Hello Everyone,
I guess everything that needs getting done has been done. We had my father's funeral and burial. We've notified who needs notification, though I sometimes forget I recieved that memo, and reality's whip comes a swingin', and with each crack of that whip it all seems more real.
I've probably spent about three hours on the road this week, a far cry from the 100 plus hours I spent on the bus the two previous weeks. However, the speed at which everything happened this week has to rival that of the speed of light. Ah, relativity...
My mom handed me the keys on Monday, to drive us all to the funeral home to make the plans and such. I thought I would be strong for them and allow them to grieve on the drive. I was prepared for a long tough drive. We pulled out of the driveway. We traveled about 100 feet and turned, then another 50 feet, and I turned right. During that mighty and grueling 3rd minute of the drive my mother and sisters sang loudly and in unison, "turn left! turn left!" The funeral home was less than a quarter mile from home. We got out of the car and I could see the top my parents house. But I was ready for that 4th minute, that 5th minute...ad infinitum. The next day, I took the keys and drove mom and the sisters to the flower shop. Everyone piled in the car. I, once again, manned up for the drive. We turned left out of our neighborhood. We drove for a few minutes, long enough for me to ponder cruise control, when the same choral group sang, "right here! right here!" 6, 7 minutes tops, but at least I couldn't see the house from there. We went to the church, to plan the funeral service. 15 minutes, tops. It all started to feel so convenient. Except for the time in between traveling, where the clock taunts you with antagonizing tics for what seems a thousand years apart. The longest drive was to the cemetery, which was the Fort Sam Houston National Cemetery in San Antonio proper. We piled in the car for that one, too. There was no singing, however, no rhythm. All was was very quiet and sounded like it came out of a tin can. The drive lasted about an hour, and the closer we got to the cemetery, the further I wanted it to be. Time. Slowed. Down.
Time is a joke. It sped, slowed, stopped and became flat out non-existent at times this week, bringing about the purest circumstance of surreality. I feel exausted, as if far from the end of a long journey. And, I haven't traveled in any direction a distance worthy of any notation. But a lot of other people did, though. My dad's brothers and sister, many dear old friends, many church members, they all came. And, many old retired, and still active, railroad workers filled the pews. My father worked over thirty years for the railroad, retired from it, and I've never encountered a group of men more loyal to each other. It really touched my heart. These men share a kinship due to, at least what I think, working one of the last true American jobs in the country: hauling freight across the country on the rails. You could tell who they were. Their wonderfully worn denim jeans, pearl snap shirts, scuffed boots trumped the silkiest of ties and tailored suits. They had gray hair and beards, or no hair and beards. They're all just about deaf, they've all had a hip, knee, or some kind of operation and about 49 out of every 50 of them would set off an airport metal detector even if they walked through it stark naked. But, no matter what, they showed up. Most stayed for the reception afterwards, too, and they all had the solemn look on there face as if funerals are getting very familiar.
The funeral was beautiful, there is no other word. We all agreed that it didn't look like my father in that casket, but that was ok, because that was just his body. You turn around and you saw his life in those pews. So many people came to pay their respects. I hear "pay respects" differently now. I started to when person after person came up to my mom and me and my sisters, hugged us and told us they loved him, will miss him, they love us, and "if there's anything I can do just...". They all meant it or they're all liars and I doubt the latter, we were in a church after all. I saw the true nature and shape of my father in all those people, their embraces and their wet eyes. Again, beautiful is the only word.
Maybe glorious is a good word for it, too. Glorious has religious connotations and I am from a devout Christian family. Did I say devout? I, on the other hand, some may even suspect, the left hand, have concerns when it comes to religion. They all seem so detailed. I believe, many times the message is lost in those details. I believe man has hugged, accepted, shunned, banished, beaten, murdered because of acute attention to detail. I believe entire countries have gone to war and entire peoples have been eliminated due to a matter of detail. I believe, today, many young men and women - amputated from their families - are dying due to a misguided and deceptive interpretation of those details. I do not mean to offend anyone, this is only my opinion. However, it is my blog, and the red flags go up when I see any group hell bent on the details, pardon the expression. We are all different, therefore the details, by nature, cannot be perfectly the same. But we can look into people's eyes and tell if they are joined in the search. We can, details aside, look into them and then tell if they are headed to the same destination, whatever that destination may be. And that's ok. No, really, it is. More so, I can look at you, and understand that we're of the same substance, or we are the same even, I am you and you are me, and if I have that understanding I would never want to hurt you. Sounds to me like a very shiny rule...possibly golden.
I like to think - believe me, I do, and my friends and family will be more than happy to tell you I do - that we are all sparks from the same fire, floating through the cosmos. Usually, we have our backs to the fire, but every now and then, the cosmic wind spins us around and we get to see that fire, fully. We see it with a clarity that words fail to describe, and, just when we know we're looking at it, that wind comes a blowin', and we're looking away before we know it. But, we search for it passionately. We have faith, we will see it again. I believe that artistry is one's impassioned effort to interpret IT, or as I also like to say, the big IS. Here we are, a bunch of little "i's" trying to paint, write out, or sculpt the big IS. How honorable.
But the big IS can be found in all actions, can't it? My dad loved airplanes and was proud to be an engineer on a freight train. I believe he was on the search. And, I now believe he is at home in the big IS. My dad called it heaven. My mom calls it heaven. She still has hope for me.
Like I said earlier, my dad was buried at Fort Sam Houston National Cemetery. He recieved military honors, for he served in the Air Force, was a Veteran and served in Viet Nam and other parts of the world. Let me tell you, if you have an eagle tattooed to your chest or if you've jumped off the diving board in the waters far off to the left like I have, a military burial is a something else to be a part of. The sound of the rifles go right through you and just try not to cry when they hand that folded flag to your mother. We went to the gravesight this afternoon. You can see the planes fly overhead. Off in the distance, you can hear the moans of the freight trains that my dad once operated. I felt ok. And, as we headed to the car, I saw many other people overlooking many other tombstones. I saw a million little details but really the same thing, people remembering those who so gracefully joined them on their journey, if just for a little while.
Take it easy or don't take it at all....
Todd
Saturday, December 18, 2010
Monday, December 13, 2010
The Trip is Forever and Yes, Virginia, there is a George, WA.
Hello Everyone,
I had taken so many notes for this posting. My eyes seemed to be open wider, and I was seeing more. I felt tuned in, on the beam. Little ideas and quotes scribbled on my ticket, a brochure, and my notebook that I carry with me were sure to make this post a monumental comment on America, supported by its own gravitas, and of course, my brilliance, without one iota of self-indulgence or pretention.
