington, I would notice that it was quickly followed by that same annoyance that’s been plaguing me in various degrees since New Jersey, and it had gotten more intense since Dennis. It became obvious that my path needs to be solo, and look more similar to 2008. The difference being that I have an acute awareness of the Ying & Yang of alternating roles, as well as taking the Big Two of 2009, and practicing them on a more consistent basis. It’s not hard to get back there. All I have to do is remember the people from the last 15-months: Snake, Will, Ciel, Pat, Nick, Ken, Cesar, Jo, Florian, Eric & Marine, Kim, Gus, Trent, Shelly, Steve, Brian, Dave, Inga, and more. These people and more have left significant traces.

Fear

Since Michigan, this is a topic I seem to be contemplating and discussing quite frequently. Fear is a never-ending fight and if we cower too often, it can cripple and make us a prisoner of our own mind.

I find it hilarious that people often tell me that they find me "courageous." Someone famous wrote, “None but a coward dares to boast that he has never known fear.” Well, I have known more than most! It has had a history of paralyzing me. I have made a mistake in not publishing the back-story from 2004- 2008, before Running with the Wind. I will correct that eventually, but it literally took me those 4- years to hit the road, primarily due to fear. The “what ifs” consumed me. I was never prepared enough, never had the right equipment, or the destination was not right because too much “might happen.” Much of that was due to a lack of confidence, a major source of fear. In the weeks leading up to my departure in May 2008 I repeatedly shredded myself in my journal about the fact that I KNEW I was an obvious coward with nothing but big talk and bigger ideas, and I was sick of feeling powerless to do anything about it. This is from April 20, 2008, exactly one month before I began this little adventure:

“Same old story. I thrive when it’s concept and planning but when it comes time to execute [and] put my ass on the line I hesitate, procrastinate, and try to avoid the hard fought experience I need to answer questions, identify weaknesses and conquer my pathetic fears. Fear doesn’t reside in the heart of the adversary or [in the] prospect of failure; it resides in the heart of the coward… In many ways, I am indeed a coward. How else can I identify or define it? That’s the hard truth, but I hold out hope that I’ll still be able to change that…. I’m obviously afraid to find and redefine these old boundaries and [create] new ones…. I can ‘pontificate’ to the end of the world, but it’s... simple. I’m a coward. I’m only dipping my little toe into the ocean of ideas I’ve created. It’s as though I’ve built a bridge and am afraid to cross it on my own., waiting for someone else to try it out because I’m not sure I trust my own craftsmanship… While it helps to explain the “whys” and the details of these fears, let’s not lose sight of what it really is. Call it by its real name: Cowardice… From here on, I won’t be delicate about that, and need to be conscious of attacking these things in whatever way I can... This phase is about attacking fears. Cowardice. I don’t like using that term: Coward. Yet I believe it’s an important admission… Admitting to fear, something common to all of us, is somehow gentle, and open to rationalization and easy acceptance of failings. Cowardice, however, is a character flaw. Unforgivable for a man who’s critical of the status quo and systemic life.”

Fear is a motherfucker because it is a terrifying, loud ghost. It’s usually not based on anything tangible in the moment; danger in the moment is confronted with action and instinct. Either fear is rooted in the future (what if) or on the past (what was). I decided to post this self-loathing little entry as an example because, with the benefit of hindsight and experience, I see how silly it was. I was in the business of creating my own worst- case scenarios. “What if” was the phrase most commonly running through my mind. Luckily, I was able to remember the effects of this toxic thinking after I left and this helped combat the nagging fears that remained present, but steadily and quickly faded as time went by. The “Vern Moment” in Wyoming was a watershed because, once through it, I was finally able to laugh at these previously terrifying fears.

“The ability to feel fear and keep moving forward distinguishes the living from the merely breathing.” is one of my favorite quotes. You will never completely eliminate fear, but you have a choice of how to handle it. Be crippled by irrational fears and be the equivalent of a brain in the vat, or confront them. In my experience, the more you confront them, the more confidence you gain from the realization that they usually are based on… nothing. A good starting point: Ask yourself, “What would I do if I were not afraid?”

