So How About These Screens, eh?

You are reading this through a screen. Think about how strange that is. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t tell you what to do. But then again if you’re here reading then you don’t have too much resistance to my directing your thoughts for the duration of this written elegy. I’m not sure why I used that word. But seriously, think about how strange this is. How long have human beings been able to read? A long ass time. Like, thousands of years. Actually people a lot smarter than me said we started reading and writing in 3200BCE, so we’re talking over 5,000 years. You can’t even comprehend that much time. Now think about how long human beings have written and read on screens. Like ten years. Maybe twenty. But to the extent that they do now—iPhones with newspapers, Kindles and Nooks and shit—I mean it’s been like five years since it’s really taken hold. That’s nothing. If humans have read for 5,000 years, and if we take 5 years as the time that they have read on screens, that comes to 0.1% of the amount of time that we have read that that reading has been done on screens. Sorry for that clunky sentence that I’m not going to revise. But that’s really goddamn crazy. One one thousandth of the total time. And we don’t even talk about it. We just accept it. And we say that books are outdated, that it’s time to move on. I mean that’s a big ass tradition to let go of. What does it really mean that we’re reading on screens now? It’s a fundamentally different experience of the same words. I sometimes read short stories on the page and on the iPad and I often feel like I’m reading two entirely different stories. One involves looking at a piece of paper. The other involves looking at a huge amount of light shining directly into my eyes. One is a singular, enclosed item. The other typically contains multitudes of possibilities, endless roads of potential directions and distractions. I won’t lie, it scares me. There’s something disturbing about our willingness to so quickly pass off the tradition of the physically written word without acknowledging how long it has played a fundamental role in our species. Even now I am not writing these words by hand, but creating them by punching my fingers in patterns that I learned in elementary school. The words don’t feel like they exist physically, but rather within some hardware that I have little knowledge of and that could fail or malfunction at any given second. Maybe I’m being pessimistic and overly conservative. I understand that the universe is in motion and the eternal reality is change and impermanence (except for that law itself, of course, which proclaims to be fixed and unchanging and thus an ironic refutation of its own decree, but who really cares?). Like everyone else, I read stuff on my iPhone while sitting on the toilet, and if I find myself sitting on the toilet and iPhoneless, I typically feel a sense of dread and panic. But I also have three bookshelves in my apartment stuffed full with more knowledge than I can ever hope to take in, and it’s there, physically, able to be touched and smelled and, if I so desired, tasted. And I don’t feel overwhelmed in a Kindle or Nook app at some infinity of possibilities. It’s just all so strange and so new. And the strangest part about it all is how little people acknowledge its strangeness. I want to acknowledge its strangeness. Because it’s all become familiar far too quickly.

Let’s Think Happy Thoughts

For the last three months I have been seeing a therapist every week or two. We had our final session yesterday and I feel like an entirely different person than I did when I first met him. I wish to share an umbrella insight that arose in his calm and comfortable office.

The insight is that we create our realities. Nothing too revolutionary, right? Philosophers and mystics have been saying it for millennia. But what does this phrase mean? How does it apply to the modern world?

First of all, I feel it is clear this statement is not absolute or all-inclusive. I am currently sitting in a library surrounded by dozens of students. I, Sean, am not creating these students. They’re people, and they’re just there, along with the tables, chairs, carpet etc.

So what, then, do I create? Good question. I would say I create my perception of that reality and my response to that reality.

I used to believe that we can control very little, if anything at all. I now see that we control much. While I cannot control the movement of the sun, I can decide whether to sit amidst its rays or to find shade. At the grocery store, I can choose which foods to purchase, even if I cannot control where those foods come from. Saying we have no control is equivalent to submitting to apathy. Instead, let us humbly recognize that in the face of a massive universe comprised of many forces beyond our control, we possess the power to navigate and choose at the whim of our own wills.

So in this library, I might look around and feel depressed about the fact that 90+% of of these students are on their iPads. I may allow that feeling to deepen my prior conviction that the new generation has gone awry in the realms of interpersonal communication and satisfaction. But instead, I choose to see that these students are gazing into a tool of endless resources, and it is my job as an educator to help them learn as best as possible how to use them. And I choose also to recognize that this is the first moment in universal history that these tools are available, and we are all learning how best to relate to them. What an amazing moment to be alive!

My conversations with the therapist, who is an extraordinarily patient and kind man, helped me recognize how many “realities” I’ve convinced myself are absolutely true are in fact groundless products of my own creation. My “default” mind often veers toward the negative, spouting thoughts like I’m not good enough, or no one enjoys being around me, or I’ll never write anything of value, or I’m selfish and a terrible friend. I initially saw this therapist because these thoughts had become so stifling that I felt I could not properly function.

But that was then. 2014. This is 2015. A new year of existence. And January 27th is my 27th birthday, my Golden birthday, the birthday that some believe yields a drastic change in energy (these believers may purport that it is no coincidence so many die at this age). And in 2015, in Now, I, with the help of my therapist, have chosen to see myself in a positive light, and thus my negative looping self-created records no longer distance me from the world I encounter. Now, I recognize that I am a healthy, intelligent, compassionate person who always seeks new directions and expansions of knowledge of world and self. And I admit that aloud without succumbing to the 2014-Sean fear that I will come across as a selfish, conceded asshole. No. I am a confident, compassionate person who loves humanity. And in choosing to create this positive perception, which I much prefer to the negative perceptions I have created for too long, each day, I feel that love expand in its breadth, communicability, and power.

Life is good, my friends.

The (Un)Reality of False Realities

So much of what we convince ourselves of as reality turns out to be our own creations. Some might call these convictions the “false constructions of the ego,” or perhaps the “wall of self.” Whatever words one uses to describe the phenomenon, we cannot doubt the mind’s tendency toward creating realities and then becoming entirely convinced of those created realities’ Reality.

Much of this tendency connects to our purported projections of how we are viewed in the eyes of the other, manifesting as concerns regarding our appearance, our status, and our ability to “measure up” to some elusive standard that seems always just beyond what we have attained. Can we help ourselves? Should we help ourselves? Probably in some way.

Folks often say that meditation–as a path and practice, not simply as the occasional ten-minute endeavor–will lead to awareness of the false ego construct. However, I am not certain this “false ego construct” is so quantifiable a “thing” that can be boxed up and wrapped under a glittering tree of such concrete terminology. Rather, this “construct” strikes me as a tendency of the mind, an habitual behavior, an ever-elusive something (or perhaps nothing) that cannot and will not ever be “grasped.” Rather, it can be observed as the physicist observes quantum particles: as an unpredictable field of energy outside the realm of logic, forcing the observing mind into a certain unlogic, or on-the-threshold-of-logic, in order to be understood (or, at least, understood as much as possible, which may be equivalent to as little as possible).

