The jump
The loss of control
The near miss
The impact
The aftermath.
Tuesday 11 September 2007
Invincible
Broken ribs, swollen knee, and a cracked tooth. It was inevitable really. Me being who I am, and the series of events being what they were, leading-up one by one, to the unavoidable end.
I’ve been slowly getting back into mountainbiking and there’s this group out there called the Disciples of Dirt. I’ve been meaning to go for a ride with them, but inertia and bad timing were always against me. Until Sunday.
I caught up with them for a ride. Much to my surprise I was still among the best riders. I climbed faster, I descended faster, I was faster. My confidence level was at an all time high.
Then there were the trails – Fun Girl, Cell Block, Riot, and Wine Bottle Junction. They were amazing – jumps, berms, woop-dee-dooos. I was having a blast. I was kicking some ass. I was hitting 3 foot jumps dead on. I was sliding into turns and at the last moment my tire would catch and I was pedaling off to the next thrill. I was zigging and zagging. I was swishing and swooshing. I was hell on wheels.
It all came back to me - how much I love mountainbiking. The control and the loss of control. The near misses. Catching air. Heading straight for a tree and then at the last second with just a twitch of the shoulder missing it by a breath. What a rush!
I’m going to start riding all the time, I’m telling myself. Fuck the bar. Fuck drinking. This is where it’s at. I’m going to ride forever.
My blood is pumping, my senses are finely in tune, and I’m feeling alive. There’s no jump I can’t make, no turn I can’t take, and nothing I can’t do. I’m invincible.
As is often the case, this is the exact moment it all changes.
BINGO is a trail. It seems pretty harmless. It goes down a slight hill, trees packed on each side, little bumps along the way. No big deal really.
I should’ve known better.
“Now if you’re going to jump here, you have to be really careful,” Tim said, “It’s a narrow trail and if you take a jump, and you’re not in complete control when you land, you’re going to be in trouble.”
Now let me tell you a little about Tim. He’s fourty to fifty years old, and twenty of those years have been spent riding up and down these mountains. He’s a good rider. He’s fast. He’s always in control, and he never takes a risk. There in lies his weakness. At least that’s what I’m thinking when he’s giving his warning. “Yeh yeh, yeh,” I’m saying to myself, “That might be all well and good for you, but I’m jumping.” And I ignore everything he says.
Tim rides down first. It’s uneventful. He doesn’t get off the ground once. The jumps aren’t even that big. They’re less than a foot. Easy. Child size. “Come on,” I’m thinking, “catch a couple inches of air at least.” But he doesn’t. He just takes them nice and slow and calm. And all of it is just another shove to that inevitable edge that I’m approaching.
Richard is down at the bottom with his camera taking pictures. Hadn’t I just said jokingly a couple trails ago when he 1st took out his camera, “So, if you’re going to crash, this is the time to do it. Ha, ha." It's just another nail in my coffin.
“I’ll show these guys how it’s done,” I say to myself. I hop on my bike and clip in the pedals, feel the solid combination of gravity, torque, and soil. I grip the handlebars, start the decent, and don’t use my brakes once. If you want to catch air, speed is your friend.
The trees race by, the soil rolls past, all of it a whirl of movement. Then I hit the jump dead on. No problem. Everything in control. Then I land…
BAM!!!
That’s where the trouble begins. I land on yet another jump or bump or unexpected change in the terrain, and then there’s another and another and another. I can’t keep control. I’m doing all I can to keep my bike pointed forward, but the handle bars are bouncing all over the place and the front tire is lifting off the ground and I’m heading off the trail at a speed that says “danger is imminent.”
I miss the first tree. Whew. A brief glimmer of hope is mine. Then I see the next tree and I know there’s no avoiding it. My destiny. My doom.
My fate had been laid out for me like a trail of crumbs, and like a stupid bird I had continued to peck at them hungrily without ever looking at the savage beast that lied up ahead. And now that malevolent creature was standing there with its greedy eyes and sharp, salivating teeth, wringing its hands expectantly, waiting for its prize. WHACK!!! He gets it.
I’m on the ground. I can’t breathe. I’m gasping for air. I’m wondering if anything will ever be the same again. The guys all come running up to me, “Are you OK?” But I can’t speak. I can’t breathe. All I can feel is pain and death, and I want it all to go away more than anything in this world.
I lay there for a while and eventually it starts to wear off. I start to breathe again. All my parts are moving, but damn my back hurts, and my knee, and my ankle. I feel like shit. I’m dizzy. I want to puke. But that all goes away after while.
I lift myself onto my bike and we pedal off. “Do you want to keep riding?” Chris asks as we get back to the road. “I want to, but I’m not sure I can,” I reply, “Are there places I can turn off and go back?” “Sure, all the way up and down.”
So we ride on. But it isn’t the same. I lost my zip, coughed up my mojo. I was leader of the pack. Now I’m just another chump on a bike. And that’s the worst thing about it. Who knows how long it will be to get back to that level of confidence again. But maybe that’s a good thing. I need to be knocked down a few pegs every now and then. It helps keep things in perspective.
I’ve been slowly getting back into mountainbiking and there’s this group out there called the Disciples of Dirt. I’ve been meaning to go for a ride with them, but inertia and bad timing were always against me. Until Sunday.
I caught up with them for a ride. Much to my surprise I was still among the best riders. I climbed faster, I descended faster, I was faster. My confidence level was at an all time high.
Then there were the trails – Fun Girl, Cell Block, Riot, and Wine Bottle Junction. They were amazing – jumps, berms, woop-dee-dooos. I was having a blast. I was kicking some ass. I was hitting 3 foot jumps dead on. I was sliding into turns and at the last moment my tire would catch and I was pedaling off to the next thrill. I was zigging and zagging. I was swishing and swooshing. I was hell on wheels.
It all came back to me - how much I love mountainbiking. The control and the loss of control. The near misses. Catching air. Heading straight for a tree and then at the last second with just a twitch of the shoulder missing it by a breath. What a rush!
I’m going to start riding all the time, I’m telling myself. Fuck the bar. Fuck drinking. This is where it’s at. I’m going to ride forever.
My blood is pumping, my senses are finely in tune, and I’m feeling alive. There’s no jump I can’t make, no turn I can’t take, and nothing I can’t do. I’m invincible.
As is often the case, this is the exact moment it all changes.
BINGO is a trail. It seems pretty harmless. It goes down a slight hill, trees packed on each side, little bumps along the way. No big deal really.
I should’ve known better.
“Now if you’re going to jump here, you have to be really careful,” Tim said, “It’s a narrow trail and if you take a jump, and you’re not in complete control when you land, you’re going to be in trouble.”
Now let me tell you a little about Tim. He’s fourty to fifty years old, and twenty of those years have been spent riding up and down these mountains. He’s a good rider. He’s fast. He’s always in control, and he never takes a risk. There in lies his weakness. At least that’s what I’m thinking when he’s giving his warning. “Yeh yeh, yeh,” I’m saying to myself, “That might be all well and good for you, but I’m jumping.” And I ignore everything he says.
Tim rides down first. It’s uneventful. He doesn’t get off the ground once. The jumps aren’t even that big. They’re less than a foot. Easy. Child size. “Come on,” I’m thinking, “catch a couple inches of air at least.” But he doesn’t. He just takes them nice and slow and calm. And all of it is just another shove to that inevitable edge that I’m approaching.
Richard is down at the bottom with his camera taking pictures. Hadn’t I just said jokingly a couple trails ago when he 1st took out his camera, “So, if you’re going to crash, this is the time to do it. Ha, ha." It's just another nail in my coffin.
“I’ll show these guys how it’s done,” I say to myself. I hop on my bike and clip in the pedals, feel the solid combination of gravity, torque, and soil. I grip the handlebars, start the decent, and don’t use my brakes once. If you want to catch air, speed is your friend.
The trees race by, the soil rolls past, all of it a whirl of movement. Then I hit the jump dead on. No problem. Everything in control. Then I land…
BAM!!!
That’s where the trouble begins. I land on yet another jump or bump or unexpected change in the terrain, and then there’s another and another and another. I can’t keep control. I’m doing all I can to keep my bike pointed forward, but the handle bars are bouncing all over the place and the front tire is lifting off the ground and I’m heading off the trail at a speed that says “danger is imminent.”