An important distinction is the difference between irrational fear and hubris. If you put yourself in ridiculously dangerous situations, for which you are ill- prepared and do not know it, you deserve your fate. Find your boundaries and know your limitations. Chris McCandless of Into the Wild fame has attained cult status amongst many misguided hippie- youth because they believe he died “nobly” living his ideals. Horseshit. He starved to death, and stupidly. The kid thought that he could commune with nature, despite the fact that he had grossly inadequate skills to survive in Alaska.

There was a similar story just this past month in Colorado. He set off into the back-country, eventually mailed much of his gear home, and then quit receiving his supplies. They found his body near Lake City in July, after spending the winter buried beneath 20’ of snow. They found him next to a cabin that may have saved his life, but was unable to get inside because he was ill- equipped. Like McCandless, this person had noble ideals but was either arrogant, or "inadequately common sensed." This hiker was, by all accounts, highly intelligent, had well- developed ideas and kept a meticulous journal. However, he failed to protect it, so not only was HE lost… so was his essence. In the end, what did he die for? To become an anecdote?

Some fear is good; the kind that occasionally protects you from yourself and prevents you from stumbling into legitimately dangerous situations. A little courage coupled with a cup of common sense and a dash of realistic humility will take one a long way.

7/12-7-31/09: Santa Fe Interlude

In 2008, my “interludes” while traveling did not go perfectly. They generally degenerated, after a few calm days, into impatience and a mad searching for signs & answers as to what step is next. This year has been different. My visit home in May was quite nice, and the rest of July continued that theme.

Once off the bus and in the apartment, I literally exhaled and collapsed from mental exhaustion. I proceeded to sleep and do little else for the better part of the first week. Chris and I had left our futures open-ended, and didn’t communicate at all that first week as he settled into whatever Denver held for him, and I basked in the old routines and familiar surroundings hoping to do a bit of a study of what had changed from a familiar perch. Perspective is a constant battle.

The first thing I noticed was that I was in no way clear that I wanted to return to the road anytime soon, if at all. I had told Laina and Chris that, on some level I was afraid that confronting my age-old demons in Michigan would leave me motivationally impotent after being the frustration-fuel for so long. I had attacked this peculiar, inwardly directed anger and seemingly neutralized it, but was afraid complacency would now take its place. Someone asked me once what motivated me to “succeed.” I was surprised myself to learn that it was indeed this anger and my healthy ego needing to “show people” something. Externalization and adapting an identity-through-praise; pure, unadulterated ego and an attempt to fill a cavernous, festering sore with someone else's skin. No wonder it was infected.

The end of this cycle was when I hit a mental rock bottom in 2004, which led to meeting Chris via his website. These two events directly connect; it was the first time I seriously considered jumping into a backpack and setting off to eliminate life’s fat in an effort to see what was truly necessary; what was real. It was also around the same time I began to take Thoreau seriously, which then led me to Gandhi’s ideas on unfiltered truth. Authenticity. I wondered now what that pursuit meant, and whether it still involved backpacking around the country and beyond. I could not answer that, but I knew in my core that something had at least fundamentally changed as to the method and purpose.

Laina and I went camping, of all things, the first weekend I was here and once on the road had a great time driving toward Pecos Canyon and sitting around the little fire drinking beer. It was the most relaxed I could remember being in a very long time, and we chatted about all sorts of things past and future. It was the perfect escape even though it was only for one beautiful, calm night. I had also had an odd conversation with Chris that Saturday afternoon. He had seemed quite lost, not exactly sure what he was doing in Denver, and I was of little help. We had truly disconnected and were on our own little quests where neither could help the other. I was quite sure he would figure it out soon enough, and it took about two days until he was happily announcing a regained energy and focus.