Can we control these illusory thoughts, thoughts that can be so unforgiving in their self-loathing? I do not know. I doubt it. But I do believe we can train them, in a sense. Or perhaps we can train ourselves to choose whether to not to listen to them at all.

Charles Baxter Interview

Back in September, I had the pleasure of interviewing Fiction Writer Charles Baxter for the innovative online journal Wag’s Revue. Huge thanks to Mr. Baxter and all the Editors as Wag’s for dealing with my relative ineptitude and helping the interview come to fruition. 

Mr. Charles Baxter

Mr. Baxter and I discussed elements of craft, writerly intentionality, and maintaining an unceasing “fuck you” attitude as you struggle to get published and make it as a writer. 

The interview can be read here. 

Thanks for reading. And, if you have the time, check out a book by Mr. Baxter. His enchanting writing transports you to a magical place, an “ineffable” place, as he may phrase it, which, as magical as it may be, is always and forever here and now. I strongly recommend starting with The Feast of Love. 

Have a fantastic day. 

 

Just Go

Just Go

                The simplest word in the English language is “Just.” When Zen Buddhists explain what meditation is, they do not say “sitting”—they say “just sitting.” This distinction is important. Just, in this adverbial/adjectival form, really cuts down to the basic core of action.

With that said, there is no better travel advice I can offer than the following two words: just go. We live in an age of planning—we, as individuals, tend to be very ahead of ourselves, preferring to talk about a “5-year plan” instead of what greets our senses in this moment, even preferring to believe that the former is more practical (and practicality, by modern standards, is understood by looking at the long term). Beyond the individual mentality, our entire societal system is based upon what should be, how we want the future to be. In our modern world, you are about as likely to see a Cubs World Series victory (yes, I know it’s a cliché analogy, but it’s so true) as you are to hear a top American political figure talk about embracing the present.

When ideas of travel are filtered by these implanted futuristic standards, those ideas immediately become fragmented by a belief that we are too busy to travel now, that we don’t have what we need to travel, and that maybe we’ll travel a few years down the road, when we find the time. I think we’re all still rational enough to admit that when we speak of something as abstract and elusive as “time” as something to be found, something that is not already here at our disposal, we have gone a bit off course in our conceptual understanding of the world in which we live. Does it make any sense to think that five years from now Time will have increased in Quantity? I’m no physicist, but I presume Einstein would not be too keen on the notion of Time as a finitely quantitative entity. Time is not something to be accumulated (I mean doesn’t this just sound funny: that over time, I will accumulate more time, and then I will have enough time to do what I’ve always wanted to do); time is always at your disposal.

So, recognizing this strain of excuses as just plain silly, the two words come back to teach us: just go. In my experience, the more something becomes planned, the more potential it has for self-destruction. This is because planning is nothing more than the attempted control of often uncontrollable variables (and I hesitate to include “often” in this sentence). When one endeavors to set such controls, one begins to limit possibilities—one tires to package future moments into a visualizable entity. Not only is this method another instance of our preference to live in the future, but more importantly, it is really lame. Where’s the fun I knowing exactly what is going to come?

Think about what you consider the best moments in your life. It could be meeting your significant other, cruising wildly with good friends, eating an entire White Castle crave case on your own… whatever. Now ask yourself: were these moments planned? Or did they just happen? For me, every single memory I regard in high esteem refers to a moment that just happened. Do you want your travels to be filled with planned occurrences, or do you want them to be filled with unanticipable and unexplainable adventures? I opt for the latter, and I have found that it is so easy to let those adventures happen. In fact, it’s the easiest thing in the world: just go.

I’m not here to judge you or tell you what to do; I’m here to share my perspective. And my perspective believes that the only thing keeping you from just going is excuses. These excuses may be disguised fears, insecurities, or legitimate concerns (excuses are not necessarily invalid)—only you can answer what they are. I just ask you to take some moments of quiet reflection and evaluate yourself, honestly answering the question: what is really stopping me from going? If it is something as simple and overcomeable as a fear or insecurity, then you might want to push this self-evaluation a little further.

My parents instilled good values of saving in me when I was younger, and after saving almost all I earned for many years, I found I had no excuse not to just go. And after just going, I found that it can be so much cheaper than you ever thought possible—while traveling, I spent way less than I do on a day to day basis at home. Please, for your own sake, be real with yourself, and realize what, if anything, prevents you from going.

When you treat every day as a just go enterprise, impossibly amazing things transpire. Some of my personal favorites have been busking with San Fran street musicians til 2AM, hitchhiking 900 miles, clubbing with Australians in London, every moment of every relationship I have ever been in, skinny dipping with beautiful people in a river at 7AM, sleeping on top of a Mayan Temple, and ending up in a profoundly life changing one-month spirituality course in Guatemala. And that, to use another cliché, doesn’t even scratch the surface.

Mayan Temples are Sweet

Really, just going comes down to a few simple things: 1) trusting in what comes (and believing that “what comes is better than what came before”), 2) knowing yourself (and therefore your ever-changing limitations), and 3) saying yes, I will. It’s as easy as just getting out of the way and allowing the Universe, the moment, to act through you. It is allowing the Moment to manifest, to bring what it brings, and not feeling like you always must be in control of the future. I assure you, the future is so much more incredible when it remains shrouded in the Unknown (which, no matter how much planning you do, it always remains shrouded within). Maybe the girl of your dreams will be standing around that corner that your gut begs you to walk towards. You never know what waits around the bend, and that is not a bad thing—it is what makes life so magnificent.

Trust yourself. Know you have what it takes. It is your nature to adapt to circumstances; don’t let your fears convince you otherwise. Let the Universe flow through you at ever moment, and your life will become defined as a radical embracing—you will flourish, and your Light’s Love will never cease expanding.

 

Awakening Anew

Here is the chronological continuation of the journey… the day I made it to Spokane to rejoin my great friends, Peter Nixon, Alan Densmore, and the Jace-man. I wrote this in my journal in scattered short-story-like format. Hope you enjoy!

Awakening Anew

When I awoke to the sun shining through my tent after five hours of sleeping fifty feet off the side of the US-20 in Western Washington after the coldest recorded historical temperature on this particular night, I felt like I was being born again. And thus I shivered in the cold.

5 A.M. Standing on the side of the road, thumb out, desperation in my eyes – please just let me enter your warm car and take me to a place where buildings exist. Long time standing, hands crossed, pleading. Then, a car.

“Thank you, O God!”

Run over to car with gear, toss in back, hop in, close door. Shake hand of and thank Barry, balding Kyle Gass look-alike, the driver. Says he can take me to Mt. Vernon – off the intended course, but must stay true to claim that I will take the first ride that comes. He acquaints me to this new location and warns me about going E on the 20 – says I might get stuck by Cascades in snow and sleet in negative temps with no one passing and nowhere to go. I take his advice as that of a local and thus wiser than my ‘just-passing-through’ consciousness. He calls it that I’m “Kerouacing it” before I tell him that Kerouac has always been the initial seed for this trip. Drops me off at 5-S on an onramp, recommends I go to Seattle than 90-W – still not sold on Seattle – drops me off and says:

“God loves you. Very much.”