I noted I could still hear the echo of my good friend Milena's wooden heels giving a melody to the wonderful talk of peace and of walking the true path we had the night before, as I walked to the bus station in Seattle. I noted how I was going to give a great shout out to The Green Tortoise Hostel in downtown Seattle. Its right by the market on the sound, really friendly people and wonderful cheap digs. I noted the fact that, as we waited in line at the bus' door, the black guy in front of me was ID'd and I wasn't. Hmm....must a been because of my winning grin that says "I'm just as harmless as a kitten, sugar."
I noted how the road leading through Snoqualmie Pass makes a person feel only a little tiny component in the universe. That, although man had grown quite creative when it comes to destroying mountains, through blasting them down for interstates or, hey, how about that fancy mountain top clearing the coal industry is just itching to do more of, the mountains of the Snoqualmie Pass won in the battle with man. The road obediently twists and turns around the giant mountains, and zillions of giant pines have run out to the road to watch the traffic go by. It is a stretch of true nature, for it makes us feel a part of nature, not its ruler. Those mountains told man where to go. I was gonna say that the mountains, mother nature, still tells us what to do, but we just have so many other things to listen to, these days. The world's too loud for tree talkin', and anyway, isn't that a bit absurd?
Hmm, what else....I noted that after the Snoqualmie Pass in the state of Washington - where, yes, there happens to be a town named George - the bus driver drove us headlong into a dream. A snow storm that painted the world white. Only the brush that struggled to pop out from under the white blanket and a faithful barbed wire fence told us that the world was still there. For hours, we traveled. Other humans who sped by our 35 mph pace we met again, further down the road, their cars mangled, up hills, through the fence, broken down and upside down. Mother nature won again. I scribbled really profound things down. I felt the muse and I was musing.
I was scribbling so much about this, or that, that I finally had to put the pen down, for it is only in the watching and listening that anything worth writing is born. I found myself looking for things to comment on, instead of seeing what there was to comment on, and in my never absurd but sometimes draconian code of artistic ethics, that is a sin unforgivable. So I settled in, leaned my seat back and stared out the window. I would be brilliant when the time to be brilliant arrived. I stared at the window and watched the world grow whiter in the gathering darkness. I nodded here and there, and maybe even dreamt of my brilliance...but only once.
Just into Montana, we stopped to change drivers and to refuel. Everyone has to get off the bus when it is refueled (can you imagine the lawsuits if....?). I got my thirtieth cup of coffee that day at the pocket of civilization that was the conveniece store. My phone regained a signal. I noticed that I had recieved several messages in a relatively short matter of time. Right then I started feeling the indescribable feeling in my gut. I didn't check the messages, I was scared, and I am being honest about that. Somehow, what was in those messages wouldn't be real if I didn't answer them. But I am a 35 year old man, dammit, so I checked the last text, which was from my one of my sisters, telling me to call home..."please". Like I said, I am a 35 year old man, dammit, and I made the call.
My mom told me we lost my dad, that he had passed away. I heard that news in St. Regis, Montana, a town I'd never heard of and now will never forget. The snow storm had worsened, but I told my mom I'd get home as soon as possible. At 35 miles an hour. As we reboarded, the flood of a million moments with my dad where I could've said and done things differently raged on.
It would take 8 hours before we reached Billings, Montana, where the nearest airport was that was still flying planes out. I have to give a shout out to the very compassionate bus driver, who radioed for the info. He gives humans a good name. It was around midnight, and it was dark enough for a 35 year old man, dammit, to cry and feel what is necessary to feel, which is sadness, deep sadness, and guilt over that flood. I also felt a deep selfishness, which I'm not proud of, but it was definitely there. I sat with it and didn't put any armor on, at least I think I didn't. I'll be the first to tell you I'm in shock, but I feel that I am feeling. I felt the magnifying glass move away from me and I felt my honest size and weight and nothing really mattered anymore. Anything that was so important before St. Regis was absolutely nothing. I was about to disappear when Billings came into view in the light of dawn. I hopped a cab to the airport and caught a plane to San Antonio.
Its been a day of phone calls, visits, a meeting at the church, where he attended so faithfully. Its been a day of explaining it over and over and the thought of explaining it again gets too big for the brain to hold. Its been a day at the funeral parlor. Its been absurd attention to the smallest of details. I never picked a tie out for my dad while he was alive. And I've never thought of "what he would have wanted" and that hurts. Its been a day of checking off lists and relief of another task done but when we're through the fact that my dad's gone rushes in and stirs up all the shoulds and what if's that lead directly to a padded room and spoon fed meals. Its been one hell of a tough day. And, when there's absolutely nothing to do, I can beg to get back the last five minutes that I spent with him, at the bus station. If I could just tweak them, edit them, if I could just get them perfect. Then, there is the five minutes before those five minutes, then the five minutes before those...
But you know about these days, don't you? I'm willing to bet that a healthy percentage of you does. And, I'm willing to bet that the rest of you will see a day or two like this one has been for me. In a "normal" world, and I say that knowing no one normal, the day when we are to mourn a loved one is inescapable. If we're lucky, for it is a priviledge to feel this way, isn't it? If we mourn no one, then we have no one. By all means, cry over the loss of your loved ones, and don't dare be stoic and tough about it. Be open and play your part in the universe. Ok, its clear to see that I'm about posted out. The first clue is when I go to cosmic town. But I do mean it. Feel what is necessary to feel.
I thought about a final post explaining what happened and to tell you the trip has ended. However, some close friends, including my mother, who is so sad and second guessing her own flood of moments but is hanging in there, have ecouraged me to keep at it. I'm glad they did, because I have found out a stone shaped absolute truth in this universe, and that is that the trip never ends. Nope, it goes on forever. On that slow journey throught the snow on the way to Billings, that became clear. We are and will always be travelers. My dad's death is another stop on the journey. His too. I don't know what your views of an afterlife are, hell, I don't even know what mine are, but I have no doubt, no doubt at all, that my dad is still traveling. I'd like to think he's heading to a home. However, a little thought is growing in my brain, which has an overabundance of manure for just such thoughts, and that is that home is on the road. A road that, different for all of us, reminds us all, when we get still enough and listen, that nothing stays the same and nothing is meant to. We are creatures of travel in a universe that is finding new frontiers for us.
I'm not sure when I'll post again, but I'll let you know, or my ego will. I just don't know where I'll be, what I'll be...and I'm not gonna try too hard to know anymore. I do want all of you to know that I wish you peace, support and above all, love, as you travel from frontier to frontier on the path you we're meant to be on.
Take it easy,
Todd
I had taken so many notes for this posting. My eyes seemed to be open wider, and I was seeing more. I felt tuned in, on the beam. Little ideas and quotes scribbled on my ticket, a brochure, and my notebook that I carry with me were sure to make this post a monumental comment on America, supported by its own gravitas, and of course, my brilliance, without one iota of self-indulgence or pretention.