I miss the first tree. Whew. A brief glimmer of hope is mine. Then I see the next tree and I know there’s no avoiding it. My destiny. My doom.
My fate had been laid out for me like a trail of crumbs, and like a stupid bird I had continued to peck at them hungrily without ever looking at the savage beast that lied up ahead. And now that malevolent creature was standing there with its greedy eyes and sharp, salivating teeth, wringing its hands expectantly, waiting for its prize. WHACK!!! He gets it.
I’m on the ground. I can’t breathe. I’m gasping for air. I’m wondering if anything will ever be the same again. The guys all come running up to me, “Are you OK?” But I can’t speak. I can’t breathe. All I can feel is pain and death, and I want it all to go away more than anything in this world.
I lay there for a while and eventually it starts to wear off. I start to breathe again. All my parts are moving, but damn my back hurts, and my knee, and my ankle. I feel like shit. I’m dizzy. I want to puke. But that all goes away after while.
I lift myself onto my bike and we pedal off. “Do you want to keep riding?” Chris asks as we get back to the road. “I want to, but I’m not sure I can,” I reply, “Are there places I can turn off and go back?” “Sure, all the way up and down.”
So we ride on. But it isn’t the same. I lost my zip, coughed up my mojo. I was leader of the pack. Now I’m just another chump on a bike. And that’s the worst thing about it. Who knows how long it will be to get back to that level of confidence again. But maybe that’s a good thing. I need to be knocked down a few pegs every now and then. It helps keep things in perspective.
Monday 13 August 2007
The Litmus Test
I was visiting with my old friend Andrea, my new friend Alie, one in the same. She was in the kitchen making us breakfast after her morning jog. I slept in on the couch. Now I was sitting in the kitchen, my feet propped-up on a chair, my elbow on the table, my head resting in my hand, telling one of my stories.
All of a sudden there’s a kid standing in the open front door. Uh oh, what’s he trying to sell? I think to myself, but ask “What’s up?” anyway.
“How much is this?” he asks holding up a Tasmanian Devil stuffed animal.
Oh yeah, Alie’s free box, I remember. “Nothing,” I tell him, “It’s free.”
He spins around, “It’s free mom,” he says from the top of the porch, holding the devil up in the air like he just won a prize.
Then he goes down the steps, out of my view, and I hear him again - “It’s free,” with excitement.
Then I know: The joy of getting something for free? It's pure.
All of a sudden there’s a kid standing in the open front door. Uh oh, what’s he trying to sell? I think to myself, but ask “What’s up?” anyway.
“How much is this?” he asks holding up a Tasmanian Devil stuffed animal.
Oh yeah, Alie’s free box, I remember. “Nothing,” I tell him, “It’s free.”
He spins around, “It’s free mom,” he says from the top of the porch, holding the devil up in the air like he just won a prize.
Then he goes down the steps, out of my view, and I hear him again - “It’s free,” with excitement.
Then I know: The joy of getting something for free? It's pure.
Monday 30 July 2007
Another Side of Oregon
When most people think of Oregon, they think of towering trees and rugged mountains. Here's another side....
Friday 20 July 2007
The Good Samaritan
I spent a couple years in Boston. Those were good years. I spent the weekdays mountainbiking and working from home, and the weeknights at the bars. My friend Rafi and I had a routine. Every Friday we’d start out at a brewpub for pints of beer and mounds of buffalo wings. Then we’d move onto the pool hall where we’d goggle over the pretty barmaids and drink more beer than we should’ve. By 2:00AM we’d be walking over to the nearby IHOP for the post-drunk breakfast. For some reason, at this time, Rafi always got it in his head that he wanted to help out the homeless. But giving away change wasn’t enough for Rafi. No. “Let’s take a homeless person to breakfast,” he’d always say. Luckily the bums just ignored his offers, thinking he was crazy or wanting booze-money instead.
Well this one time we were stumbling along beside Fenway park. Now, during a game, that’s the busiest part of the city. But at 2:00AM on a Friday it’s pretty dead. There’s nothing but dirt, debris, and darkness, and on this particular evening, Rafi and me.
As usual, Rafi started-up again, “Let’s take a bum to get some pancakes,” he said. “Awww, come on Rafi,” I replied weary and hungry, “Let’s just go get something to eat.” But he wouldn’t have it. “No really, let’s take a bum to breakfast.” Then the heavens opened up and gave him hope. There in the distance, about 2 blocks away, was a silhoutte. Rafi started screaming at it, “Hey you! Come here!” Much to my surprise, the guy turned around and started heading our way. Now, if I was walking along a dark, deserted street at 2AM, and two guys were yelling for me to come over, the last thing I’d do is come over. But here this guy was, heading our way, swinging his hands happily at his sides as he walked. I was suspicious.
“We’re heading over to the IHOP,” Rafi said as the guy got up to us, “want to go for some pancakes?”
“What?”
“We’re going to get some pancakes. Want to get some pancakes?”
“Uh, no.”
I figured the matter was settled. “Let’s go Rafi.” I chimed in, “He doesn’t want any pancakes.”
I should have known better.
“Come on,” Rafi said ignoring me, “We'll buy. Let’s go to IHOP and get some pancakes.”
“No thanks man.”
“You don’t want pancakes? Why don’t you want any pancakes? Come on. Let’s go get some pancakes.”
“No man, I’m not hungry.”
“Why don’t you want any pancakes? What are you doing out here walking around the streets at 2 in the morning if you don’t want any pancakes?”
“I don’t know, man. I’m just walking around.”
“What? You can’t just be walking around. What are you doing out here this late at night? Why don’t you want to get some pancakes?”
“I’m just walking,” the guy replied, looking at the ground, hands in pockets, shuffling feet. He was getting uncomfortable, not wanting to come out with it.
“Well if you don’t have anything else to do, you should come with us to get some pancakes.”
That was it. The guy finally broke down and came out with it, his body swayed back and forth with city attitude and confidence, and he said it: “Hey man, I’m just looking to suck some dick.”
“Huh?” Rafi just stood there. Stupified. Mouth gaping open.
“You heard the man," I said taking control, "He wants to suck some dick.” I turned my attention to the guy, “What’s your name?”
“Edwardo."
“Edwardo, nice to meet you. I’m John,” I said and shook his hand, “This is Rafi. Come on Rafi. Let’s go.”
After that, Rafi didn’t ask bums to breakfast anymore.
Well this one time we were stumbling along beside Fenway park. Now, during a game, that’s the busiest part of the city. But at 2:00AM on a Friday it’s pretty dead. There’s nothing but dirt, debris, and darkness, and on this particular evening, Rafi and me.
As usual, Rafi started-up again, “Let’s take a bum to get some pancakes,” he said. “Awww, come on Rafi,” I replied weary and hungry, “Let’s just go get something to eat.” But he wouldn’t have it. “No really, let’s take a bum to breakfast.” Then the heavens opened up and gave him hope. There in the distance, about 2 blocks away, was a silhoutte. Rafi started screaming at it, “Hey you! Come here!” Much to my surprise, the guy turned around and started heading our way. Now, if I was walking along a dark, deserted street at 2AM, and two guys were yelling for me to come over, the last thing I’d do is come over. But here this guy was, heading our way, swinging his hands happily at his sides as he walked. I was suspicious.
“We’re heading over to the IHOP,” Rafi said as the guy got up to us, “want to go for some pancakes?”
“What?”
“We’re going to get some pancakes. Want to get some pancakes?”
“Uh, no.”
I figured the matter was settled. “Let’s go Rafi.” I chimed in, “He doesn’t want any pancakes.”
I should have known better.
“Come on,” Rafi said ignoring me, “We'll buy. Let’s go to IHOP and get some pancakes.”
“No thanks man.”
“You don’t want pancakes? Why don’t you want any pancakes? Come on. Let’s go get some pancakes.”
“No man, I’m not hungry.”
“Why don’t you want any pancakes? What are you doing out here walking around the streets at 2 in the morning if you don’t want any pancakes?”
“I don’t know, man. I’m just walking around.”