“Thank you, Barry, that truly means a lot.”

Downtown Mount Vernon, WA

Stand on 5 onramp for a good forty-five minutes, more comfortable than first position – warmer, more cars passing, better pull-off spot. Morale still low. Eat a great banana, have a good pee, know that there’s a grocery store and coffee shop within a short walk, if need be. Pick-up truck pulls over.

Run ahead. Toss stuff in rainy back. Hop in front. Shake hands with James, forty-something, earring in his right ear.

“Where ya headed?” he asks.

“Everett” (town before Seattle, connects to 2-E, an apparently beautiful stretch according to the great Ryan Campbell and Natalie… the road avoids Seattle, so is thus ideal).

“Good, me too!” he tells me. Much warmth in his seat. “Stuff good back there?”

“Yessir.”

“Cool.”

We drive on for about forty five minutes – his daily commute to support his family of seven – wife and five kids (and him). Says he took an RV trip around with the fam for fifty-eight days back two years ago. Both he and his wife finagled the time off from work. Says Amelia Island off the coast of Georgia is his favorite spot in the country. He’s from St. Augustine, FL – oldest town in U.S.

“But no one ever talks about that and how the Spanish colonized it!” he tells me. He takes genuine interest in my Grad School, especially when I tell him about the teaching-at-a-prison program developed by Chatham, as he is involved in the probation-rehabilitation system, just got a Master’s in Public Administration, and intends to help fix the fragmented system. He warns about the 2-E – says I could easily get caught in the desert, with the rattlesnakes. Drops me at the bus station in Everett at 6:45 AM.

“Maybe they have buses to Spokane…” I realize.

“Yes. They do.”

“Maybe I’ll take one.”

“Yes. I think that’s a very good idea.”

With a handshake, he wishes me good luck in Grad School and drives off to work, having gone at least ten minutes out of his way, making himself late, never complaining. I enter the warmth of the station, get a coffee and breakfast burrito, and write, contemplating my next move, reflecting on the situation.

Signs from within told me to take a break, informed me that I am really pushing my limitations, and reminded me of past times when I pushed too hard and ended up with a broken knee and three cracked front teeth (two separate occasions, mind you). Decided to get the bus ticket -the decision the new world I entered this day told me to make.

I smile, looked down, and finished the most stylistically influential book I have ever read, Girl With Curious Hair by David Foster Wallace. Wrote about the new developing style. I rode the six hour bus to Spokane, got off the bus, and my friends were waiting for me with smiles on their faces.

Hitching through Washington

We are headin’ North.

Ah yes, the blog, much to be said, much to be said.

A little update on where I am: Home. Yes, I have found my way back to St. Louis. I got in two nights ago at about 12:30 and surprised my family. I caught a ride with an awesome young Vietnamese girl named Shorty – we got in contact through Craig’sList RideShare… so it was kind of like online hitchhiking. As this trip developed from a single-minded “I will hitchhike everywhere” view to an inclusive “I want to travel in as many different ways as possible” view, I decided I must try RideShare… and I really didn’t want to get stuck in Rural Kansas. That would have been really lame.

So in Christopher Nolan style, you are getting these stories very unchronologically. If you read my last post on hitching through WA, you saw that I left it as a “To Be Continued.” I will now continue that story.

A little recap: I was following the route Maybo left for me: Ferry over to Whidbey Island, head north, then start heading East along the 20 toward Spokane.

I hopped onto the Ferry to Whidbey Island at 6:45 PM after cruising through Olympic National Park all day with Brett (aka The Man… the best “adventure ride” of the trip, without a doubt). I looked forward to a calming 45 minute ride where I could write and collect my thoughts. Instead, a school bus full of kids came on board and ran around yelling, and their 4-toothed bus driver named Hank sat next to me and told me his life story involving studying English and teaching people how to ride motorcycles.

Got off the Ferry, and walked out onto the island. Was prepared to camp here if it came down to it. Hank told me which direction to go, so I stood by the Ferry dropoff with my thumb out. An intense looking guy who I had seen on the Ferry rolled down his truck window and said “I can take you up around Coupeville, but that’s just a few miles up the road.” “That’s fine,” I said. Tossed my stuff in his truck bed, hopped in, and started driving up the island with him. His name is Olie, and he is a retired Air Force pilot. He told me a brief history of the island and how it was a naval base and the home of many officers. The island was tremendously beautiful and tranquil, an ideal vacation getaway. Olie dropped me on the side of the 101 near his place, 16 miles from the northernmost point of the Island, and he drove away, his final words being, “Good luck, kid.”

Goog-image photo of Historic House on Whidbey Island

My journal entry for the spot at which I stood began: “So remarkably peaceful here – Sun is out, blue skies, thin grey clouds in distance – quiet calm, birds chirping.” Yes, this place was fantastic. I stood in this spot for thirty or so minutes, said no to a ride from a guy heading just a few miles up the road, and decided that was a mistake – I should take all the rides I can get here. Then a small car stopped. The window came down, and I saw a young kid blaring rap or dub step or techno or something in that mix. “Hop on in, man!” he yelled. Hopped in, and the 22 year old kid introduced himself to me as Derek. We were laughing and grooving and he said he could take me to Oak Harbor, where he currently lives. Derek told me stories of his life, and I sat enthralled at the level of experience he had attained. Entirely open about his history, he told me about he youthful rebellious days, and I mean rebellious days. He told me about how he used to be addicted to heroin, how he used to steal from random folks on the island, how he had been kicked out of his house, how he dropped out of high school, how he cruised the country getting messed up and getting hookers. I was not uncomfortable, for I could tell I was talking to a young man reflecting on his past through transparent vision. He said he went over to California a few years back and stood on the side of the road with a sign that said “Cheap Labor” and had a picture of scissors under it. In no time, someone stopped and gave him a job picking marijuana, and soon he was making a few thousand dollars a month. Now, he is finishing his work at a restaurant and just got a job that he plans to do for the rest of his life, a corporate job with much stability.