I noted I could still hear the echo of my good friend Milena's wooden heels giving a melody to the wonderful talk of peace and of walking the true path we had the night before, as I walked to the bus station in Seattle. I noted how I was going to give a great shout out to The Green Tortoise Hostel in downtown Seattle. Its right by the market on the sound, really friendly people and wonderful cheap digs. I noted the fact that, as we waited in line at the bus' door, the black guy in front of me was ID'd and I wasn't. Hmm....must a been because of my winning grin that says "I'm just as harmless as a kitten, sugar."
I noted how the road leading through Snoqualmie Pass makes a person feel only a little tiny component in the universe. That, although man had grown quite creative when it comes to destroying mountains, through blasting them down for interstates or, hey, how about that fancy mountain top clearing the coal industry is just itching to do more of, the mountains of the Snoqualmie Pass won in the battle with man. The road obediently twists and turns around the giant mountains, and zillions of giant pines have run out to the road to watch the traffic go by. It is a stretch of true nature, for it makes us feel a part of nature, not its ruler. Those mountains told man where to go. I was gonna say that the mountains, mother nature, still tells us what to do, but we just have so many other things to listen to, these days. The world's too loud for tree talkin', and anyway, isn't that a bit absurd?
Hmm, what else....I noted that after the Snoqualmie Pass in the state of Washington - where, yes, there happens to be a town named George - the bus driver drove us headlong into a dream. A snow storm that painted the world white. Only the brush that struggled to pop out from under the white blanket and a faithful barbed wire fence told us that the world was still there. For hours, we traveled. Other humans who sped by our 35 mph pace we met again, further down the road, their cars mangled, up hills, through the fence, broken down and upside down. Mother nature won again. I scribbled really profound things down. I felt the muse and I was musing.
I was scribbling so much about this, or that, that I finally had to put the pen down, for it is only in the watching and listening that anything worth writing is born. I found myself looking for things to comment on, instead of seeing what there was to comment on, and in my never absurd but sometimes draconian code of artistic ethics, that is a sin unforgivable. So I settled in, leaned my seat back and stared out the window. I would be brilliant when the time to be brilliant arrived. I stared at the window and watched the world grow whiter in the gathering darkness. I nodded here and there, and maybe even dreamt of my brilliance...but only once.
Just into Montana, we stopped to change drivers and to refuel. Everyone has to get off the bus when it is refueled (can you imagine the lawsuits if....?). I got my thirtieth cup of coffee that day at the pocket of civilization that was the conveniece store. My phone regained a signal. I noticed that I had recieved several messages in a relatively short matter of time. Right then I started feeling the indescribable feeling in my gut. I didn't check the messages, I was scared, and I am being honest about that. Somehow, what was in those messages wouldn't be real if I didn't answer them. But I am a 35 year old man, dammit, so I checked the last text, which was from my one of my sisters, telling me to call home..."please". Like I said, I am a 35 year old man, dammit, and I made the call.
My mom told me we lost my dad, that he had passed away. I heard that news in St. Regis, Montana, a town I'd never heard of and now will never forget. The snow storm had worsened, but I told my mom I'd get home as soon as possible. At 35 miles an hour. As we reboarded, the flood of a million moments with my dad where I could've said and done things differently raged on.
It would take 8 hours before we reached Billings, Montana, where the nearest airport was that was still flying planes out. I have to give a shout out to the very compassionate bus driver, who radioed for the info. He gives humans a good name. It was around midnight, and it was dark enough for a 35 year old man, dammit, to cry and feel what is necessary to feel, which is sadness, deep sadness, and guilt over that flood. I also felt a deep selfishness, which I'm not proud of, but it was definitely there. I sat with it and didn't put any armor on, at least I think I didn't. I'll be the first to tell you I'm in shock, but I feel that I am feeling. I felt the magnifying glass move away from me and I felt my honest size and weight and nothing really mattered anymore. Anything that was so important before St. Regis was absolutely nothing. I was about to disappear when Billings came into view in the light of dawn. I hopped a cab to the airport and caught a plane to San Antonio.
Its been a day of phone calls, visits, a meeting at the church, where he attended so faithfully. Its been a day of explaining it over and over and the thought of explaining it again gets too big for the brain to hold. Its been a day at the funeral parlor. Its been absurd attention to the smallest of details. I never picked a tie out for my dad while he was alive. And I've never thought of "what he would have wanted" and that hurts. Its been a day of checking off lists and relief of another task done but when we're through the fact that my dad's gone rushes in and stirs up all the shoulds and what if's that lead directly to a padded room and spoon fed meals. Its been one hell of a tough day. And, when there's absolutely nothing to do, I can beg to get back the last five minutes that I spent with him, at the bus station. If I could just tweak them, edit them, if I could just get them perfect. Then, there is the five minutes before those five minutes, then the five minutes before those...
But you know about these days, don't you? I'm willing to bet that a healthy percentage of you does. And, I'm willing to bet that the rest of you will see a day or two like this one has been for me. In a "normal" world, and I say that knowing no one normal, the day when we are to mourn a loved one is inescapable. If we're lucky, for it is a priviledge to feel this way, isn't it? If we mourn no one, then we have no one. By all means, cry over the loss of your loved ones, and don't dare be stoic and tough about it. Be open and play your part in the universe. Ok, its clear to see that I'm about posted out. The first clue is when I go to cosmic town. But I do mean it. Feel what is necessary to feel.
I thought about a final post explaining what happened and to tell you the trip has ended. However, some close friends, including my mother, who is so sad and second guessing her own flood of moments but is hanging in there, have ecouraged me to keep at it. I'm glad they did, because I have found out a stone shaped absolute truth in this universe, and that is that the trip never ends. Nope, it goes on forever. On that slow journey throught the snow on the way to Billings, that became clear. We are and will always be travelers. My dad's death is another stop on the journey. His too. I don't know what your views of an afterlife are, hell, I don't even know what mine are, but I have no doubt, no doubt at all, that my dad is still traveling. I'd like to think he's heading to a home. However, a little thought is growing in my brain, which has an overabundance of manure for just such thoughts, and that is that home is on the road. A road that, different for all of us, reminds us all, when we get still enough and listen, that nothing stays the same and nothing is meant to. We are creatures of travel in a universe that is finding new frontiers for us.
I'm not sure when I'll post again, but I'll let you know, or my ego will. I just don't know where I'll be, what I'll be...and I'm not gonna try too hard to know anymore. I do want all of you to know that I wish you peace, support and above all, love, as you travel from frontier to frontier on the path you we're meant to be on.