“What? You can’t just be walking around. What are you doing out here this late at night? Why don’t you want to get some pancakes?”
“I’m just walking,” the guy replied, looking at the ground, hands in pockets, shuffling feet. He was getting uncomfortable, not wanting to come out with it.
“Well if you don’t have anything else to do, you should come with us to get some pancakes.”
That was it. The guy finally broke down and came out with it, his body swayed back and forth with city attitude and confidence, and he said it: “Hey man, I’m just looking to suck some dick.”
“Huh?” Rafi just stood there. Stupified. Mouth gaping open.
“You heard the man," I said taking control, "He wants to suck some dick.” I turned my attention to the guy, “What’s your name?”
“Edwardo."
“Edwardo, nice to meet you. I’m John,” I said and shook his hand, “This is Rafi. Come on Rafi. Let’s go.”
After that, Rafi didn’t ask bums to breakfast anymore.
Sunday 1 July 2007
Baby Tuna
I only had one serious relationship in college. Mostly it was one nighters. This one time I hooked up with a girl. I’m not even sure who she was or where she came from. I was just partying with some friends and she was there. That’s how it was back then – new people always being there.
Next thing I knew we were going at it in my room and I don’t really remember much more than that. I do remember how I felt the next day – good. Real good. Getting laid will do that to you. I remember walking around campus, feeling on top of the world, like anything was possible. But it didn’t last long.
My friends started giving me a hard time. In the dorms, there are no secrets. And once your friends have something on you, they don’t let go.
The problem was that she was only fourteen. Worse yet, she was fat. Not huge, but not thin either. That’s all it took. The comments started – “Sounds like you had a whale of a time.” Ha, ha. “Want to go to the playground and pick-up chicks?” He, he. I tried to ignore them. I figured responding would just add fuel to the fire. I figured eventually it would all die down on its own accord. And it probably would have. If it wasn’t for Randy.
Randy was the guy that lived in the room next to mine. He was pretty funny- at least until his humor was aimed at you. Then he was deadly. One day we were all in the cafeteria. I was sitting at the table where I always sat - the table where all the guys from my floor sat. It was right across from the window with the dish washer conveyer belt. That way we could watch the all girls as they came up with their trays of dirty dishes.
On this day the girls were sparse, so everyone started giving me a hard time instead. They were making the same, old jokes - “Harpoon any whales lately?” Ha, ha. “Yo, Captain Ahab.” Ho, ho. Then Randy uttered the phrase that would turn the next few months of my life into a living hell – “He’s not harpooning whales. He’s fishing for baby tuna.” The whole table started laughing. From then on it was baby tuna this, and baby tuna that. It was a curse. It followed me everywhere. I couldn’t get dates. I couldn’t eat one god damn meal without a slew of jokes being thrown out at my expense. It got so bad I started avoiding eating at the same time as everyone else.
Eventually it faded away. Randy flunked out. Last I heard he was married and managing the produce section at Safeway. And I redeemed myself with another girl. She was hanging out in our TV lounge. She was a friend of some other girls that were always hanging around. They were there on a Friday night, bored, trolling for guys. I was drunk, she looked good, she was new, she was mine.
Somehow I got her into my room. I don’t remember how, but it didn’t take long. I remember her lying on her back, sexy, with her legs spread open. I remember reaching down and ripping off her panties like a wildman. Somehow I broke her necklace. I pretty much tore at anything that was in my way. It was pure, animal lust.
The next morning I staggered out of the room, rubbing my eyes, wondering what had hit me. The guy in the room across was standing in his doorway. “Have a good night?” he asked with a big smirk on his face. How did he know?
Apparently, everyone knew. I was told her moaning echoed through the hallways all night. I was told one of the guys, Paul, crawled out onto the ledge to get a better look and I faintly remember it. He shimmied over to my window, opened it up, and poked his head in. I don’t know what he thought he was doing. Just couldn’t help himself I guess. I put my hand on his head, pushed him out, and locked the window behind him. It was crazy. We were all defenseless against the passions of youth.
The next few days the girl’s friends kept telling me how much she liked me, how much she wanted to go out with me. But I said no. It was just a one night fling. She wasn’t my type. I was a fool.
But my reputation changed after that. I was a legend. It was no longer “Baby Tuna.” It was “All Night Wes.”
That’s how it is with the masses. Memories are short and loyalty tenuous.
Next thing I knew we were going at it in my room and I don’t really remember much more than that. I do remember how I felt the next day – good. Real good. Getting laid will do that to you. I remember walking around campus, feeling on top of the world, like anything was possible. But it didn’t last long.
My friends started giving me a hard time. In the dorms, there are no secrets. And once your friends have something on you, they don’t let go.
The problem was that she was only fourteen. Worse yet, she was fat. Not huge, but not thin either. That’s all it took. The comments started – “Sounds like you had a whale of a time.” Ha, ha. “Want to go to the playground and pick-up chicks?” He, he. I tried to ignore them. I figured responding would just add fuel to the fire. I figured eventually it would all die down on its own accord. And it probably would have. If it wasn’t for Randy.
Randy was the guy that lived in the room next to mine. He was pretty funny- at least until his humor was aimed at you. Then he was deadly. One day we were all in the cafeteria. I was sitting at the table where I always sat - the table where all the guys from my floor sat. It was right across from the window with the dish washer conveyer belt. That way we could watch the all girls as they came up with their trays of dirty dishes.
On this day the girls were sparse, so everyone started giving me a hard time instead. They were making the same, old jokes - “Harpoon any whales lately?” Ha, ha. “Yo, Captain Ahab.” Ho, ho. Then Randy uttered the phrase that would turn the next few months of my life into a living hell – “He’s not harpooning whales. He’s fishing for baby tuna.” The whole table started laughing. From then on it was baby tuna this, and baby tuna that. It was a curse. It followed me everywhere. I couldn’t get dates. I couldn’t eat one god damn meal without a slew of jokes being thrown out at my expense. It got so bad I started avoiding eating at the same time as everyone else.
Eventually it faded away. Randy flunked out. Last I heard he was married and managing the produce section at Safeway. And I redeemed myself with another girl. She was hanging out in our TV lounge. She was a friend of some other girls that were always hanging around. They were there on a Friday night, bored, trolling for guys. I was drunk, she looked good, she was new, she was mine.
Somehow I got her into my room. I don’t remember how, but it didn’t take long. I remember her lying on her back, sexy, with her legs spread open. I remember reaching down and ripping off her panties like a wildman. Somehow I broke her necklace. I pretty much tore at anything that was in my way. It was pure, animal lust.
The next morning I staggered out of the room, rubbing my eyes, wondering what had hit me. The guy in the room across was standing in his doorway. “Have a good night?” he asked with a big smirk on his face. How did he know?
Apparently, everyone knew. I was told her moaning echoed through the hallways all night. I was told one of the guys, Paul, crawled out onto the ledge to get a better look and I faintly remember it. He shimmied over to my window, opened it up, and poked his head in. I don’t know what he thought he was doing. Just couldn’t help himself I guess. I put my hand on his head, pushed him out, and locked the window behind him. It was crazy. We were all defenseless against the passions of youth.
The next few days the girl’s friends kept telling me how much she liked me, how much she wanted to go out with me. But I said no. It was just a one night fling. She wasn’t my type. I was a fool.
But my reputation changed after that. I was a legend. It was no longer “Baby Tuna.” It was “All Night Wes.”
That’s how it is with the masses. Memories are short and loyalty tenuous.
Monday 7 May 2007
Late Night at Lucky's iv
This if the final of a series. Click here for the 1st.
Distractions were everywhere. Abigail was up at the bar. I couldn’t believe it. Start with how smashed she was when I last saw her, add the pint, the shot, and how ever many more pints and shots she had conned out of men in the meantime, and I figured she’d be home face-planted in bed. “You’re still here?” I asked in disbelief.
“Why? Do you not want me to be here?”
“Quite the opposite,” I said, “Actually I think you’re really cute.” A moment passed. What the hell was I doing? I didn’t know. I walked away.
Kevin was still up at the bar. He told me about some girl who’s number he got. “And she knows I’m only in town for a couple days,” he said.
“Awesome.” I replied, “Then she knows the score. I’m going to have a smoke, but I’ll have a beer with you when I come back.”