We stopped at a WalMart and Derek told me about a small shed that I could crash in, a shed he lived in for a few months when he had no home. I told him I’d try to continue as I still felt much energy. I asked him if he could take me a little further up the road, to the outskirts of town, and he agreed. As he drove me further, he told me about how when he was younger he got hit by a semi-truck and broke his back and neck. “How are you alive?” I asked him. “Because I can’t die,” he told me, continuing to tell me stories of separate instances in which he was shot, stabbed, and beaten to a pulp. “But you know, man,” Derek continued, “the way I see it now, I had it all coming. I was a little piece of shit for a while, and I worked up some bad Karma – I’m big into Karma, man. So I had to have that happen to me to even the score. And now, I regret that stuff a little, but I’m just so happy to be alive, and I just want to help people, you know? That’s why I’m taking you further up the road, to help you.” I was inspired as his transformation, and he was not lying – he took me miles out of his way to put me in a better position to catch rides. We had a kind parting when he dropped me off, and I told him that I will write about him, that I have been inspired by his transformation and current understanding of balance. He gave me his number, and we parted ways.

I crossed to the other side of the road, hoping at least to make it off Whidbey Island. I was just ten miles away from Deception Pass, the bridge continuing off of the island, a fantastically beautiful bridge to which many people travel from all over the world to see. Once again, a truck pulled over in front of me.

I hopped in, tossed my stuff in the back, and stared into the compassionate and gentle eyes of a young man dressed in all Camo. He shook my hand and introduced himself as David. His eyes glinted with curiosity, and after he told me he’s in his early 20s and in the Army, he began to ask many questions about my trip. Each question he asked, he was genuinely interested, and his knowledge of the outdoors was reflected as his poignant questions directed themselves toward the subject of my tent, my bag, and my provisions. He seemed inspired by the idea of hitchhiking, and he told me that he stopped to pick me up because he has hitchhiked briefly in the past and knows that it can be rough just standing there on the road. He told me of his incredibly diverse travels to 15 or more countries, and I wished we could have driven further together, for the conversation was great, and his kindness was inspiring. He went a bit out of his way and dropped me off at the Southern end of Deception Pass, and much to my enthrallment, I realized that the Sun was just setting over the horizon and the tremendous kaleidoscopic sunset colors were reaching across the open Sky. David wished me luck and told me that he had never heard of anyone trying to hitch as far as me. I took that as a compliment. He gave me his phone number, and he told me that if I need anything that I could call him. “I’ll bring you firewood, if you need it,” he told me. David spoke with such directness, such compassion, and we took a photo together right where he dropped me off.

David and I at Deception Pass

Just South of Deception Pass, where David dropped me off, there is a State Park. The site was so spectacularly beautiful, and I considered camping there for the night. I walked down toward the beach and marveled as the streaking setting sunlight stretched even further across the Sky, revealing delicate shades of Pink and Blue to calm my mind. How lucky was I that I arrived here, the most beautiful place of the entire island, right at Sunset? Truly incredible how it worked out.

I walked across the bridge and stared down at the furious water below, the tide pulling in several directions simultaneously, and I wondered how anyone gets to a point where jumping off of the bridge becomes a good idea. I stared out into the Tremendous Colors and thought back to the beginning of my journey, to seeing my cousin Jenny in Palo Alto, to staying with my good friend Averi, to exploring San Fran with my British Pals Nathan and Stefan, to cruising in the Rig with P-Nixon and Dens, to Sasquatch. What wonder has come my way!

Sunset Seen from Deception Pass (Bridge)

I finally made it across the long bridge and decided that if I could not get another ride I would hike down to the beach and sleep there for the night. I knew I would be cold, as the winds were extreme and the weather was quite cold, but I knew I would be fine for a night. I stood across the bridge by a nice pullout and saw the Sky gradually darken. I looked back to the bridge and saw a Bald Eagle soaring over the pass, the perfect embodiment of freedom – Bald Eagle through the Sunset Over the Ocean in the Homeland Country. Then a van pulled over a hundred yards in front of me.

Not sure if they were pulling over to give me a ride, I approached tentatively. A woman got out of the passenger seat, and through the darkness of the evening I saw her smiling. She entered the back seat of the van, and she greeted me through a thick Spanish accent. She let me sit in the front seat, and she introduced herself as Sonia. I hopped in front, and her smiling husband at the wheel introduced himself as Cuci. They were from Mexico and had lived on the Island for many years. I briefly practiced my Spanish with them, began to feel self conscious, and reverted to English. They were heading to an Indian Casino 15 or so miles down the road, in the direction I wanted to go. I cruised with them, and when we arrived, Cuci invited me to join them. “Sure, why not!” I responded. We went into the Northern Lights Casino on the Swinomish Indian Reservation, and they left the van unlocked so that I could leave if I so desired. I laughed at the absurdity of the situation as I gambled away some money. I decided to walk around and pick the first slot machine that really caught my eye, and when I saw one with a giant picture of a Mayan Temple on top of it, I knew I had found my place. I made twenty bucks on that machine. Then I lost it all in Roulette. I drank a delicious beer. Some lady taught me how to play the slots… she was an expert. People were strange here, and even though I was tempted to just stay here for the night and head further in the morning, I knew I could not do this. My destiny for the night was the side of the road.

Casino Lights on Swinomish Reservation

I said goodbye to Cuci and Sonia and continued onward. I tried to swindle the hotel to let me stay for about twenty bucks, but they would not go below their $80.00 offer. I went back to the 20 and headed east, a route that took me to a tremendously lengthy on-ramp and a VERY LONG and TERRIFYING bridge. I decided to cross it, my mind thinking, “My Mom would kill me if she knew I was doing this,” for the bridge was at least a mile long, the night was extremely dark, and the shoulder was very very thin. Each time a car flew by, I felt a jolt of fear that I’d get hit. I would sit on the bridge’s edge, shine my headlamp wildly, and make sure they knew I was there. Finally, I was across the bridge.

It was after midnight, and I was feeling very isolated, albeit relieved to have survived the passage over the bridge. I looked at my phone and had a text message from P-Nixon, and I felt some soothing affirmation, realizing I am never alone. I decided to post up at the next patch of grass I found, and soon I came across a small outlet called “Skagit Wildlife Recreation Area,” a place I learned is reserved for hunters. I walked around, found a semi-dry spot, and laid out my sleeping bag, not wanting to pitch my tent and separate myself from the world. Soon I realized I was freezing my ass off even under my layered wardrobe and semi-decent mummy bag, and so I pitched the tent and crawled into greater comfort. I dozed into half-asleepness several times but was always jolted awake by the roar of a passing car made all the more unsettling by the accompanying blinding headlights that would shine through my tent and into my eyes, causing me to jerk awake and wonder where I am until I realized my strange and freaky scenario, realizing my position, fifty feet from the side of Highway 20. I rose with the first sign of the Sun, no more than an hour of very disturbed sleep, determined to get the hell out of this shivering cold and move on further toward Spokane.

Tent on Side of Highway 20

I will leave you with a poem I wrote just after I arrived at my place on the side of the road, written at 12:28 AM.

 

Walking across a bridge
with fifty pounds of gear
on your back,
the shoulder diminishes
and every headlight approaching
from behind
ignites a new fear.

Days of traveling,
lower body exhaustion-
positive fortune
to negative impulse,
light of headlamps
statically infused
with nothingness
around.