Take it easy,
Todd
Friday, December 10, 2010
The Golden Gate to Cotton Candy and the Hard Road for All
Hey Everyone,
I'm posting to you from one of the many coffee shops in the beautiful city of Seattle, drinking, you guessed it....coffee. Black. My good friend Milena's getting me acquainted with the place and its good to be in the same room with another good friend after all these years. She's drinking coffee, too, yep.
The road to Seattle began in LA, where I got on a bus around 11pm. Across the parking lot was a big Hollywood party complete with paparazzi and flashing lights. Blond gals and brawn fellas, smiling perfect smiles in front of a poster of an alcoholic brand that sponsored the event. Back at the station was another event of sorts. The Hollywood homeless began tucking themselves in all around Luis and me as we waited for the bus. They were drinking too, but I doubt it was the same brand. The conversations between the hobos was probably vastly different from the photo flash musings of the blond perfectlings. That's probably why the hobos weren't invited, it was a matter of taste. On one end the super fortunate bathing in the breaking flashes of the cameras, on the other, the half pints of a bad vodka and a stained bed roll, if that. Nobody was taking the hobos picture, but the cops came and lights were flashing on them in due time. They were run off by LA's finest. I guess the stars weren't shining as bright as they could for the cameras, with the dark part of Hollywood so close by. It was such a small parking lot between the two goings on....but it was pretty easy to see it was an uncrossable one, bottomless even. They were rounding up the ner do wells as my bus pulled off into the darkness between LA and San Francisco.
I rolled into Frisco just before dawn. I put my bag in day storage and figured I'd walk to the Golden Gate Bridge. I did walk that jaunt, to the bark of the occasional seal, the frequent fog horns of the ships rolling through the dense fog rolling in. Some fog. It seemed the city revealed itself to me at its own choosing, letting me know its still there. It gave the walk a much welcomed spooky feel which helped me stay awake and on my toes and out of traffic, that revealed itself to me faster than the houses and buildings. The many, many joggers kept me on my toes too, as I walked up the Embarcadero along the bay, trying not to get runned down, or stared down. Before I could take offense, however, the fog pulled them into the other world. I couldn't see the bridge until I was right about to enter its walk way, which is a good thing. Had I known it was five miles away I would have probably just ordered another cup of coffee, quite content on telling you I SAW the Golden Gate Bridge. Instead I walked out to the middle of it and turned around. I marveled at the huge thing. I felt its strength as I pondered just what kind of pain one must have to lift their legs over and jump off. I looked down at the water. Funny, it looks like its just right there, an easy jump and you can get out and do it again over and over. But each year so many prove the water's much farther down. A poor soul doesn't have a chance between the weight of its problems and that frigid water, bones and consciousness snap like twigs. I wonder how trivial those big problems get in the final nanoseconds before the big splash.
San Francisco to Sacramento went off without a hitch. Sacramento to Portland was dreadful. It was a night trip, so I thought I could catch some z's. However, two drunk gals drenched me with their spittle flecked profanity as they turned that bus out and created more and more of a world just between the two, yet for all of us to be annoyed by. I sat in my seat and practiced patience and politely said no to their occasional invitations to join them on their planet. I did listen, however. One was the only black girl in her choir, the other one was the only white girl in hers. One was Jamaican, at least in theory, and the other was Irish. They just couldn't get over that whopping similarity, they were practically sisters. And, boy, they could laugh it up in between accusing each other of reprehensible flatulence. One was 33 and had 7 children, the other gave her two kids away, somewhere along the way. The Irish gal tried to get serious and tell the story of how she was beaten to a pulp in all of the foster homes she was raised in, but the other gal would shout and say its time for a drink...and there was no time for trivial things on the best bus ride ever!!!! Besides, she had the money, she was buying, so therapy had to wait for the orphan, maybe on another bus ride. They left and a couple with two kids took the glitzy ditzys' seats. The father kept telling the toddlers to shut the fuck up over and over. He told the gal he's a gettin' off the bus if they don't shut up. She just sat there, looking like a mother with three kids instead of two. Portland to Seattle wasn't bad, just two girls who both talked about how their respective boyfriends knock them around if they screw around with their pickups...hell, shouldn't they know better? Oh, and one, all of the age of 30, was a grandmother.
We just took a quick stop and go at Portland, but I thought it was beautiful with its 18 wheelers full of fresh timber and the mills and factories on the river. Maybe not so clean, but I was captivated by industry. I hope that is forgivable. All in all, Portland, through the rain drops on my window, looked like a green and grey smeared painting. I couldn't quite make it all out, but I knew it was all there.
Well, Seattle looks good at dusk and I'm gonna go try to find the Ghost of Layne Staley....I'm sure Kurt Cobain's has already been found. I liked Alice In Chains more, anyway. Tis a shame I don't have any flannel. Oh well, looks like no one else here has any, anymore, anyway.
Take care and I'll talk to you soon...
Todd
I'm posting to you from one of the many coffee shops in the beautiful city of Seattle, drinking, you guessed it....coffee. Black. My good friend Milena's getting me acquainted with the place and its good to be in the same room with another good friend after all these years. She's drinking coffee, too, yep.
The road to Seattle began in LA, where I got on a bus around 11pm. Across the parking lot was a big Hollywood party complete with paparazzi and flashing lights. Blond gals and brawn fellas, smiling perfect smiles in front of a poster of an alcoholic brand that sponsored the event. Back at the station was another event of sorts. The Hollywood homeless began tucking themselves in all around Luis and me as we waited for the bus. They were drinking too, but I doubt it was the same brand. The conversations between the hobos was probably vastly different from the photo flash musings of the blond perfectlings. That's probably why the hobos weren't invited, it was a matter of taste. On one end the super fortunate bathing in the breaking flashes of the cameras, on the other, the half pints of a bad vodka and a stained bed roll, if that. Nobody was taking the hobos picture, but the cops came and lights were flashing on them in due time. They were run off by LA's finest. I guess the stars weren't shining as bright as they could for the cameras, with the dark part of Hollywood so close by. It was such a small parking lot between the two goings on....but it was pretty easy to see it was an uncrossable one, bottomless even. They were rounding up the ner do wells as my bus pulled off into the darkness between LA and San Francisco.