Over the next couple of weeks, things began to sort themselves out. After the events of June slowly but surely began to make their way to the appropriate places in the recesses of my mind, I began to notice a tangible difference in my thinking. With a gentle nudge from Shelly, I began using my father’s last name; changing it on Facebook and various email accounts as a way of getting other people (and myself) used to it. Essentially, that is the name I use now and will complete the legal paperwork soon. That was a rather bold step for me, considering that I have been quite the thorn in the saddle of some people over the past couple of months. I have no idea how Pam and Kim have reacted to it, still not hearing from either since April. Right or wrong, on some level I kind of hope it stings as a reminder every time they see it. I also began one final blog transfer, although to date it is still not ready for full activation. I have been delaying while trying to decide rather or not to begin an actual full-blown website. In all likelihood, this will happen, in URL at least. This will be the third and final one. I like the procession of the three, from Running with the Wind, to Te Nosce (Know Thyself), to this new one.

I also began to find myself keenly annoyed when I occasionally would find myself looking backwards, beyond May 20, 2008. My focus is now forward, and integrating what I had learned over the last 15-months into whatever is to come. This would turn out to be some massive, unknown foreshadowing, and was quite astounding for a man historically haunted by ghosts. Not even real ghosts as it turned out but of course, those fabricated by victimist-thinking, creating little make-believe scenarios, and then letting them become a framework for an outlook on life and identity. Pathetic? Yes. The annoyance stemmed from just REALIZING how fucking pathetic and misguided it really was. This is obviously an important conclusion, but it also opens up what could be Pandora’s Box. Inside the box: "What is next? Have the travels of the last year and the visions of future adventures sprouted from within this rusted, rotting framework?" Tough questions to ask, but they obviously needed to be. I was afraid that this was the source of the misgivings about setting out again.

Chris and I had a good conversation around the 25th where we candidly discussed the future and what it was each of us was hoping to do. I did not let on about my questions, and thankfully so because things were rapidly changing. He had begun making a ton of progress bouncing around Denver, having several discussions with Robert, the Post-Apocalypse class teacher I had met in March, about a pseudo plan that was developing. This “plan” entailed riding with them to San Francisco then Seattle on what sounded like a bit of a boat scavenger hunt. Yes. A boat. Penny (Robert’s girlfriend) and Robert had made plans to quit their jobs, hop in their veggie powered, self-contained blacksmithing van, and head toward the Northwest, presumably to seek out like-minded people and begin unplugging from what is viewed a steadily collapsing system. A system that at the same time is clearly closing in on all sides. The boat? A sailboat that would eventually be capable of sailing at least to Central and South America, and at most crosses oceans. The trip to San Francisco would be to network with friends-of-friends who would “be more than happy to teach us to sail it.” This conversation shot my energy level through the roof and we quickly found ourselves scheming ways to re-connect in August heading toward Wendie’s place on the Olympic Peninsula in Washington State, perhaps via the Bay Area. It slowly became apparent that perhaps I’d had enough of wandering for wandering’s sake. Now maybe it was time to get busy building something. Building what? Well, THAT IS for another post. Sorry Steve-O!

After this conversation, things seemed back to normal and we tentatively set August 4th as a date that would see him depart Denver for his “week alone in the mountains.” In the interim, we could discuss ways to meet somewhere. Somewhere like Boise, and Lynn’s place? Penny and Robert’s ideas triggered further discussions about my friend Amber in San Diego. She has continuously suggested that she “may” be interested in joining us if /when we venture into Mexico, or further. She holds dual citizenship, speaks fluent Spanish, has WWOOF-ing experience in Italy, and would be a huge help to a vagabonding troupe of gringos speaking next to no Spanish! Amber’s trouble is her family, and the fact that she is 21. No problem for me, since she does not act like a ditz, but she has traditionally been torn between going to school and living her life. Her family is also Hispanic, so there is a pressure to remain close to family. A pressure that Whitey does not always comprehend. This sent us on wild conversations about possibly meeting Penny and Robert in places like Moab, Flagstaff, Taos, or anywhere else, that may put the four of us on course toward San Diego.