Cars down the highways
exhaust fumes pumping
discovering parts of Amerika
existing beyond the fears-

as uncomfortable as can be
becoming comfortable.

 

 

To be continued once again…

Rhythmic Prose

Howdy y’all,

I was thinking today: isn’t it strange that one of the most controversial claims one can make today is: everything is where it needs to be. Think about it: if you abide by a stance that all is well in the world, you are immediately barraged by the negative side of life, accusations flying at you such as: “What about all the suffering of third world countries?” or  “Well then why are so many people dying when they don’t need to die?” or “Technology has destroyed us! A more primitive society would be a happier society!” or “America is fucked!” To me, these mentalities express an idea that something needs to be fixed, that something is wrong with the world. The path I’ve followed has led me to realize that these are judgments upon the world, and further developments of that path have led me to believe that we are not in a position to judge. Sue me, but if it goes to the courtroom, I’ll get all Biblical on your ass:

 Judge not, that you be not judged.  For with the judgment you pronounce you will be judged, and with the measure you use it will be measured to you.  Why do you see the speck that is in your brother’s eye, but do not notice the log that is in your own eye? Or how can you say to your brother, ‘Let me take the speck out of your eye,’ when there is the log in your own eye?  You hypocrite, first take the log out of your own eye, and then you will see clearly to take the speck out of your brother’s eye. (Matthew 7: 1-5)

Really what I have come to realize is that I simply prefer to focus on the positive. Thus, I wrote what follows:

This trip I have done a lot of journaling with the intent of developing “my style” of writing. It has been fun and  extremely influenced by David Foster Wallace. Lately (since Oakland), I have been writing various exercises in what I call “rhytmic prose.” I guess it’s similar to “prose poetry”, but I feel it is different (though, granted, I am no expert on prose poetry). Today, sitting outside of the Corner Bakery on 16th street in Denver, I wrote something that may have been a step forward in terms of my comfort with this way of writing that may/may not be original (how can I know? I have read so little). It’s a reflection on where I am in terms of my thoughts while following a simple “da-da…da-da…da-da…” type rhythm, definitely influenced by music. The commas are kind of like rests in musical language, one comma being a quarter rest, two commas being a half rest. Let me know if you feel the rhythm with it and/or dig it!

Rhythm as a Continuous Sine Wave

Rhythmic Prose Exercise: 6/17/2012: Denver, CO

I laid up late last night , , and contemplated mysteries my mind in such a fruitful place upon the termination of the Nolan film entitled The Prestige. . . , Confusion in the mind did bring more thoughts of greater clarity and soon I found myself transcending riding out a gentle storm and feeling many answers from the bottom of my mind. ,

One thing that I thought of is the place of Negativity within the modern world. I sat there contemplating where I am and what I’ve come to do and wondered how it came to be that I’ve been feeling so damn happy as I face these days. While thinking I began to feel some guilt, reflecting on the honest thought that I have an inheritance and I can do some things in life that many cannot do. But then I went a little further fashioning my thoughts to see that happiness cannot depend on how much money one does find within one’s purse or pouch – happiness becomes a state of mind that comes to be when one does see that all that she will ever need is deep within the limits of the Soul. . . ,

So why then negativity? The rich it seems are no more prone to happiness than he who lives upon a dirty street – for one need not to look too hard to see the suffering in those who find themselves endowed in loot and jewels – the angry faces, , ceaseless craving , , inability to open up to new ideas – the suffering that comes when one prefers to lock away one’s thinking mind.

So happiness is there for all and depends not upon one’s situation, but rather on the placement of his mind. .  One perceives what he beileves and knows that to be positive creates a world of harmony where everyone does strive to be within a calm tranquility and all desires come to be embraced within a greater Sphere of deep communication of the Higher Levels we all feel, as we travel down into our depths and see our face of shining Light that beckons us to win the fight over ourselves to attain mastery of what we want to come to be. . . . Then we travel forward , , deep within our Love , , spreading our Compassion to the World that greets our Eyes.

With open eyes it seems to be
That humans prefer negativity.

But still we have the chance to See and Be within the Harmony and be the Change we wish to See by walking toward Simplicity and being by the side of those we Love.

Cultivate compassion, B,
and over time you’ll come to See
that Happy Positivity
will set the people free…

One with the Eternal Sea.

Some Thoughts and Stories from Denver

*I lost the battery for my camera. My apologies for no pictures in this post.

**Note after completing post: I intended for this post to be a reflection of my thoughts. It became a story of a wild day. Enjoy!

Hello,

I cannot currently relate all that has happened (this is the standard interest-building intro sentence [I have learned that this is called “metafiction” when the author acknowledges aspects of the craft of fiction within the fiction itself {but then again this will not really be fiction, as I am relating to you the truth of my current experience <unless fiction is that relating of mind itself>}]).

I simply must tell you that I am in such a good place, and I could not be more thankful for it. I am currently staying with Cody, one of my great friends from high school, and his awesome, open, kind, and supportive roommates. I am listening to “Om Nashi Me” by Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros a lot (and it just came on a commercial… not the most ideal outlet for a song, but possibly necessary these days for a band that wants to make a living simply by being a band). I did not plan to be here in Denver… it just happened (as things tend to do [David Foster Wallace Reference <as are these footnote-style statements : but hey, gotta be original : >]), and now I am here with friends, exactly where I need to be, so close to the end of the journey.

Two days ago, I successfully hitchhiked from Missoula, MT all the way to Denver (right about 900 miles). I got on the road at about 8:30 AM, dropped off by three of the trips greatest legends, Dens, Jace-man, and The Rig (many more legends of this trip [Peter Nixon] so do not feel like this designation is mutually exclusive [let me know if these parentheses-thought-revealing-statements are annoying or funny or neither or you just don’t give a sh**]). I stood for a while, planning to head as far east on the Highway 90 that I could get, further planning to start heading South around Madison, WI. I got a ride from a kind old lady named Helen (who was also from Helena, MT) who was on the way to Butte to see the dentist. I soon realized that Butte was over 100 miles away (long story why she was going that far), so I was stoked. She dropped me at a great ramp in Butte, and even though I lost my journal somehow during/just before the ride, I was happy to be further down the road so early in the day.

I gathered my things in the parking lot of a nearby gas station, and as I walked toward the on ramp, a sunglasses wearing truck driving camo-hat wearing smiling 50 some year old man laughs and says: “Hey buddy! Are you on the road??” “Sure am, my friend!” I respond. “That’s awesome man! Where ya headed?” “Headed East, mate. And yourself?” “I’m headed into North Dakota! I got a job up there I’m heading to. I’m visiting my sister right now, but if you’re still on the road when I come back, I’ll give ya a lift as far as I can!” “Awesome dude, thanks a lot!” “Good luck buddy!” he said.