I rolled into Frisco just before dawn. I put my bag in day storage and figured I'd walk to the Golden Gate Bridge. I did walk that jaunt, to the bark of the occasional seal, the frequent fog horns of the ships rolling through the dense fog rolling in. Some fog. It seemed the city revealed itself to me at its own choosing, letting me know its still there. It gave the walk a much welcomed spooky feel which helped me stay awake and on my toes and out of traffic, that revealed itself to me faster than the houses and buildings. The many, many joggers kept me on my toes too, as I walked up the Embarcadero along the bay, trying not to get runned down, or stared down. Before I could take offense, however, the fog pulled them into the other world. I couldn't see the bridge until I was right about to enter its walk way, which is a good thing. Had I known it was five miles away I would have probably just ordered another cup of coffee, quite content on telling you I SAW the Golden Gate Bridge. Instead I walked out to the middle of it and turned around. I marveled at the huge thing. I felt its strength as I pondered just what kind of pain one must have to lift their legs over and jump off. I looked down at the water. Funny, it looks like its just right there, an easy jump and you can get out and do it again over and over. But each year so many prove the water's much farther down. A poor soul doesn't have a chance between the weight of its problems and that frigid water, bones and consciousness snap like twigs. I wonder how trivial those big problems get in the final nanoseconds before the big splash.
San Francisco to Sacramento went off without a hitch. Sacramento to Portland was dreadful. It was a night trip, so I thought I could catch some z's. However, two drunk gals drenched me with their spittle flecked profanity as they turned that bus out and created more and more of a world just between the two, yet for all of us to be annoyed by. I sat in my seat and practiced patience and politely said no to their occasional invitations to join them on their planet. I did listen, however. One was the only black girl in her choir, the other one was the only white girl in hers. One was Jamaican, at least in theory, and the other was Irish. They just couldn't get over that whopping similarity, they were practically sisters. And, boy, they could laugh it up in between accusing each other of reprehensible flatulence. One was 33 and had 7 children, the other gave her two kids away, somewhere along the way. The Irish gal tried to get serious and tell the story of how she was beaten to a pulp in all of the foster homes she was raised in, but the other gal would shout and say its time for a drink...and there was no time for trivial things on the best bus ride ever!!!! Besides, she had the money, she was buying, so therapy had to wait for the orphan, maybe on another bus ride. They left and a couple with two kids took the glitzy ditzys' seats. The father kept telling the toddlers to shut the fuck up over and over. He told the gal he's a gettin' off the bus if they don't shut up. She just sat there, looking like a mother with three kids instead of two. Portland to Seattle wasn't bad, just two girls who both talked about how their respective boyfriends knock them around if they screw around with their pickups...hell, shouldn't they know better? Oh, and one, all of the age of 30, was a grandmother.
We just took a quick stop and go at Portland, but I thought it was beautiful with its 18 wheelers full of fresh timber and the mills and factories on the river. Maybe not so clean, but I was captivated by industry. I hope that is forgivable. All in all, Portland, through the rain drops on my window, looked like a green and grey smeared painting. I couldn't quite make it all out, but I knew it was all there.
Well, Seattle looks good at dusk and I'm gonna go try to find the Ghost of Layne Staley....I'm sure Kurt Cobain's has already been found. I liked Alice In Chains more, anyway. Tis a shame I don't have any flannel. Oh well, looks like no one else here has any, anymore, anyway.
Take care and I'll talk to you soon...
Todd
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
On the Edge of Manifest Destiny
Hello Everyone,
My time in LA is almost up. Its been truly wonderful coming back but, alas, it is time to go. I leave for San Francisco tonight. I have to say, I can see myself writing country songs all night with Luis and his roomate, Andre, and participating in late night highly immature toxically funny conversations about pubic hair with their super gracious neighbors for the rest of my life. However, the rest of my life's none of my business and I can't tell the future what to do, so I might as well get on the next bus. In all honestly, I'm itching to get down the anyway.
There was one more thing to do while I was here and that was to hit the beach, which I did. I took a city bus down to where Marina Del Rey borders Venice, where I spent a lot of time 10 years ago, and let the memories come in and do their thing then felt them pass on through. I was going to get off the bus where one of my old jobs was, but when the bus stopped there, I just stayed in my seat and let the past pass on by.
I took the bus to the end of Washington Blvd. and entered the last county fair carnival in the U.S. and that is Venice Beach. Out there on the edge of America, it is quite a sight to see. In the light of the sun reflecting off the ocean you've got all types of time spenders. Some people have a purpose for being there, for someone has to operate the hot dog and burger booths, the authentic serape shops, bong shops, and medical marijuana evaluation centers, complete with bean bag rooms to get high and ease your glaucoma suffering, lack of appetite, or just general meloncholia...should a valid physician deem you meloncholy, hungry or blind enough. The people hanging outside of those booths have a purpose, I'm just not sure what it is, but they sure look like they know. Then there are others, who appear to have not recieved proper notification that The Dream has ended. The dream that fueled them to the coast kept going, out beyond the Pacific, and left them there to stare out at the ocean, with a gaze of wonderment, or bewilderment, at the prospect of a dream crossing the ocean. They seem to be hopeful, that a dream could cross that big water, but that is overlayed on another look, that of no hope that the dream can go all the way around the globe and come back to them. But they keep staring, what else are they gonna do? It was their dream.
That is all ground level, however. On the balconies of the apartments above the freakshow you have another view of the ocean. That is the view of sundecks and cell phones and working lunches in bathing suits. Conversations over brunch about things I couldn't understand and money making while tanning. I hope to understand money making one day, that would be nice, and there is a part of me that would really like to see the ocean from that balcony, but when I think about that that balcony gets higher and higher....like the tribal underlings below getting their prescriptions filled. I decided to part the ganja cloud and go forth up the beach.
Passed muscle beach, the long walk consisted of bikers, roller bladers, lovers, tai chi-ers and general day off-ers. People spending their time. That continued all the way to the Santa Monica Pier. I went to the end of the peir, which is the end of the old Route 66, and thought, marveled, really, on what it must've been like, before the I, cell, mobile and bag phones, before the internet, even before the TV when going west really meant going west, a place that really only existed when one saw it with their own eyes. When one's thoughts became real.
Maybe the dream did manifest, it just wasn't what they thought it was. How could they have known? There's no web page or iphone app in the world that serves as a magic eight ball. The answer is only at the end of the trail, and things have to be seen to believed, in the long run. Don't they?
Take care, everyone, and thanks for joining me on this journey. Talk to soon...
Todd
My time in LA is almost up. Its been truly wonderful coming back but, alas, it is time to go. I leave for San Francisco tonight. I have to say, I can see myself writing country songs all night with Luis and his roomate, Andre, and participating in late night highly immature toxically funny conversations about pubic hair with their super gracious neighbors for the rest of my life. However, the rest of my life's none of my business and I can't tell the future what to do, so I might as well get on the next bus. In all honestly, I'm itching to get down the anyway.
There was one more thing to do while I was here and that was to hit the beach, which I did. I took a city bus down to where Marina Del Rey borders Venice, where I spent a lot of time 10 years ago, and let the memories come in and do their thing then felt them pass on through. I was going to get off the bus where one of my old jobs was, but when the bus stopped there, I just stayed in my seat and let the past pass on by.
