9/16/09: Port Townsend- Insights & Cliches

Wednesday's plan was to vacate Wendie's place so Daniel could work without being distracted by us. Chris was working with Wendie's non-profit, and part of his appointed/assumed duties were to post fliers off at various businesses around Port Townsend. This was perfect. He and I could spend the day touring the town, and in the process do what we do best: jabber.

We were up, out of the bivies, and walking in typical Pacific Northwest weather pretty early. Almost immediately I noticed that the pinching in my left Achilles still hadn't gone away, and was quickly getting worse. I had felt something similar while walking through the Marin Headlands north of San Francisco last summer, but that had involved carrying 55-pounds up-and-down steep trails. This was different. I was carrying nothing, and it had been lingering since my walk into La Grande the week before. I had felt nothing the entire weekend at Andre's, but had not been wearing the new boots either. Soon after I put them on and started up a hill, pow! I had naturally assumed that it was due to the boots being new, and with time, it would go away. Either that, or I had a peculiar case of temperamental tendinitis. Regardless, I figured I would man-up and deal with it.

Chris and I meandered rather lazily around Port Townsend most of the day. There was no hurry of course, and our conversations were quite productive. Chris is great for unique insights and while sitting on the Sound, he pointed out that the Andre experience reminded him of a test. Being tempted with sacrificing my chosen course for some sort of material reward. I hadn't even considered it, but it made a degree of sense. The conflict of how I was going to present Portland 2009 was already agitating my mind; was I going to sugar coat everything in some hope that I would benefit later on? The instinctual answer seemed obvious, but was far from it in practice...as you've already read.

I both needed and appreciated the feedback, and was reminded of how we got to where we were. Then, through the day and periodically throughout the course of my stay in Port Townsend, Chris and I reflected back over the past 5-months and gushed at how things had both gone according to our rough "plan" and looked nothing like it at the same time! We marveled at how the actual experience had by far exceeded even our highest expectations. Everything from the Veggie Bus, to Massachusetts, Michigan, Devils Tower, to Leslie. Everything from Carthage through North Dakota all the way through Montana to Lynette's in Boise had exceeded my wildest visions and, after all this, I was coming off what I knew was something on par with Dennis and likely the most powerful experience to date. As the reality set in, I was literally humbled and becoming a bit overwhelmed at the same time. All of this, from walking out the front door? Wow.

The Achilles became progressively worse as the day wore on, and it quickly became clear that I had a potential problem. I had intended my stay in Port Townsend to be a quick one, and had discussed with Wendie riding down 101 with her to Port Angeles either Thursday or Friday. From there I could use public transit to get as far as Forks. This would put me close to the Pacific Ocean, where I would camp for a day or three, spending my birthday there. However, the heel posed a problem. Remember, it's illegal to hitch in Washington. That would mean there was a possibility I would have to walk the short, but now-painful distance to either Cape Alava or Cape Flattery (the northwestern most point of the lower 48). Then, what if the heel refused to improve? Limp the entire Washington coast to Oregon? Yes, this tendon was causing me ill-timed grief. I checked Port Townsend's local outdoor stores to see if they may have some clue as to what would cause such an odd problem, but they knew nothing other than that they'd earn a commission if I bought their boots. What was obvious was that the heel needed rest and the boots needed more break-in time to isolate the problem. When Chris and I returned to Wendie's, the pinch immediately vanished as soon as I removed the boot. This was going to be tricky.

The day was eventful for Chris as well. When on a whim he decided to ask about a temporary job at a coffee shop, I suggested the tactic that to date had NEVER worked for me, but made sense: explain what you're doing and offer to fill the position until they found permanent help. The girl behind the counter suggested he take an application home, and return it early the next morning when the owner was in. Those seemingly "random" events again.

Once back at Wendie's, we had dinner and just hung out before retiring to the bivies and chatting some more rather early. Chris had to get back to the coffee shop early, and besides, he had fallen into a nice routine. I told Wendie that I may indeed take the ride to Port Angeles on Friday if it was OK, but wanted to have another day to test the Achilles and think through other options, just in case.

Overall, despite its beautiful setting I wasn't impressed with Port Townsend at all and was over it after a half-hour. It had its charms, but to me had the telltale smells of a white-bread Santa Fe or Taos with white-bread architecture, and the same foul breed of Progressive, Stealth Capitalists that pollute Taos's Plaza and litter Santa Fe's Canyon Rd. All condemning Capitalism while hocking their special brand of overpriced, "Alternative Spiritual Artistry" to doe-eyed, naive tourists with too much money to spend. And, everywhere in Port Townsend were generic Hippie status symbols, like VW buses and other worn out, cliche' proclamations that "Here's yet another Hippie Expressing their Individuality!" Just like the rest of the herd:

7/30- 8/1/08: Denver V-Ideological Puppets

Wednesday thru Friday was all pretty much the same. Up and to work at 8:00, chatting between jobs with Eric about society etc., then going home to sleep, then chatting with Chris, or just playing Risk until 2am. We each noted that it was rare these days that people would rather prefer human contact and conversation to sitting in front of a television, computer, or video game. We wondered aloud if this was similar to the time before the mass media invasion when people would sit on their porches and chat with neighbors, or something akin to the old folks you used to see just chatting in the café.