Laura and Eric were sitting on the sidewalk with their backs against the brick wall. So, I sat myself on the concrete and proceeded to enjoy the night. We didn't talk much.
"What was your name again? Erin?"
"Eric."
"Right. Eric."
Mostly we sat in silence enjoying the act of smoking – cigarette to mouth, breathe in, hold it, exhale. Do it again and again and again. Relax.
Then Kevin came out and announced the bar wasn’t serving anymore. Bummer, but we all knew that was coming. “Let’s all go get some beer, head back to my motel room, and keep on partying,” he suggested. I knew that wasn’t going to fly. Nobody really responded.
“I’m going to get a beer,” he said.
“If you wait till I’m done with my cigarette, I’ll go with you,” I replied.
He couldn’t wait. He was up and pacing. “How about I go get us four beers from that bar over there and bring them back.”
“I doubt they’ll let you leave with four beers. But if you can get away with it, go for it.” He stayed.
Soon enough it was time to go. Eric, Laura, and I got up and I gave them both a hug. I turned around, and as I walked away Laura said, “See you around John.” “Probably,” I replied and hoped and walked on with Kevin in search of more beer and hoped some more. We roamed the streets like hungry dogs, but it was too late. “The party’s over,” I finally conceded and we said our good-byes. “I come to Eugene all the time,” Kevin said as he took my number.
“Cool. Give me a call next time you’re in town and we’ll party.”
There was still a group of people in front of Lucky’s. I walked right through them. Onward ho.
A block away, out of a well lit alley came Abigail, stumbling about, lost, bombed out of her mind. She came at me with a smile on her face and I couldn’t believe my luck. “Oh,” she said putting her hand on my chest, “I thought you were my friend,” and started to walk on.
“I could be your friend,” I replied.
She stopped, turned around, and faced me, contemplating what had just been proposed. A moment passed, and I knew I had a chance. Then I heard someone shout "Abigail" from the direction of the late night Lucky’s group. Damn. “That must be your friend,” I said conceding my loss and she was gone like a vision in the night.
I stumbled home alone amazed how my mind could be as sharp as a tack, but my body couldn’t even walk a straight line. When I got in, I kicked off my shoes without bothering to untie them, I stripped off my clothes leaving a line of debris from the door to my bed, and plopped down on the beaten mattress.
The next morning I awoke feeling like my head was an ashtray overflowing with beer and cigarette butts. “Why do I do this to myself,” I asked. But I know the reasons why. I also know as soon as I get a chance, I’ll do it all over again.
Distractions were everywhere. Abigail was up at the bar. I couldn’t believe it. Start with how smashed she was when I last saw her, add the pint, the shot, and how ever many more pints and shots she had conned out of men in the meantime, and I figured she’d be home face-planted in bed. “You’re still here?” I asked in disbelief.
“Why? Do you not want me to be here?”
“Quite the opposite,” I said, “Actually I think you’re really cute.” A moment passed. What the hell was I doing? I didn’t know. I walked away.
Kevin was still up at the bar. He told me about some girl who’s number he got. “And she knows I’m only in town for a couple days,” he said.
“Awesome.” I replied, “Then she knows the score. I’m going to have a smoke, but I’ll have a beer with you when I come back.”
Laura and Eric were sitting on the sidewalk with their backs against the brick wall. So, I sat myself on the concrete and proceeded to enjoy the night. We didn't talk much.
"What was your name again? Erin?"
"Eric."
"Right. Eric."
Mostly we sat in silence enjoying the act of smoking – cigarette to mouth, breathe in, hold it, exhale. Do it again and again and again. Relax.
Then Kevin came out and announced the bar wasn’t serving anymore. Bummer, but we all knew that was coming. “Let’s all go get some beer, head back to my motel room, and keep on partying,” he suggested. I knew that wasn’t going to fly. Nobody really responded.
“I’m going to get a beer,” he said.
“If you wait till I’m done with my cigarette, I’ll go with you,” I replied.
He couldn’t wait. He was up and pacing. “How about I go get us four beers from that bar over there and bring them back.”
“I doubt they’ll let you leave with four beers. But if you can get away with it, go for it.” He stayed.
Soon enough it was time to go. Eric, Laura, and I got up and I gave them both a hug. I turned around, and as I walked away Laura said, “See you around John.” “Probably,” I replied and hoped and walked on with Kevin in search of more beer and hoped some more. We roamed the streets like hungry dogs, but it was too late. “The party’s over,” I finally conceded and we said our good-byes. “I come to Eugene all the time,” Kevin said as he took my number.
“Cool. Give me a call next time you’re in town and we’ll party.”
There was still a group of people in front of Lucky’s. I walked right through them. Onward ho.
A block away, out of a well lit alley came Abigail, stumbling about, lost, bombed out of her mind. She came at me with a smile on her face and I couldn’t believe my luck. “Oh,” she said putting her hand on my chest, “I thought you were my friend,” and started to walk on.
“I could be your friend,” I replied.
She stopped, turned around, and faced me, contemplating what had just been proposed. A moment passed, and I knew I had a chance. Then I heard someone shout "Abigail" from the direction of the late night Lucky’s group. Damn. “That must be your friend,” I said conceding my loss and she was gone like a vision in the night.
I stumbled home alone amazed how my mind could be as sharp as a tack, but my body couldn’t even walk a straight line. When I got in, I kicked off my shoes without bothering to untie them, I stripped off my clothes leaving a line of debris from the door to my bed, and plopped down on the beaten mattress.
The next morning I awoke feeling like my head was an ashtray overflowing with beer and cigarette butts. “Why do I do this to myself,” I asked. But I know the reasons why. I also know as soon as I get a chance, I’ll do it all over again.
Thursday 3 May 2007
Late Night at Lucky's iii
This is the 3rd part of an ongoing series. Click here for the 1st.
“Where have you been?” Kevin asked rather loudly. “I’ve been saving your seat. I had to fight people off like dogs.” He seemed to be making a bigger deal out of it than necessary, so I had a seat beside him to soothe his troubled soul.
He was talking to some guy about Iraq. Not good. Politics and drinking don’t mix. Politics and anything don’t mix – except maybe corruption. And I don’t like either. I knew Laura and Eric were just biding their time, waiting for their drinks, and once they had them, they were going to bolt. And that’s exactly what they did. Whatever. If I saw them again, I saw them. If not, oh well. Sometimes you have to leave things to fate.
Damn, I had to go to the bathroom again. That’s how it is when I’m drinking. Once I go, I’m going for the rest of the night. It’s like the floodgates burst open, and as soon as a beer goes in one end, it’s ready to come out the other.
I saw Eric and Laura sitting at a table surrounded by plush couches. When I came out, I got my beer and joined them. My ass sank all the way into the cushion and I propped my boots up on the table. Laura and Eric looked at each other, looked at their feet, and put them up on the table too, like it was the best idea ever and they were surprised they hadn’t thought of it sooner.
The conversation wandered here and there and everywhere. Then somehow we got onto the subject of writing. “What kind of stuff do you write?” asked Eric. “Oh, I write about my life, adventures, you know, drinking and stuff.” I knew I wasn’t explaining it too well. As many times as I’ve answered this question, you think I would’ve mastered a response by now. Finally in frustration I said, “Have you ever read Bukowski?” They both laughed, “Funny you should say that. We were just talking about him today.” So we went on talking Bukowski. “If he was alive today,” Laura said, “I’d be having his babies.”
“Even though he’s a big chauvinist?” I asked.
“I don’t care,” she answered.
Cool. I love girls that can look past all the crap and fall in love with what’s at the heart of a man. Then she started reciting his poems right out of her head. I can’t even remember one line out of a poem and here she was reciting the whole thing. It was too much.
I’m not too good at listening to poetry though – my mind wanders. And all the beer, wine, and cigarette smoke sloshing around in my head wasn’t helping. So I just sat there watching her beautiful mouth form those words and fell more and more in love with each utterance.
Eric went to the bathroom. A good time for honesty I figured. “How old are you Laura?”
“21.”