Toward the end of the month, these “plans” began to get a bit more complicated due to the simple and obvious fact that we are four people who hate making plans. The obvious question then is how do four people in three different places (Penny and Robert are bound for S. New Mexico 8/9) connect… without plans?

Are you seeing a lack of cohesiveness here?

Friends, this is the aforementioned “Limbo” and a good example of your author’s feeble attempts to manipulate the fates; forgetting…again…the all too familiar reminder to, all together now, SIT DOWN & SHUT UP!

On August 1, 2009, your humble scribe would be grabbed tightly by the metaphorical throat and slammed into his seat, complete with duct tape around the mouth and wrist to force further introspection that is more genuine and a long overdue--but now possible--evaluation of purpose and ego. What will follow is for me easily the saddest and most dramatic event to date, including 2008. You folks in Denver and Colorado will take a keen interest in this when it's finally posted.


I did it to you twice Steve. In radio, they call these teases! In Te Noscestan, we call it preventing an overload.

4/2-4/9/09: Santa Fe Staging

Chris had a grand time getting from what turned out to be Security, CO thru Pueblo and about half way to Walsenburg. Rather than rehash all the details, I figure you can check out The Friary and get his accounts first hand. I spent my time, as he put it, jealously geeking out on his progress.

As Saturday the 4th arrived, I received a message from a Couchsurfer who was in Santa Fe and looking for either a couch, or possibly a ride toward Denver. I agreed to meet Josiah at a Starbucks to see if he may be interested in riding toward Pueblo where I could drop him off, and also pick Chris up to ensure that he was here for his Tuesday appointment, and so that we could start laying the foundation for our joint departure. Impatience... ahhh.

Josiah is a short, skinny, early 20-ish looking hipster type from California, who is in fact nearing 30 and is paranoid about “chemtrails”. His plan was to get to Denver, then Salt Lake City, Portland, then a return to Cali. He was one of the cleanest vagabonds I have seen, which led me to believe that, despite the fact that he claimed the term "nomad", he was in fact a trust fund kid who slept more often in hotels than in fields--as he had the night before in Albuquerque. For whatever reason, he was also traveling with a bike, and a brand new Mac laptop, which he could not keep his attention from while I was there.

My primary concern was that Josiah would be the stereotypical hippie douche and fortunately, he was not, though he did talk with that annoying upward inflection at the end of every sentence! “The chemtrails are THERE to make the population docILE!” Between the bike and his concern about being dropped in an unfamiliar area, taking him with me was unrealistic.

Laina and I left Santa Fe for Colorado City, CO at about 6:45, figuring it would take about 4-hours to get there, grab Chris, and then another 4-hours back. I ran into a 66-year old bike tourist while gassing up who is “riding for our troops” and said that he was stopping to "avoid a coming snowstorm" that I had heard nothing about. It was a beautiful, albeit cold evening so I figured he was mistaken. By Raton, I discovered that he was far from it; it began to snow like crazy! Thankfully, Raton Pass was fine, but the next 70-miles to Colorado City was rather hairy with near whiteout conditions almost the rest of the way to Chris’s exit.

I found Chris at the Diamond station as planned, and saw him editing his hand- out cards as we walked in. He looked windblown and loaded down, with his snowshoes hanging off the now- his Kelty. He looked like quite the adventurer! We coffeed/gassed up, then drove off toward New Mexico. The weather thankfully had lightened and he and I chatted while Laina sacked out in the back. Over the next few days, we wrapped up our dental obligations, made several trips to REI, chatted, watched movies, had two gluttonous “last meals”, and welcomed Shalain’s parents in from Michigan for her birthday.

As the week progressed to Thursday, we had set a tentative (always tentative!) plan to leave on Saturday via train or bus toward Tucumcari, Amarillo, or possibly even La Junta or Lamar, CO. There was no clear vision of which way to go, but traveling old Route 66 seemed like a neat beginning, and Oklahoma has an odd draw for both of us. Thursday thru Sunday, however, would prove to be yet another lesson in the folly of planning!