I stood on the on-ramp for about 40 minutes (a rough stand, as a really small and annoying fenced-in little dog was right next to the ramp and barked shrilly at me for about 3/4 of the time I stood there) and got a lot of nasty looks, a few laughs, and even a few honks. I was feeling very tuned in, very pleased with where I was, when I heard screeching tires behind me, followed by an ecstatic yell- “Wooooh!! Let’s do it, man!! Hop on in!” It was the pickup truck driver from the gas station. Hopped in the car. “I’m Kevin! Welcome to my vehicle!” “I’m Sean, man! Kevin’s my brother’s name, too!” “Fuckin’ right, man!” We checked out Kevin’s map, and it turned out that he was not heading north until around Billings, MT – 230 miles down the road. Kevin took me the whole way, and there was not a moment of silence during the whole ride. He drank Monster as he drove and told me heartfelt, honest, and compassionate stories about his wife, his daughters, his dogs, his drug-filled youth, his difficult childhood, and his work. He is a laborer who works with masons on a job site (“I do the work, and they get all the credit!” he told me).  Work has been really slow lately, so he is heading to North Dakota for a 4 week jo, where he’ll live and work 7 days a week (“Cause I’m going there to work. What else would I do? See a movie or something?”). His wife was sad to see him go, but through a tearfelt parting they knew that he must make this money, and when he talked to her on the phone during the drive, I heard in his voice how much he loved her. “You’ll never believe what happened!” he started saying to his wife. “I was in Butte, visiting my sister, and I met this young guy standing on the road, and he’s hitchhiking around the country! We’ve been driving together and talking and laughing and just having a great time, baby!” After a silence during which his wife spoke through the phone, he said, “No, baby, he’s not like that! He’s not one of those crazies! He’s a writer! He went to college already and he studied philosophy and now he’s going to become a writer in Pittsburgh! It’s not like that!” I chuckled.

When we arrived in Butte, Kevin turned to me and said, “Buy you lunch?” I felt a little bad, as he is certainly not a wealthy man, but due to his positivity and persistence, I agreed. “Let’s get Subway! I love Subway!” We went into Subway and got Avocado sandwiches (and it was free cookie day, so we both went with what my Dad taught me is amazing – White Chocolate Macadamia Nut cookies). He gave me a Monster and I drank it and felt it burning my esophagus. We got back in his car, moved along, and reentered the highway. I considered getting out in Billings, as it’s the biggest city in Montana, but I figured I’d take Kevin’s ride for as far as he would take me. He took me onto the I-90 where it splits from the I-94N (toward North Dakota), 7 or 8 miles out of Billings, and he dropped me on the side of the highway. Not good… you don’t want to be trying to catch rides on the side of an interstate where the cars are speeding by at 75 MPH. We had a kind parting, and Kevin insisted on loading me with supplies, giving me a bunch of jerky and string cheese, a Powerade, and several cold Coors cans. We hugged, and he turned around on the highway, yelled “Good luck, my friend!,” and continued on. I was on my own, on the side of the road, lugging around all my crap, and the first sign I came to informed me that the closest town is 40 miles down the road. Oh shit.

This is not good. I start freaking out a bit. No one would stop here. I was “fucked,” as they say. I was literally surrounded by nothingness, and that nothingness expanded hundreds of miles to the massively distant Montana horizon. I seized this isolated opportunity and started yelling swear words at the top of my lungs… it helped a little bit. I threw such a pity party for myself, thinking I was screwed, that I’d never get back to St. Louis in time for my older brother Mike’s bachelor party (8 days away), that I was going to perish out here in the Montana openness and become the next Chris McCandless (or be remembered as a complete moron). I walked miles with 50 or 60 pounds of stuff in the beating sun, sweating my ass off, hoping that around the next bend would be some small exit, discovering that around each bend was an expanse more massive than the one I was currently within. I held my thumb out, looked at passing cars with a pleading look in my eye, and cursed at my situation. Then I began to remember something Kevin told me when we were discussing the “lows” of the journey: “Well you can’t get too caught up in it man! I mean it was your decision to come here! This is what you’re out here for!” His wise words began to help me, and I soon felt myself becoming calm, humbled, albeit slightly delirious. I continued on, starting to feel a bit dizzy, contemplating stopping and laying down, when through the blurriness I saw a truck pull off the road 50 yards ahead. “It can’t be…” I thought. I had been walking for hours. The truck began to reverse towards me. “Wow… just wow…”

I came to the window, and I looked inside to see a large Native American man with a big gun laying right between the two front seats. I was not afriad… I was just stoked to have a ride. “Where you headed, my friend?” he asked me. “Anywhere but here,” I responded. “Well I can take you to the Crow reservation where I live, and if you have some gas money I can take you to Lodge Grass, a town close to the Wyoming border.” “Yes, I can pay you ten bucks, I’ll take your ride as far as you are willing.” “You’re not some crazy person who’s going to try to shoot me or something, are you?” he asked. “No man, I don’t do that. You’re literally saving my life right now.” “Well I hope you don’t mind that I’m drinking this twisted lemonade while I’m driving, but I am not too drunk.” “No man, it’s fine, I’ll just roll with you.” I hopped in, and he introduced himself to me as Lamar, of the Crow Tribe. Lamar told me about his struggles in life, his children, his woman, and the history of the reservation through which we drove. We passed Little Bighorn, and Lamar said, “That hill there, that’s where General Custer died.” I became fascinated and told him I will read more about it after I return. Lamar took me all the way to Lodge Grass, and I looked at him firmly in the eye, thanked him, and told him that because he picked me up in such a desperate situation, I vow to be a better, more caring, more compassionate person. I told Lamar that he has made me a better human being. He grabbed a blue t-shirt from his truck and gave it to me, saying, “Here. You might need this.” He got out of his car and began to burn this rope-like grass that he has, and he explained to me that his Tribe uses it for cleanses. He lit the top and swept it over his body, showing me how to do the cleanse. He allowed me to cleanse myself as well, and he gave me the grass, saying “Take this, in case you need it.” I hugged him, thanked him, near tears, and he turned around, heading back home.

The time was 6:30. I stood on this exit in this tiny town, no more than three cars riding the on-ramp in the span of two hours, and I felt so peaceful, so humbled. The weather was fantastic, the sky was blue, and I grabbed the leftovers of my Subway sandwich Kevin bought me. When I pulled out the sandwich, something fell out. Money. $60.00. I did not put it there. The only explanation is that when I ran in the Subway to use the bathroom after Kevin and I ate together, he slipped the money in for me to find later. He never mentioned it, and he never asked for thanks. To find it, in the situation in which I found myself, was almost too much, and I felt tears riding up my bowels and through my throat before I stifled them as I tend to do.