I didn’t care. I looked into her eyes and said, “You’re beautiful,” with all the confidence and sincerity that it deserved. She kind of flinched. I guess I caught her off guard, but she quickly recomposed herself. “You’re fruitful,” she replied. What the hell did that mean??? I hoped it was a compliment, but I didn’t really care. I wasn’t expecting any kind of response. There are things that build-up inside and if you don’t get them out, they get all twisted and deformed, and then when they finally do come out, and they always come out eventually, they no longer resemble the thing of beauty they once were.
Eric returned. “Let’s have a smoke,” he said. “OK, let’s have a smoke,” she said. “Come on John. Let’s have a smoke.” I followed.
Click here for the 4th and final part.
“Where have you been?” Kevin asked rather loudly. “I’ve been saving your seat. I had to fight people off like dogs.” He seemed to be making a bigger deal out of it than necessary, so I had a seat beside him to soothe his troubled soul.
He was talking to some guy about Iraq. Not good. Politics and drinking don’t mix. Politics and anything don’t mix – except maybe corruption. And I don’t like either. I knew Laura and Eric were just biding their time, waiting for their drinks, and once they had them, they were going to bolt. And that’s exactly what they did. Whatever. If I saw them again, I saw them. If not, oh well. Sometimes you have to leave things to fate.
Damn, I had to go to the bathroom again. That’s how it is when I’m drinking. Once I go, I’m going for the rest of the night. It’s like the floodgates burst open, and as soon as a beer goes in one end, it’s ready to come out the other.
I saw Eric and Laura sitting at a table surrounded by plush couches. When I came out, I got my beer and joined them. My ass sank all the way into the cushion and I propped my boots up on the table. Laura and Eric looked at each other, looked at their feet, and put them up on the table too, like it was the best idea ever and they were surprised they hadn’t thought of it sooner.
The conversation wandered here and there and everywhere. Then somehow we got onto the subject of writing. “What kind of stuff do you write?” asked Eric. “Oh, I write about my life, adventures, you know, drinking and stuff.” I knew I wasn’t explaining it too well. As many times as I’ve answered this question, you think I would’ve mastered a response by now. Finally in frustration I said, “Have you ever read Bukowski?” They both laughed, “Funny you should say that. We were just talking about him today.” So we went on talking Bukowski. “If he was alive today,” Laura said, “I’d be having his babies.”
“Even though he’s a big chauvinist?” I asked.
“I don’t care,” she answered.
Cool. I love girls that can look past all the crap and fall in love with what’s at the heart of a man. Then she started reciting his poems right out of her head. I can’t even remember one line out of a poem and here she was reciting the whole thing. It was too much.
I’m not too good at listening to poetry though – my mind wanders. And all the beer, wine, and cigarette smoke sloshing around in my head wasn’t helping. So I just sat there watching her beautiful mouth form those words and fell more and more in love with each utterance.
Eric went to the bathroom. A good time for honesty I figured. “How old are you Laura?”
“21.”
I didn’t care. I looked into her eyes and said, “You’re beautiful,” with all the confidence and sincerity that it deserved. She kind of flinched. I guess I caught her off guard, but she quickly recomposed herself. “You’re fruitful,” she replied. What the hell did that mean??? I hoped it was a compliment, but I didn’t really care. I wasn’t expecting any kind of response. There are things that build-up inside and if you don’t get them out, they get all twisted and deformed, and then when they finally do come out, and they always come out eventually, they no longer resemble the thing of beauty they once were.
Eric returned. “Let’s have a smoke,” he said. “OK, let’s have a smoke,” she said. “Come on John. Let’s have a smoke.” I followed.
Click here for the 4th and final part.
Monday 30 April 2007
Late Night at Lucky's ii
This is the 2nd part of an ongoing series. Click here for the 1st.
“You going to get another beer?” my new found friend, Kevin, asked. He obviously didn’t know who he was dealing with. “Hell yes I’m going to get another beer,” I said as I reached in to my pocket. I love paying for drinks with cash. You pull out a big wad of bills, flick through ‘em, and toss a few on the bar like they mean nothing, like you’re a big shooter and you’re anteing up for another round. Your cards are shit and the stakes high, but you can’t fold, not as long as there’s a chance.
“I gotta go to the bathroom,” I told Kevin, “will you order me a PBR?” When I got back there was a cute girl in my seat – real cute – and she was talking to Kevin. If it was anyone else, I would’ve booted their ass out of there, but I couldn’t do that to Kevin. I couldn’t ruin his chances. So I walked over to the edge of the bar and waited for my chance at a beer. He was so busy buying a drink for the cute girl, he forgot to buy mine. That’s OK. I understand priorities.
The girl was trashed. She wasn’t quite slurring, but she had that carefree, reckless manner that comes once the booze has knocked down all the defenses. Her name was Abigail and she proceeded to tell us that she doesn’t like to dress nice or wear make-up. No shit. She didn’t need to. As my dad would say, she was a “natural.”
After she got her hands on that shot of whiskey and pint of beer – both compliments of Kevin, she slid back to the seat next to her friend. Kevin watched her slide away with a not all too surprised look on his face. He had been had and he knew it. Ah well, she was out of his league anyway.
I returned to my seat – the seat next to Abigail. “I saw you earlier over at the Black Forest,” I said. “Noooo,” she replied playfully, “I don’t know the place. Never been there in my life.” Did I say she was cute? She was cute. After while she confessed that she bartends there. Then she went back to talking to her friend. Her priorities were obviously getting drunk and talking to friends - not getting picked-up by strange guys. And with looks like hers I couldn’t blame her. She could do that any day of the week. I went back to talking to Kevin.
Later her and her friend went out for a smoke. Knowing that I smoke and not falling victim to that nasty habit himself, Kevin urged me to go out there and strike up a conversation. “I’ll see what I can do,” I told him.
I walked out into the cool night air and lit-up. Abigail and her friend were pretty involved in some deep conversation about something and there was no way for me to jump in without looking like a clumsy, overbearing idiot. So I dropped it. You have to do that sometimes - be willing to let things go. And if you’re lucky, when you let one thing go, another appears in its place.
There’s this girl I’ve been seeing around town and every time I see her, everything else fades. It’s not just her looks, it’s the way she dresses, the way she moves, the way she is. There’s something about her that takes my breath away. And now here she was standing outside of Lucky’s smoking a cigarette. I wasn’t going to blow this opportunity. “I saw you at the bike shop the other day,” I said.
“I remember,” she replied.
“And I saw you earlier at the library.”
“Oh yes, the library,” she said like someone speaking of a far off place full of fond memories. “My name’s Laura,” she said and held out her hand. “My name’s John,” I said and shook it.
“What’s your name?” I asked her friend.
“Erin.”
“Erin?”
“Eric,” he said.
“Oh, sorry. Eric.”
“Do you work at the bike shop,” Laura asked.
“No I just volunteer, building bikes.”
“Cool.”
“I love bikes.”
“Me too”
“There’s something about them. They’re just so…so,” I searched for the word, “sexy.”
“Yeah.” she agreed.
And then at some point, right of the blue, for no reason, she said, “You better be careful, I might bite you.”
What? I know what I heard, but part of me is saying, she couldn’t have said that, and another part is saying, but she did. It’s not that I don’t think a beautiful girl like that could be interested in me, it’s just that I’m 39 and here she is at an age that I’m surprised she’s even able to be at a bar, and is she flirting with me? I shook it off, still not knowing what to say, so I kind of just growled like a cat – “REEEERRR.”
With our cigarettes burnt away and the first bout of conversation extinguished, she said, “Let’s get a beer Eric.”
“OK, let’s get a beer,” he said.
“Let’s get a beer John,” she added and my heart skipped with glee.
Continued in part iii.
“You going to get another beer?” my new found friend, Kevin, asked. He obviously didn’t know who he was dealing with. “Hell yes I’m going to get another beer,” I said as I reached in to my pocket. I love paying for drinks with cash. You pull out a big wad of bills, flick through ‘em, and toss a few on the bar like they mean nothing, like you’re a big shooter and you’re anteing up for another round. Your cards are shit and the stakes high, but you can’t fold, not as long as there’s a chance.