I took the bus to the end of Washington Blvd. and entered the last county fair carnival in the U.S. and that is Venice Beach. Out there on the edge of America, it is quite a sight to see. In the light of the sun reflecting off the ocean you've got all types of time spenders. Some people have a purpose for being there, for someone has to operate the hot dog and burger booths, the authentic serape shops, bong shops, and medical marijuana evaluation centers, complete with bean bag rooms to get high and ease your glaucoma suffering, lack of appetite, or just general meloncholia...should a valid physician deem you meloncholy, hungry or blind enough. The people hanging outside of those booths have a purpose, I'm just not sure what it is, but they sure look like they know. Then there are others, who appear to have not recieved proper notification that The Dream has ended. The dream that fueled them to the coast kept going, out beyond the Pacific, and left them there to stare out at the ocean, with a gaze of wonderment, or bewilderment, at the prospect of a dream crossing the ocean. They seem to be hopeful, that a dream could cross that big water, but that is overlayed on another look, that of no hope that the dream can go all the way around the globe and come back to them. But they keep staring, what else are they gonna do? It was their dream.
That is all ground level, however. On the balconies of the apartments above the freakshow you have another view of the ocean. That is the view of sundecks and cell phones and working lunches in bathing suits. Conversations over brunch about things I couldn't understand and money making while tanning. I hope to understand money making one day, that would be nice, and there is a part of me that would really like to see the ocean from that balcony, but when I think about that that balcony gets higher and higher....like the tribal underlings below getting their prescriptions filled. I decided to part the ganja cloud and go forth up the beach.
Passed muscle beach, the long walk consisted of bikers, roller bladers, lovers, tai chi-ers and general day off-ers. People spending their time. That continued all the way to the Santa Monica Pier. I went to the end of the peir, which is the end of the old Route 66, and thought, marveled, really, on what it must've been like, before the I, cell, mobile and bag phones, before the internet, even before the TV when going west really meant going west, a place that really only existed when one saw it with their own eyes. When one's thoughts became real.
Maybe the dream did manifest, it just wasn't what they thought it was. How could they have known? There's no web page or iphone app in the world that serves as a magic eight ball. The answer is only at the end of the trail, and things have to be seen to believed, in the long run. Don't they?
Take care, everyone, and thanks for joining me on this journey. Talk to soon...
Todd
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Dimming Dreams Brighter Lights and Cloudy Days on the Sunset Strip
Hello everyone,
Greetings from Hollywood, California. I'm fairly well rested after my second night's sleep in a non-wheeled stationary dwelling. The cold I was battling has won and screwed me over during the treaty negotiations. I have the runny nose and sore throat and I'm a little low on energy but its alright, fame will save me, its just around the corner. The slight problem is by the time you get around that corner, fame's gone around the other one...and so on...but there's always that chance...and in the meantime there are a lot of people out here walking around corners with the sniffles.
I was out here less than a year. It just wasn't my scene, man...I think that's what I told people.
So the prospect of coming around a decade later, older and different with a little, only a little, less hair, was exciting and a bit nerve racking. I was able to stew in those feelings and memories on the bus(or, as I like to call it now, a "mobile iphone deviation station") from Las Vegas, filled with people who looked like they've made the Vegas-LA trip a million times and could care less about the beautiful desert outside with all its cacti, tiny, spiny, middle sized, gray, yellow and green cacti and cacti so big they looked like they were trying to impersonate trees spreading from beyond the interstate out to the great grey brown and jagged mountains. I was blown away from it all, its a marvelous landscape. However, its a redundant one, and even I got little bored with the view so I took the next logical action. I read Kafka and put my feelings on hold.
I pulled right up to Hollywood Blvd., where my good friend Luis was waiting for me. Its good to see Luis. It had been several years. We were both born in the same tiny, one floor hospital in Sinton, Texas but didn't meet each other until we were in our late twenties in Chicago. We had a mutal friend and we both had what that mutual friend would call, "serious drinking issues". Luis was on his way to New York and I wouldn't see him until a few years later when I was on my way to New York. I crashed at his place where we took up where we left off, drinking, carousing, guitar picking and general reveling in our own poetic delusional torture. Luis then left NY and began his long and wayward and ultimately redeeming journey out here, to the one story metropolis that is LA. Both Luis and I are sober now, which is a good thing...really. And its always a good thing to find out a friendship didn't disappear with the bottle.
I've only walked around Hollywood since I've been here, not looking for old ghost but not ignoring any, either. Some things look and feel the same, some things don't, that kind of thing. I do remember liking LA back then, really, I was just very angry. I like it now. I like being less angry, too.
Luis and I walked around together last night around the Hollywood and Vine area, or what I like to call the lengerie and bong district. Its Charles Bukowski's old stomping grounds. We're both big Bukowski fans and we laughed that Luis lives in the area but is sober. Then we stopped laughing and pondered how we both have a bit of a hard time reading Bukowski, now. We both still admire him, its just a different read. We turned back toward Luis' apartment before we reached the part of Hollywood Blvd where the movie stars fell and engraved themselves into the sidewalk and aspiring movie stars are hired to look like those legendary engraved movie stars. We walked back down Sunset, passed the Paladuim, then by the St. Moritz motel where more thoughts of Bukowski came up, more laughter, then more quiet pondering.
Today I plan to hit the beach and take the obligatory photos of the Pacific Ocean. I'd like to take the obligatory photo of the sunset but its been cloudy so I may not be obliged to take the photo...we'll see. And, really, nothing's obligatory for me on this visit to the city of angels. Its been a good thing.
Stay tuned to see if the sun will set or not. Until then, take care...
Todd
Greetings from Hollywood, California. I'm fairly well rested after my second night's sleep in a non-wheeled stationary dwelling. The cold I was battling has won and screwed me over during the treaty negotiations. I have the runny nose and sore throat and I'm a little low on energy but its alright, fame will save me, its just around the corner. The slight problem is by the time you get around that corner, fame's gone around the other one...and so on...but there's always that chance...and in the meantime there are a lot of people out here walking around corners with the sniffles.
I had those sniffles 10 years ago, when I packed everything I had into the trunk and drove out here from Corpus Christi, Texas, with dreams of being a powerhouse actor that fame couldn't possibly ignore, but, of course, making it look like I could take it or leave it because its all about craft, after all, isn't it?
I was out here less than a year. It just wasn't my scene, man...I think that's what I told people.
So the prospect of coming around a decade later, older and different with a little, only a little, less hair, was exciting and a bit nerve racking. I was able to stew in those feelings and memories on the bus(or, as I like to call it now, a "mobile iphone deviation station") from Las Vegas, filled with people who looked like they've made the Vegas-LA trip a million times and could care less about the beautiful desert outside with all its cacti, tiny, spiny, middle sized, gray, yellow and green cacti and cacti so big they looked like they were trying to impersonate trees spreading from beyond the interstate out to the great grey brown and jagged mountains. I was blown away from it all, its a marvelous landscape. However, its a redundant one, and even I got little bored with the view so I took the next logical action. I read Kafka and put my feelings on hold.