After two hours of standing there, I decided I’d just stand on the side of the I-90, figuring that even though it’s unlikely anyone will stop, at least cars are passing by, and therefore the chances were better. Deep down, I was figuring I was going to crash here in my tent on the side of the road for the night and hope I could get a ride early in the morning. I meditated on my knees, gave up many thanks, threw away trash into a nearby trash can, and walked to the side of the highway. I stood there for quite some time, not getting many glances, enthusiastically trying to get a ride. Then I remembered what Helen from Helena told me: “I saw your guitar and figured that you couldn’t be that bad!” I laughed, grabbed my guitar, and leaned it on front of me, clearly in vision, under my sign that says “NEED A RIDE! PLEASE.” The next car that passed pulled over.

I ran to the car, stoked, and asked him where he was going. He was a fairly young guy, around 30, quite large, a bit intimidating, Texas license plates on his SUV. “I’m headin’ back to Texas. I can take yuh as far as yuh want, so long as it’s on my route.” I checked out his route in his phone and saw he was not continuing East for too much longer before cutting South. Then I saw that he was going through Denver. “Hmmm…” my mind said. I have a few very good friends who live in Denver. Denver isn’t too far from St. Louis. I could probably crash there for some time. “Do you think I can ride with you all the way to Denver?” I asked him. “I don’t care man, whatever you want.” “Sweet!” It was about 8:30 or 9PM. We estimated that we’d be in Denver around 3AM. He introduced himself to me as Nick, and he intended to drive all the way to southern Texas without stopping, over 24 hours away.

At first I thought Nick and I would not have great conversation, as we seemed to be a bit distant, and he seemed a bit serious. Soon I saw how mistaken I was. Within about twenty minutes of conversing, we began to talk about spirituality, and he told me incredible paranormal stories about his recent experiences with an ouija board. He told me about “Spirit Guides” and said that he witnessed his mother contacting her guide through the board. He told me what the board told them, and as skeptical as I felt myself, there was no denying the Truth of what the board said. I told him that my brother recently saw a ghost in our house, so now more than ever I believe in a paranormal realm. Our time flew by. We talked about the Mayans, about dimensions, and he listened closely as I told him about “Dream Yoga,” something I just got a glimpse of in Spokane with Peter Nixon, related to us by an incredible Tibetan master. Nick and I shared stories and laughs, and as we continued, he began to offer more of his things to me. He gave me food, and I gave him some food. I smoked a few cigarettes with him. We stopped at a gas station, and he bought me a coffee. He really wanted to help me out. I got in contact with my buddy Cody who lives in Denver, and he graciously offered his couch for the night, telling me he’d keep his phone next to him so he’d wake up when I arrive. Nick drove me all the way to Cody’s doorstep, and every time I thanked him and told him how much he was helping me, he simply responded, “I don’t care at all,” or “I’m enjoying the company.” I shared my blog with him, shook his hand firmly, and thanked him for his compassion. He took off down the road.

Cody came out and let me into his place, groggy, probably pissed off at my untimely arrival, but kindly saying, “We’ll talk about it all tomorrow. I’ll save my questions for then.” He set me up on his couch, headed to bed, and I laid down with a fan blowing onto me, amazed at where I was, at how far I’d come this day, at the incredible lows, at the unexplainable highs, at my luckiness, at the Good Universe and all that it continuously provides. I now sit here in Denver, filled with even more new and great experiences, meeting incredible new people, catching up with old friends, ready to head back to St. Louis in a few days. The journey has almost come full circle. There is no better place for me to currently be than here in the great Mile High City with old friends. Thanks for listening.

Hitchhiking Lessons

This may be the last update I can give on this trip. In about an hour I’m heading out with Alan Densmore and Jace-man to Glacier National Park, hopping back on the rig. After that, I will begin hitching back to St. Louis (about 1,800 miles to cover… quite a foreboding challenge). I must be back by June 23rd, so I will get as far as I can and, if need be, take a bus the rest of the way.

Before getting to Spokane a few days ago, I hitched for several days straight. I caught 13 different rides and covered a little over 400 miles in Western Washington, mostly on the peninsula. Instead of giving you a long and detailed and intricate account of everything done, I will give you a brief description of each ride and where it came in the journey.

1) Deva- I met Deva, an incredibly funny, spiritual, energetic, and kind woman, in Portland through CouchSurfing, and she kindly let me stay at her place. We had a great time hanging and exploring the city a bit and digging Last Thursday Street Fair and the wild people we bumped into. When I told her it was time for me to leave and head to Astoria (land of the Goonies), she jumped on board and drove me there. We took a few great State Highways to get there, explored small towns along the way, checked out Cannon Beach (the place where those rocks are in the Goonies that tell them they are on the right track), and camped illegally on an awesome beach along the Columbia River. The night was wild and included a very mysterious truck parked right near us for hours (ended up being a young couple making out) as well as a cop who approached us at 2 am and, despite the fact that he could have given us a $400 ticket, let us off free… nice jolly man.

Friends hanging on Van at Last Thursday

We packed up the next morning and got breakfast and Deva and I said goodbye to one another. Now in Astoria, my intent became to travel north along the 101 and see where it took me.

Haystack Rocks (From the Goonies)

Deva and I in Cannon Beach

The Goonie House

2) Cop #1 – I left Deva and walked about 2 miles with my gear until I got to the gigantic 4+ mile bridge that crosses from Astoria into Southwest Washington. My intent was to walk over the bridge. I got to the base and saw a large sign: “NO PEDESTRIANS.” I hesitated a moment but continued on, for I realized, I MUST cross this bridge – this is the way I MUST go. I walked along the shoulder and around the long on ramp and passed about four more identical signs. Continued on, walked past the traffic guard with a nod, and right when I got past her, I heard a shout from behind “Hey! HEY!! STOP!!” Turned around to see a cop running towards me. Shit. He told me he could arrest me. I told him I know, but that I must cross this bridge. “Well, I’m set on getting across anyways, so I guess I can give you a lift,” he told me. “Really? Sweet!” I tossed all my stuff into the back seat and rode in the back seat of this cop car (new experience) all the way across the bridge, talking to the kind cop, telling him that I was going to write positive things about him on my blog. Told him about the hitching, and he dropped me across the bridge, saying “You can probably get a ride here, should be fine. But be careful – it’s a crazy world out there.” Then he left.