“I gotta go to the bathroom,” I told Kevin, “will you order me a PBR?” When I got back there was a cute girl in my seat – real cute – and she was talking to Kevin. If it was anyone else, I would’ve booted their ass out of there, but I couldn’t do that to Kevin. I couldn’t ruin his chances. So I walked over to the edge of the bar and waited for my chance at a beer. He was so busy buying a drink for the cute girl, he forgot to buy mine. That’s OK. I understand priorities.
The girl was trashed. She wasn’t quite slurring, but she had that carefree, reckless manner that comes once the booze has knocked down all the defenses. Her name was Abigail and she proceeded to tell us that she doesn’t like to dress nice or wear make-up. No shit. She didn’t need to. As my dad would say, she was a “natural.”
After she got her hands on that shot of whiskey and pint of beer – both compliments of Kevin, she slid back to the seat next to her friend. Kevin watched her slide away with a not all too surprised look on his face. He had been had and he knew it. Ah well, she was out of his league anyway.
I returned to my seat – the seat next to Abigail. “I saw you earlier over at the Black Forest,” I said. “Noooo,” she replied playfully, “I don’t know the place. Never been there in my life.” Did I say she was cute? She was cute. After while she confessed that she bartends there. Then she went back to talking to her friend. Her priorities were obviously getting drunk and talking to friends - not getting picked-up by strange guys. And with looks like hers I couldn’t blame her. She could do that any day of the week. I went back to talking to Kevin.
Later her and her friend went out for a smoke. Knowing that I smoke and not falling victim to that nasty habit himself, Kevin urged me to go out there and strike up a conversation. “I’ll see what I can do,” I told him.
I walked out into the cool night air and lit-up. Abigail and her friend were pretty involved in some deep conversation about something and there was no way for me to jump in without looking like a clumsy, overbearing idiot. So I dropped it. You have to do that sometimes - be willing to let things go. And if you’re lucky, when you let one thing go, another appears in its place.
There’s this girl I’ve been seeing around town and every time I see her, everything else fades. It’s not just her looks, it’s the way she dresses, the way she moves, the way she is. There’s something about her that takes my breath away. And now here she was standing outside of Lucky’s smoking a cigarette. I wasn’t going to blow this opportunity. “I saw you at the bike shop the other day,” I said.
“I remember,” she replied.
“And I saw you earlier at the library.”
“Oh yes, the library,” she said like someone speaking of a far off place full of fond memories. “My name’s Laura,” she said and held out her hand. “My name’s John,” I said and shook it.
“What’s your name?” I asked her friend.
“Erin.”
“Erin?”
“Eric,” he said.
“Oh, sorry. Eric.”
“Do you work at the bike shop,” Laura asked.
“No I just volunteer, building bikes.”
“Cool.”
“I love bikes.”
“Me too”
“There’s something about them. They’re just so…so,” I searched for the word, “sexy.”
“Yeah.” she agreed.
And then at some point, right of the blue, for no reason, she said, “You better be careful, I might bite you.”
What? I know what I heard, but part of me is saying, she couldn’t have said that, and another part is saying, but she did. It’s not that I don’t think a beautiful girl like that could be interested in me, it’s just that I’m 39 and here she is at an age that I’m surprised she’s even able to be at a bar, and is she flirting with me? I shook it off, still not knowing what to say, so I kind of just growled like a cat – “REEEERRR.”
With our cigarettes burnt away and the first bout of conversation extinguished, she said, “Let’s get a beer Eric.”
“OK, let’s get a beer,” he said.
“Let’s get a beer John,” she added and my heart skipped with glee.
Continued in part iii.
Wednesday 25 April 2007
Late Night at Lucky's
This is the 1st part of an ongoing series....
The night started off innocent enough – me wandering the campus streets with a half smoked cigarette in my mouth and a closed-off coffee cup filled with red wine in my hand. My intention was to finish that off and call it a night. Then like an unsuspecting fool, I listened to the Stones – Pleased to meet you, hope you guess my name. Nothing revs me up more than the Stones. Defiance, sex, soul – the Stones are the blackest white boys around.
I stopped at home to refill my now empty coffee cup and headed downtown where the action is. Where would it be tonight? The Downtown Lounge? No, I was just there Sunday. Max’s? Too many college kids. Lucky’s? Yeah, that’s where I’m feeling it, Lucky’s.
Along the way I passed the Black Forest. I considered going in. I listened to the forces that guide everything. I listened to my heart. I entered.
The crowd was sparse - just what you’d expect on a Wednesday night. A girl was up on stage playing acoustic guitar and pouring her heart out. She was tall, thin, and beautiful. I fell in love with her right there and then, but I knew that would pass quickly enough.
I tried striking-up a conversation with a few people and they were polite and all, but the Black Forest just isn’t the place for that kind of thing. Everyone’s dressed in tattoos and black and skulls and bones and metal. After while you begin to realize that it’s the kind of place where any attempt to conversate with a stranger is viewed as a weakness. So I had a couple of beers and left.
There was another guy leaving about the same time as me. We both crossed the street. “Where you headed?” I asked.
“Lucky’s.”
“Really? So am I. Mind if I walk along with you?”
“Not at all.”
As we approached he gave me a warning, “I go to Lucky’s to play the video poker machine at the bar. So don’t take it the wrong way if I’m not too social.”
“That’s cool,” I said. I didn’t care. I blow with the wind.
“He knows,” my walking partner said as we walked entered the bar pointing to the guy at the door checking IDs, “where do I sit when I come in here?” The short, Mexican guy pointed toward the empty seat at the bar with a video machine blinking, demanding attention. Kind of funny, I thought, and better yet it provided just the diversion I needed to slide past and avoid paying cover. Life’s like that. You gotta jump on opportunities when they present themselves.
I grabbed a seat up at the bar. “How’s it going?” I asked the guy next to me. “Pretty good.” It was obvious he was on his own, looking to talk. So we talked. Mostly about girls….all about girls. He traveled a lot on his job and he was always looking to score. Sometimes he succeeded, sometimes he failed, but he was always trying. “It’s all a gamble. You gotta role the dice,” I said.
Continued in part ii.
The night started off innocent enough – me wandering the campus streets with a half smoked cigarette in my mouth and a closed-off coffee cup filled with red wine in my hand. My intention was to finish that off and call it a night. Then like an unsuspecting fool, I listened to the Stones – Pleased to meet you, hope you guess my name. Nothing revs me up more than the Stones. Defiance, sex, soul – the Stones are the blackest white boys around.
I stopped at home to refill my now empty coffee cup and headed downtown where the action is. Where would it be tonight? The Downtown Lounge? No, I was just there Sunday. Max’s? Too many college kids. Lucky’s? Yeah, that’s where I’m feeling it, Lucky’s.
Along the way I passed the Black Forest. I considered going in. I listened to the forces that guide everything. I listened to my heart. I entered.
The crowd was sparse - just what you’d expect on a Wednesday night. A girl was up on stage playing acoustic guitar and pouring her heart out. She was tall, thin, and beautiful. I fell in love with her right there and then, but I knew that would pass quickly enough.
I tried striking-up a conversation with a few people and they were polite and all, but the Black Forest just isn’t the place for that kind of thing. Everyone’s dressed in tattoos and black and skulls and bones and metal. After while you begin to realize that it’s the kind of place where any attempt to conversate with a stranger is viewed as a weakness. So I had a couple of beers and left.
There was another guy leaving about the same time as me. We both crossed the street. “Where you headed?” I asked.
“Lucky’s.”
“Really? So am I. Mind if I walk along with you?”
“Not at all.”
As we approached he gave me a warning, “I go to Lucky’s to play the video poker machine at the bar. So don’t take it the wrong way if I’m not too social.”
“That’s cool,” I said. I didn’t care. I blow with the wind.
“He knows,” my walking partner said as we walked entered the bar pointing to the guy at the door checking IDs, “where do I sit when I come in here?” The short, Mexican guy pointed toward the empty seat at the bar with a video machine blinking, demanding attention. Kind of funny, I thought, and better yet it provided just the diversion I needed to slide past and avoid paying cover. Life’s like that. You gotta jump on opportunities when they present themselves.