I pulled right up to Hollywood Blvd., where my good friend Luis was waiting for me. Its good to see Luis. It had been several years. We were both born in the same tiny, one floor hospital in Sinton, Texas but didn't meet each other until we were in our late twenties in Chicago. We had a mutal friend and we both had what that mutual friend would call, "serious drinking issues". Luis was on his way to New York and I wouldn't see him until a few years later when I was on my way to New York. I crashed at his place where we took up where we left off, drinking, carousing, guitar picking and general reveling in our own poetic delusional torture. Luis then left NY and began his long and wayward and ultimately redeeming journey out here, to the one story metropolis that is LA. Both Luis and I are sober now, which is a good thing...really. And its always a good thing to find out a friendship didn't disappear with the bottle.
I've only walked around Hollywood since I've been here, not looking for old ghost but not ignoring any, either. Some things look and feel the same, some things don't, that kind of thing. I do remember liking LA back then, really, I was just very angry. I like it now. I like being less angry, too.
Luis and I walked around together last night around the Hollywood and Vine area, or what I like to call the lengerie and bong district. Its Charles Bukowski's old stomping grounds. We're both big Bukowski fans and we laughed that Luis lives in the area but is sober. Then we stopped laughing and pondered how we both have a bit of a hard time reading Bukowski, now. We both still admire him, its just a different read. We turned back toward Luis' apartment before we reached the part of Hollywood Blvd where the movie stars fell and engraved themselves into the sidewalk and aspiring movie stars are hired to look like those legendary engraved movie stars. We walked back down Sunset, passed the Paladuim, then by the St. Moritz motel where more thoughts of Bukowski came up, more laughter, then more quiet pondering.
Today I plan to hit the beach and take the obligatory photos of the Pacific Ocean. I'd like to take the obligatory photo of the sunset but its been cloudy so I may not be obliged to take the photo...we'll see. And, really, nothing's obligatory for me on this visit to the city of angels. Its been a good thing.
Stay tuned to see if the sun will set or not. Until then, take care...
Todd
Friday, December 3, 2010
Forest of Universes and the Desert Nucleus
Hello everyone...
I made it to the eternal day that is Las Vegas. '70's tunes and cigarette smoke and JUST one more hand. But more on this grandest of all Christmas displays in a second...
San Antonio to Amarillo - The running joke about living in traveling from South Texas is that to go just about anywhere, excluding Mexico, the entire first day is in Texas. I've seen Texas many times so I figured I'd just read, sleep and think alot until I got out of Texas. I dozed for a little, but could'nt really relax to well so I decided to think a lot for a while and caught myself really enjoying the ride. When one gets away from the concealed weapon and mega church mentality that is swallowing Texas one can really see the best that the state has to offer, beautiful varied nothingness. I was caught up over the beauty of the live oak trees, growing anyway and anyhow to sustain and before I knew it I was in the plains of the Pan Handle, which, if Texas would really try to secede, would be something like it's Nebraska...flat but beautiful in its flatness.
Something else struck me as I politely did not listen to the 50ish oil roughneck who really needed a drink were all the gutted downtowns we passed through. Its hard to believe these little towns at one time were able to self sustain. Downtowns were in bad shape before I was born but I do remember when all the Wal Marts started springing up on the edges of just about every small town I knew about and the towns seemingly becoming a host of empty buildings. And, now I've seen the Wal Mart Supercenters suck whatever's left and selling one brand "Great Value", its own brand, of just about everything, as if America has become one big West Virginia Mining town in the early 20th century. Or worse, a "1984" of some other world, have you recieved your ration of "Great Value" Gin and Cegarettes??? I can hear the rat in the cage shouting "Capitalism!" I'm being opinionated, but its a real hard thing for me not to do and I am from Texas and I realized something as I saw a lot of it out the window on Wednesday....I love it. I love Texas and it is a part of me, but so are those little downtowns. And there probably a little part of you too, what does the downtown of your hometown look like?
The drive from Amarillo to Alburquerque - 3am take off, the bus driver swerved and stopped at every truck stop to hammer something on the side of the bus with something that wasn't a hammer. It was a real drag, but we came upon a terrible wreck on the interstate just before we came into Alburquerque and I saw the remnants of a pick up and of someone who was alive, trying to get something to someone somwewhere and now the ambulance is not in a hurry to take them to the hospital for it is too late. I felt a lot of sadness, maybe I was just real tired, but I do think it helped me enjoy the dawn a little more, and dawn over Alburquerque is pure beauty with all its hot air balloon color.
We hit the road toward Flaggstaff, AZ, passing through one of the most Amazing parts of the country, The Navajo Nation Indian Reservation. Its surreal prehistoric landscape is enough to require all for viewing, but pictures of the "Indian Ruins", "indian Jewely" and "Indian Pottery" signs interspersed with all the casino signs should be in textbooks. Beautiful people on beautiful land under the ugliest of circumstances, the Indian Reservation. All the broken and rusty traior houses, spread out along a part of interstate 40 "Purple Heart Drive Federal Highway." Again, I'm a little tired and have had too much coffee. The ex convicts I took a drive with were great....young, but they sang and were so happy to be out of the joint. None of them were over 24.
Flaggstaff is a wonderful Cowboy Hippy town that I was told that I would love, but my bus was late and I had to immediately catch a another one...so maybe next time. I do love Cowboy Hippy towns, I think they are the best that America has to offer....in my opinion, of course...
THe trip to Vegas was in darkness, but I did catch a beautiful glimpse of the mountains between the forest land of Flaggstaff and the desert of Vegas...truly a purple mountain's majesty.
I got a hotel room in downtown Las Vegas and decided to walk to the strip but it was a very deceptive little jaunt and turned out to be little not at all. I made it there, just in time to hop a cab and come back. But the tatoo parlors wedding chapels and gentlemens clubs and massage parlors all looked like fine establishments. Dawn in Las Vegas, to me, is cooler to check out...and if you look real close you can see the night things ducking around corners and into alleys...awaiting another night chances chances chances.
Manfred Man is singing me to the end of this post and the slot kings and queens are blinded by the light. Its getting to real in an unreal town so I gotta catch a bus...take care everyone and take it easy or don't take it at all...
Talk to you next time from somewhere else...
Todd
I made it to the eternal day that is Las Vegas. '70's tunes and cigarette smoke and JUST one more hand. But more on this grandest of all Christmas displays in a second...