Chris and I came to the conclusion that we would rather hang out at The Friary and chat rather than sit at the bar, burn through money…and chat. We can do that at home, spend nothing, and avoid the inevitable hangovers. Over the years, these conversations were what I was ultimately looking for when I drank; intellectual exercise and a need to exchange ideas rather than mental masturbation! (yes, I like that term)

There were a couple notable events, especially on Thursday. A familiar event and one I am not proud of because, by then, it was not unexpected. It was a replay of the incident at King Soopers, but this time on the 16^th Street Mall downtown. We had walked down to Barnes & Noble so I could get a re-fill for my written journal, and guess who was ‘activisting’ at the door. Yep. Greenpeace. Same hippie uniform. Same billboard posing as her T- shirt.

I saw her a mile away, sizing us up to see if we were promising targets, and when she took her first step toward us, I said “Don’t even bother!”, in a rather threatening tone. She stopped dead in her tracks, and gave me the same line Hippie McDouche had given: “Wellll, you have a nice dayyyy.” I rather loudly told her to ‘Fuck off’, much to Chris’s dismay!

I got my refill and began feeling bad about this one. It was not her I was yelling at; it was the invisible hand pulling the marionette strings. I still needed to figure out how to deal with this, but remorse was a good start.

Chris and I chatted about this stuff on the way home and it became apparent to me that he was indeed correct a few days earlier. I indeed am much more focused. I now have a much clearer sense of what I thought was wrong with society: the illusion of choice in politics, and these little doe-eyed liberal pawns thinking that they are really making a difference. When I see them, I now have neither tolerance nor interest in accommodating the social tumors.

The problem for me is that these ‘pawns’ are not the problem at all and can be forgiven in that at least they think they are doing the right thing. The real source of my rage is sits higher: the Agenda Architects on BOTH sides, who hitch their wagons to an ideological horse, then use these naïve, idealist- mules to haul whatever ‘intellectual’ garbage their selling…for profit. The young deserve patience for not knowing any better, thus my newfound remorse. The puppet masters, however, deserve every ounce of venom that can be mustered, especially if they were once the young, naïve mule! These Stealth Capitalists (see Santa Fe post) are in no way authentically ‘progressive’, and no more noble than Pat Robertson or Focus on the (or for me, your own damn) Family. If they advertise themselves as ‘activists’, yet have highly paid CEO’s and lawyers on the payroll, they’re simple hypocrites only different from the extreme right Social Fascist in packaging: Pepsi or Coke. It is still agenda pedaling, and exploiting/profiting on the idealistic; selling an intensely marketed product: ideas. I’ve worked for a couple of these organizations, only for a couple hours each after answering the ads reading “Work for social change!” That was a significant step in me leaving Camp Liberal; these ‘activists’ reminded me of the sales- cults I’d been exposed to in radio.

This is particularly personal to me because of my exposure to a few of the left elites. I’ve been briefly invited inside their little circle; at least long enough to sniff around, gather some firsthand information and experience, and learn some of the tactics used to disguise this new capitalism. It never set well with me that these elites preached Nuevo Liberalism while living in opulent homes, driving the same SUVs, and consuming the same products, with the same voracity, as I imagine William Randolph Hearst had. The Left love to build monuments to themselves, their ‘Hearst Castles’ too. Are you listening Al Gore?

What you have just experienced was, for all intents and purposes, my entire week! I was concerned while on the road about my perceived lack of the socially/politically-based anger you have just witnessed, and to which I have grown so accustomed. This week, I reintroduced myself to it. With a new ferocity and specificity. It would seem that the lack of the frustration on the road stems from the fact that I wasn’t plugged into The Matrix; existing outside on the fringes as a simple spectator. 

When I returned, that disconnection and discomfort I have written about was my mind telling me “NO!” I'd had a 5- week furlough and now I was back in the mental and spiritual prison.

Friday I wrapped up the week working with Eric, got paid, and decided to work a couple days next week to raise more money, and to continue to process some things. Chris had a date Friday night, and I had a rather enjoyable evening writing all night.

Quite an interesting week, and Saturday would be almost as interesting AND enlightening. A true test for the new epistemology was coming out of nowhere!