I grabbed a seat up at the bar. “How’s it going?” I asked the guy next to me. “Pretty good.” It was obvious he was on his own, looking to talk. So we talked. Mostly about girls….all about girls. He traveled a lot on his job and he was always looking to score. Sometimes he succeeded, sometimes he failed, but he was always trying. “It’s all a gamble. You gotta role the dice,” I said.
Continued in part ii.
Sunday 22 April 2007
Circle K II
After a few drinks with friends, I was headed home. The daily struggles of life were pulling me down like a freight train headed straight to hell. I needed a 40, so I stopped at the Circle K.
I was in a mood to kick some serious ass. Not in a violent way, but more like, “Hey world, this is who I am, and if you don’t like it, fuck you.” All with a smile on my face of course.
There was a huge line at the cash register. What a bunch of drunks. I grabbed my 40 of Bush, because they were out of the “High Life”. What a bunch of cheap drunks. I joined them at the end of the line.
I plopped my 40 on a shelf too lazy to hold it while I waited. The woman in front looked at it, then looked at me, “That looks like a fun evening.”
I shrugged my shoulders, lifted my palms up to the skies, “we’ll see.”
“I can never get to the bottom of one of them.”
“Oh, I can. Then I come back and get another. You gotta watch the next day though. It’ll kill ya.”
“I’m all about the micros.”
“Yeah, they taste good but they’re so filling I can’t drink too many of them.”
“Well that’s a good gauge don’t you think? I drink those,” she said pointing to my suspicious looking 40, “and I get all twisted.”
“Maybe, but gauges and me don’t get along too well.”
She moved back slightly from the hips up and had this look on her face. I know the look. I have it anytime a girl says something that really impresses me. She held out her hand, “I’m Jennifer.”
“I’m John,” I said and I shook it.
She was in her 30s. Dark hair and eyes. Kind of short and stout - not bad looking, but not really good either. I knew I could ask her home if I wanted to, and I seriously considered it. It sure would be fun to get drunk, get wild and get screwed. But she just wasn’t my type.
Damn standards.
I was in a mood to kick some serious ass. Not in a violent way, but more like, “Hey world, this is who I am, and if you don’t like it, fuck you.” All with a smile on my face of course.
There was a huge line at the cash register. What a bunch of drunks. I grabbed my 40 of Bush, because they were out of the “High Life”. What a bunch of cheap drunks. I joined them at the end of the line.
I plopped my 40 on a shelf too lazy to hold it while I waited. The woman in front looked at it, then looked at me, “That looks like a fun evening.”
I shrugged my shoulders, lifted my palms up to the skies, “we’ll see.”
“I can never get to the bottom of one of them.”
“Oh, I can. Then I come back and get another. You gotta watch the next day though. It’ll kill ya.”
“I’m all about the micros.”
“Yeah, they taste good but they’re so filling I can’t drink too many of them.”
“Well that’s a good gauge don’t you think? I drink those,” she said pointing to my suspicious looking 40, “and I get all twisted.”
“Maybe, but gauges and me don’t get along too well.”
She moved back slightly from the hips up and had this look on her face. I know the look. I have it anytime a girl says something that really impresses me. She held out her hand, “I’m Jennifer.”
“I’m John,” I said and I shook it.
She was in her 30s. Dark hair and eyes. Kind of short and stout - not bad looking, but not really good either. I knew I could ask her home if I wanted to, and I seriously considered it. It sure would be fun to get drunk, get wild and get screwed. But she just wasn’t my type.
Damn standards.
Saturday 21 April 2007
Sunday 15 April 2007
We're All Going to Die Someday
“Get-up. Get moving. You know you want to go to that wildflower hike and by the look of the sun, it’s already 8 or 9.”
I know. I know. But this bed just feels so good. Can’t you feel how soft everything is, how warm. I’m not ready to move yet. You know you want to stay here too.
“OK, but only for a little while.”
My body sinks deeper into the bed, pulls the blanket in tighter. My mind goes to that place somewhere between dreams and reality where everything seems possible….
“OK. Time to get-up. Time to move….You can do it. Just push off the covers, put on some clothes and get moving. It’ll be fine once you get started.”
OK.
My mind is already moving toward the kitchen, wondering what to make for breakfast. My body curls up into a ball...
“You said you were getting up. Come on.”
Yeah, I know, but it’s not gonna happen. I know you want to start the day. I know you think it’s wrong to stay in bed. But how can something that feels so good, be so wrong? Besides when’s the last time you had a day without any appointments? Any commitments? Any responsibilities?
Yeah, I guess you’re right.
My mind and body float off somewhere up into a cloud.
That’s how my day starts. I don’t have a clock in my room. Keeping track of time by seconds, minutes, and hours is like chopping a person up into tiny little bits and then saying each piece is the same. I track time by the sun, the moon, and the seasons.
I finally get-up, put on my clothes, make my breakfast of beans and eggs – a taste of Guatemala. I turn on the computer. 10:15. I guess I missed that nature hike. Oh well, I think I got more out of sleeping anyway. I stream in some music from one of the many college stations around the country – KWVA right out of Eugene, Radio K from Minnesota, and KAOS out of Olympia. KAOS, that’s the best name ever for a radio station.
We’re all going to die, we’re all going to die, we’re all going to die some day – interesting lyrics to start the day off I think.
Wow, a whole day to myself with nothing to do. I used to have days like this all the time. Now I can’t remember when I last had a whole day without one slice of time where I had to be somewhere. I’ve got no commitments, no responsibilities, no goals, no plans, no schedule, no agenda, no nothing. Nothing to do but nothing. Freedom baby. That’s what I’m talking about.
Now what do I do? I could call Beth, see if she wants to hang out. No, today is a day all for myself. Let’s see, I can scan Don’s drawings for my zine, I can work on the eisil, I can go take pictures, draw, paste e-mails into my journal, read. There’s Bukowski, there’s Snow Falling on Cedars, shit, there’s all kinds of stuff I can be doing. How about the coffee shop? Yeah, I haven’t been to a coffee shop for awhile. So, I gather my journal, my books, and my water and I walk out the door.
The air is fresh. It smells of spring. There’s a steady breeze and everything is in bloom. Spring is the best season of them all. It speaks of life. But still I can’t help singing... We’re all going to die, we’re all going to die, we’re all going to die some day. Sing along if you're not immortal...
I get to the coffee shop, scan the people, look for cute girls, look for anyone interesting at all. There’s a girl with every square inch of her table covered in books and papers. Must be a student. I go in and order tea. The girl behind the counter is kind of cute. “I like your necklace,” I say as she hands me my tea. “Thanks, my partner bought it for me in Peru.” I knew she was going to say that.
I go back to the tables outside wondering why anybody would want to sit inside when they could be out here. I pick a table in the sun - no other will do - and I glance over to see what that girl is working on so studiously. Venga Espanol. Interesting.
“Are you a first year Spanish student,” I ask her hoping to recruit another student for the class I’m going to take - and just wanting to talk in general. “Actually, I teach first and second year students,” she says and then goes on to tell me all kinds of things about language, culture, and education, and how they’re all related. She taught English and helped build schools in Costa Rica and Nicaragua. She studied in a program called Education and Social Change, and now she wants to teach Spanish here in America. Language and social change are obviously her passion.
I admire people like that – people that have a clear vision on how to make the world a better place and go for it. My visions change from day to day, moment to moment, so I have a hard time going after anything.
After while, I go back to my table. She packs her books onto her bike, and pedals past me. “Bye John.” “Bye Monique.”
I sit at the busy intersection writing in my journal, watching people go by. The sun peaks its head out from behind the big, grey clouds now and then. I feel like a cat with nothing to do, but sit in the sun, stretch, and enjoy the day. And I still can’t get that song out of my head….We’re all going to die, we’re all going to die, we’re all going to die some day. Sing along if you’re not immortal. Then the whistling kicks in, wshhh, shhh, shhh… shhh, shhh, shhh, shhh. Wshhh, shhh, shhh… shhh, shhh, shh.
I know. I know. But this bed just feels so good. Can’t you feel how soft everything is, how warm. I’m not ready to move yet. You know you want to stay here too.
“OK, but only for a little while.”
My body sinks deeper into the bed, pulls the blanket in tighter. My mind goes to that place somewhere between dreams and reality where everything seems possible….