3) Maybo – I stood across the bridge and conversed kindly with the traffic attendants (one of whom gave me food). Deva and I had written a message of compassion in a bottle (a wine bottle), so I tossed it into the river and watched it float away toward the Pacific. After about ten minutes, a man stopped his truck. “Where ya headin’?” he asked in a gruff and hardly distinguishable tone. “North!” “Hop on in!” he said. His name is Maybo. Maybo took me about 15 miles up the road to his house in Naselle just off the WA-401, close to where the 101 picks up. He said he’d make me an avocado sandwich, and he did. “Do ya like whiskey?” he asked. “Sure,” I said. He went on to pour each of us a glass, and before I had finished mine, he was about four in. By the time I would have liked to depart, Maybo was wasted… wasn’t getting a ride with him. I hopped on board. We drank whiskey and Busch til about 11PM, talking and bullshitting (I could understand about 1/3 of the words he said), and playing darts. He ended up letting me stay in his camper (AMAZING camper with heating and a full sized bed), woke me up at 6am, made me a 3 egg and ham breakfast, allowed me to take a hot shower, and dropped me off at the 101. An extremely hospitable, kind man.

Maybo and I when he dropped me off in the morn

4) Sisters – got a ride pretty quick by two sisters on their way to work. A nice convo, they took me about 20 or so miles up the road to Raymond, WA, and dropped me at a gas station. They asked for my name, so they can find my book when it gets published.

5) Sam – got picked up by Sam pretty quickly – he was able to drive me to Aberdeen, 25 miles, about 40 minutes or so. Sam is from Cambodia, and he lived there and fought during the 70s Civil War. After that, he moved to the States, where he raised a family. I listened as he told me about his wife who divorced him and took everything he had… he was on his way to a Casino to deal blackjack – one of his two jobs, his other one picking berries. I listened, amazed at the depth of his experience, but even more amazed at the perpetual smile upon his face, the compassion with which he treated me and his situation. He dropped me off and gave me his number and said if I go to Cambodia, I can stay with him, for after one more year, he will move back.

With Sam

6) Cop #2 (Sean) – I was stuck in Aberdeen for about 2 and a half hours, sitting on a bridge, getting nasty looks (if any). A guy across the street had a St. Louis Cardinals shirt on, so I approached him to ask if he was from St. Louis. As I got closer, he got tense and said “What do you want?” He was wary the whole time, just cause he had seen me with my thumb out.

Stuck in Aberdeen

I strummed my guitar and wrote a song called “Stuck in Aberdeen” (pretty Dylan-esque with a touch of Creedence), and people nodded and smiled but did not stop. I finally got out my sign and wrote in permanent ink “NEED A RIDE! PLEASE.” Maybe had told me that hitching is illegal in WA, so I had to be careful. I looked up after writing the sign, held it up without looking, and saw to my horror that a cop was literally right there, passing by, my sign held basically in his face. “Shit shit shit!” I thought. I put the sign down and tried to play it cool, especially when I saw him turning around and coming towards me. “Welp, I’m screwed.” He stopped next to me, rolled his window down, and asked “Where ya headed?” “Uh… just anywhere North, really.” “Well I can take ya about fifteen miles up the road if ya like.” “Uh… yeah sure, sounds great!” So I tossed my stuff in his seat, and I found myself conversing with a cop for the third day in a row, in the back seat of a cop car the second day in a row.

He told me his name is Sean as well, and we had a great convo- Sean is an incredibly down to Earth man who listened interestedly to my stories (he laughed hysterically as I told him the story of the ride from the ambiguously gendered woman who rubbed my leg on the way to Palo Alto). I asked him if hitching is illegal, and he said, “Nah. Just officer discretion. You didnt look like one of them tweakers so I figured I’d help ya out.” He dropped me at a junction, said he had to go take a call, and told me he’d pick me up and take me further if I was still there when he got back.

7) Brett – I stood at a nice pull off on the 101 for about two minutes, got out my journal to jot a few notes, and looked up to see a car coming right at me. Stepped off the road, and caught eyes with the young guy driving… we nodded to each other, and it was understood that he was picking me up. He got out of his car with a smile on his face and a beanie on his head, and we shook hands. It felt natural… this one seemed correct. “Where ya going?” I asked. “Really anywhere, man, just exploring.” “Perfect, me too!” I said, and I hopped in.

This is Brett. Brett is 27, got laid off from his job in Chicago, and decided to take his car and his amazingly hilarious and awesome dog Lucy and just go. Said he was thrilled to get laid off. He had been traveling for quite some time already, had done a lot of fishing and camping, and was here to explore Olympic National Park. I knew it was correct when he put the music on a minute after I got in and the song was “Helplessness Blues” by Fleet Foxes… we listened to the Seattle Band all through our journey through the National Park, and their words and melodies have never sounded more true.

Rock on Mora Beach

Brett and I had great conversations about working, school, exploring, the beauty of the States, foreign women, John Muir, oysters… list goes on. We stopped off at a beach and marveled at the Washington coastline, walking along, drinking some beers, taking pictures. We continued on and he showed me much compassion, offering me food. We explored some forests and finally came to Forks, WA (which I am told is the setting for Twilight or something). We cut off the 101 and headed West toward Mora beach, fairly close to the most NW part of the Continental U.S. We posted up our tents and continued to the beach for the sunset. The beach was truly wondrous, and I constantly found myself saying “This is the most amazing part of America I have ever seen.” I was not lying. I marveled at the incredible rock structures, the black sand, the magnificent and distorted clouds overhead, the forest just inland, the fallen trees, and as the sun began to descend, the brilliant oranges and pinks and salmon tints spread out across the sky as if it was God’s vast canvas.

Brett and I at Sunset on Mora Beach

Sunset

Rock Formation Across the Pacific

The Tent with Batman Bag (outskirts of Olympic National)

We spent the next day exploring Olympic National Park, and I was in awe at the diversity. We cruised down gentle gravel roads through delicate farmland, rode around the outside of great lakes, and entered Hurricane Ridge, an elevated viewpoint that allows a tremendous view of the Olympic Mountains – when we got there, it was covered in snow, with more snow falling each second. We saw incredible animals, including the hilarious grey jay, several elk, black tailed deer, and little chipmunk dudes. It is difficult to say whether I prefer Olympic NP or Yosemite… they are just so different. Yosemite is POWERFUL, SUBLIME, and Olympic is LUSH, DIVERSE, MYSTICAL. It was amazing being in a rain forest in the United States (the only one we have!). I loved every second of my time at Olympic, and it made it all the more awesome that I got to share it with this awesome dude who picked me up.

Brett took me all the way to Port Townsend where Maybo instructed me to catch a ferry over to Whidby Island. We got oysters and beers and had a good last convo and exchanged info and such and bid each other farewell. On my own once again, I got some Yerba Mate, read Dr. Seuss’ “Oh the Places You Will Go!” (conveniently in the coffee shop, thanks to my awesome friend Cassandra from Las Piramides for recommending it), and continued on.

Grey Jay in Olympic National

Brett with Olympic Mountains

At this point, I must depart. This is a “to be continued” section. Those of you who picked me up later, don’t worry, I will CERTAINLY get to your scene soon, and thanks for coming to check out the blog! I’ll get to it as immediately as possible. But for the moment, Glacier National Park is calling my name! Peace!!