San Antonio to Amarillo - The running joke about living in traveling from South Texas is that to go just about anywhere, excluding Mexico, the entire first day is in Texas. I've seen Texas many times so I figured I'd just read, sleep and think alot until I got out of Texas. I dozed for a little, but could'nt really relax to well so I decided to think a lot for a while and caught myself really enjoying the ride. When one gets away from the concealed weapon and mega church mentality that is swallowing Texas one can really see the best that the state has to offer, beautiful varied nothingness. I was caught up over the beauty of the live oak trees, growing anyway and anyhow to sustain and before I knew it I was in the plains of the Pan Handle, which, if Texas would really try to secede, would be something like it's Nebraska...flat but beautiful in its flatness.
Something else struck me as I politely did not listen to the 50ish oil roughneck who really needed a drink were all the gutted downtowns we passed through. Its hard to believe these little towns at one time were able to self sustain. Downtowns were in bad shape before I was born but I do remember when all the Wal Marts started springing up on the edges of just about every small town I knew about and the towns seemingly becoming a host of empty buildings. And, now I've seen the Wal Mart Supercenters suck whatever's left and selling one brand "Great Value", its own brand, of just about everything, as if America has become one big West Virginia Mining town in the early 20th century. Or worse, a "1984" of some other world, have you recieved your ration of "Great Value" Gin and Cegarettes??? I can hear the rat in the cage shouting "Capitalism!" I'm being opinionated, but its a real hard thing for me not to do and I am from Texas and I realized something as I saw a lot of it out the window on Wednesday....I love it. I love Texas and it is a part of me, but so are those little downtowns. And there probably a little part of you too, what does the downtown of your hometown look like?
The drive from Amarillo to Alburquerque - 3am take off, the bus driver swerved and stopped at every truck stop to hammer something on the side of the bus with something that wasn't a hammer. It was a real drag, but we came upon a terrible wreck on the interstate just before we came into Alburquerque and I saw the remnants of a pick up and of someone who was alive, trying to get something to someone somwewhere and now the ambulance is not in a hurry to take them to the hospital for it is too late. I felt a lot of sadness, maybe I was just real tired, but I do think it helped me enjoy the dawn a little more, and dawn over Alburquerque is pure beauty with all its hot air balloon color.
We hit the road toward Flaggstaff, AZ, passing through one of the most Amazing parts of the country, The Navajo Nation Indian Reservation. Its surreal prehistoric landscape is enough to require all for viewing, but pictures of the "Indian Ruins", "indian Jewely" and "Indian Pottery" signs interspersed with all the casino signs should be in textbooks. Beautiful people on beautiful land under the ugliest of circumstances, the Indian Reservation. All the broken and rusty traior houses, spread out along a part of interstate 40 "Purple Heart Drive Federal Highway." Again, I'm a little tired and have had too much coffee. The ex convicts I took a drive with were great....young, but they sang and were so happy to be out of the joint. None of them were over 24.
Flaggstaff is a wonderful Cowboy Hippy town that I was told that I would love, but my bus was late and I had to immediately catch a another one...so maybe next time. I do love Cowboy Hippy towns, I think they are the best that America has to offer....in my opinion, of course...
THe trip to Vegas was in darkness, but I did catch a beautiful glimpse of the mountains between the forest land of Flaggstaff and the desert of Vegas...truly a purple mountain's majesty.
I got a hotel room in downtown Las Vegas and decided to walk to the strip but it was a very deceptive little jaunt and turned out to be little not at all. I made it there, just in time to hop a cab and come back. But the tatoo parlors wedding chapels and gentlemens clubs and massage parlors all looked like fine establishments. Dawn in Las Vegas, to me, is cooler to check out...and if you look real close you can see the night things ducking around corners and into alleys...awaiting another night chances chances chances.
Manfred Man is singing me to the end of this post and the slot kings and queens are blinded by the light. Its getting to real in an unreal town so I gotta catch a bus...take care everyone and take it easy or don't take it at all...
Talk to you next time from somewhere else...
Todd
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
The Day Before Day One
In the midst of packing, unpacking, shaking down and packing again while wrestling a cold and thinking of a thousand things that could go wrong over the next month, I asked myself, "What's a better time than now to start a blog?" Therefore I hope, should you read this blog, you will forgive any haste you feel this opening blog contains. I'm now thinking of one thousand and one things...but I'll be damned if I sneeze...one thousand and two...
However, I will committ to correct grammar and punctuation. You may count on that...one thousand and three...
The reason for this blog? Tomorrow I am getting on a bus in San Antonio, Texas, and for the next month I will basically be living on a Greyhound, tooling along the Interstates of the U.S. and Canada, stopping here and there to visit old friends and hopefully with a few new friends. My first stop is Los Vegas, via Amarillo and Flaggstaff, then Los Angeles and from there up the coast to Frisco and Seattle, then to Canada and from there I plan to make my way east slowly, methodically, friend's couches pending to the grand old settlement of Savannah, Georgia. Then the long deep fried south back to San Antonio, via Mobile and New Orleans. And, of course, countless little towns and communities in between.
My purpose? Who knows? I'm sure its wandering out there some where.
I used to say that you only see two types of people at bus stops: people desperately trying to go somewhere and desperate people with nowhere to go. Well, I will soon know just how true that is. And, if it is so, I will soon know which category I fall in. At best, I can hope I'm a little of both, just like everybody else. Or, perhaps, I ill find out I'm someone that I never thought I could be, or even knew was possible, just like everybody else.
Whatever happens, i hope you can join on the journey...until then, take it easy or don't take it at all...
However, I will committ to correct grammar and punctuation. You may count on that...one thousand and three...
The reason for this blog? Tomorrow I am getting on a bus in San Antonio, Texas, and for the next month I will basically be living on a Greyhound, tooling along the Interstates of the U.S. and Canada, stopping here and there to visit old friends and hopefully with a few new friends. My first stop is Los Vegas, via Amarillo and Flaggstaff, then Los Angeles and from there up the coast to Frisco and Seattle, then to Canada and from there I plan to make my way east slowly, methodically, friend's couches pending to the grand old settlement of Savannah, Georgia. Then the long deep fried south back to San Antonio, via Mobile and New Orleans. And, of course, countless little towns and communities in between.
My purpose? Who knows? I'm sure its wandering out there some where.
I used to say that you only see two types of people at bus stops: people desperately trying to go somewhere and desperate people with nowhere to go. Well, I will soon know just how true that is. And, if it is so, I will soon know which category I fall in. At best, I can hope I'm a little of both, just like everybody else. Or, perhaps, I ill find out I'm someone that I never thought I could be, or even knew was possible, just like everybody else.
Whatever happens, i hope you can join on the journey...until then, take it easy or don't take it at all...
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