“OK. Time to get-up. Time to move….You can do it. Just push off the covers, put on some clothes and get moving. It’ll be fine once you get started.”
OK.
My mind is already moving toward the kitchen, wondering what to make for breakfast. My body curls up into a ball...
“You said you were getting up. Come on.”
Yeah, I know, but it’s not gonna happen. I know you want to start the day. I know you think it’s wrong to stay in bed. But how can something that feels so good, be so wrong? Besides when’s the last time you had a day without any appointments? Any commitments? Any responsibilities?
Yeah, I guess you’re right.
My mind and body float off somewhere up into a cloud.
That’s how my day starts. I don’t have a clock in my room. Keeping track of time by seconds, minutes, and hours is like chopping a person up into tiny little bits and then saying each piece is the same. I track time by the sun, the moon, and the seasons.
I finally get-up, put on my clothes, make my breakfast of beans and eggs – a taste of Guatemala. I turn on the computer. 10:15. I guess I missed that nature hike. Oh well, I think I got more out of sleeping anyway. I stream in some music from one of the many college stations around the country – KWVA right out of Eugene, Radio K from Minnesota, and KAOS out of Olympia. KAOS, that’s the best name ever for a radio station.
We’re all going to die, we’re all going to die, we’re all going to die some day – interesting lyrics to start the day off I think.
Wow, a whole day to myself with nothing to do. I used to have days like this all the time. Now I can’t remember when I last had a whole day without one slice of time where I had to be somewhere. I’ve got no commitments, no responsibilities, no goals, no plans, no schedule, no agenda, no nothing. Nothing to do but nothing. Freedom baby. That’s what I’m talking about.
Now what do I do? I could call Beth, see if she wants to hang out. No, today is a day all for myself. Let’s see, I can scan Don’s drawings for my zine, I can work on the eisil, I can go take pictures, draw, paste e-mails into my journal, read. There’s Bukowski, there’s Snow Falling on Cedars, shit, there’s all kinds of stuff I can be doing. How about the coffee shop? Yeah, I haven’t been to a coffee shop for awhile. So, I gather my journal, my books, and my water and I walk out the door.
The air is fresh. It smells of spring. There’s a steady breeze and everything is in bloom. Spring is the best season of them all. It speaks of life. But still I can’t help singing... We’re all going to die, we’re all going to die, we’re all going to die some day. Sing along if you're not immortal...
I get to the coffee shop, scan the people, look for cute girls, look for anyone interesting at all. There’s a girl with every square inch of her table covered in books and papers. Must be a student. I go in and order tea. The girl behind the counter is kind of cute. “I like your necklace,” I say as she hands me my tea. “Thanks, my partner bought it for me in Peru.” I knew she was going to say that.
I go back to the tables outside wondering why anybody would want to sit inside when they could be out here. I pick a table in the sun - no other will do - and I glance over to see what that girl is working on so studiously. Venga Espanol. Interesting.
“Are you a first year Spanish student,” I ask her hoping to recruit another student for the class I’m going to take - and just wanting to talk in general. “Actually, I teach first and second year students,” she says and then goes on to tell me all kinds of things about language, culture, and education, and how they’re all related. She taught English and helped build schools in Costa Rica and Nicaragua. She studied in a program called Education and Social Change, and now she wants to teach Spanish here in America. Language and social change are obviously her passion.
I admire people like that – people that have a clear vision on how to make the world a better place and go for it. My visions change from day to day, moment to moment, so I have a hard time going after anything.
After while, I go back to my table. She packs her books onto her bike, and pedals past me. “Bye John.” “Bye Monique.”
I sit at the busy intersection writing in my journal, watching people go by. The sun peaks its head out from behind the big, grey clouds now and then. I feel like a cat with nothing to do, but sit in the sun, stretch, and enjoy the day. And I still can’t get that song out of my head….We’re all going to die, we’re all going to die, we’re all going to die some day. Sing along if you’re not immortal. Then the whistling kicks in, wshhh, shhh, shhh… shhh, shhh, shhh, shhh. Wshhh, shhh, shhh… shhh, shhh, shh.
Saturday 7 April 2007
What it's Like
“Sorry for wanting to alter my state of consciousness,” Mark said sarcastically with a 16 ounce of Hamms in his hand and an Altoid tin full of ganja in his pocket. He was addressing anyone who had a problem with how much he smokes and drinks. He and I were going to get along just fine.
Then the fucker broke my necklace. It was partially my fault I guess. I was walking down his hallway, exploring. “What are you doing,” he shouted at me, “don’t go back there.” Now, anybody that knows me, knows the best way to get me to one thing is to tell me to do the other. So I started running down the hallway. When I got to the end I stopped and spun around on my heels. Woooah. Behind the cracked door was a sea of green. I had discovered Mark’s growing operation. He flipped. “What were you doing?” he kept asking with intense, crazy eyes. I apologized and pushed my way out to the porch, out of his house. “Why did you go down there when I told you not to?” he repeated over and over. I felt like a teenage kid being chewed out by his dad and no answer was good enough for him. “Are you a cop? Are you a narc?” Now he was getting paranoid.
“Come on, you really believe that?” I responded.
“You could be. I really don’t know you that well.”
“You’ve looked into my eyes. You know me well enough.”
He still wouldn’t let it drop and with each accusation, he got more and more angry. He grabbed my shirt, and now I started getting pissed. “Get your fucking hand off me,” I shouted and ripped it away. I felt a strand of beads unravel from my neck, roll off my shoulders, slide down my stomach, and I watched as it plopped onto the boards below – beads everywhere. The whole world stopped.
I knelt down beside my necklace like someone kneeling down beside a gunned down lover. He was still questioning me, yelling at me, but all I could think about was the beads. I picked-up the broken remains and cupped them in my hands. “You broke my necklace,” I said as I rose to meet him face to face, “you broke my fucking necklace.” I was ready to kill him. “That necklace meant something to me,” I said. “That was the only piece of jewelry anybody ever gave me that I actually liked. I’ve been through all kinds of things with that necklace – different countries, fights, everything. And now you broke it.”
“I’m sorry man, I’m sorry,” he protested, “It’s just that I have to be careful. You understand. I guess I’m kind of paranoid.”
“Yeah, no shit,” I said. I tried to forgive him, but I was still pissed. Then he starts-up again, “Do I have anything to worry about?” he’d ask staring into my eyes, “Are you a narc?”
“I’m done with this,” I said and stomped away. His calls followed me down the street, but I ignored him.
Thump, thump, thump – the sound of his heavy hooves coming up my stairs. Great. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he kept saying, “I’m an idiot. Come on. Come back to my place and drink a beer with me.” Finally I gave in. “OK. But if you start-up again, I’m leaving.”
“OK.”
The next day I woke-up with another hangover - cobwebs on the brain, dead cells floating in a sea of alcohol and marijuana. I thought about the necklace and the events of the night. I’m still pissed, but I can't stay mad for too long. I know what it’s like to be drunk, stoned, and volatile.
Then the fucker broke my necklace. It was partially my fault I guess. I was walking down his hallway, exploring. “What are you doing,” he shouted at me, “don’t go back there.” Now, anybody that knows me, knows the best way to get me to one thing is to tell me to do the other. So I started running down the hallway. When I got to the end I stopped and spun around on my heels. Woooah. Behind the cracked door was a sea of green. I had discovered Mark’s growing operation. He flipped. “What were you doing?” he kept asking with intense, crazy eyes. I apologized and pushed my way out to the porch, out of his house. “Why did you go down there when I told you not to?” he repeated over and over. I felt like a teenage kid being chewed out by his dad and no answer was good enough for him. “Are you a cop? Are you a narc?” Now he was getting paranoid.
“Come on, you really believe that?” I responded.
“You could be. I really don’t know you that well.”
“You’ve looked into my eyes. You know me well enough.”
He still wouldn’t let it drop and with each accusation, he got more and more angry. He grabbed my shirt, and now I started getting pissed. “Get your fucking hand off me,” I shouted and ripped it away. I felt a strand of beads unravel from my neck, roll off my shoulders, slide down my stomach, and I watched as it plopped onto the boards below – beads everywhere. The whole world stopped.
I knelt down beside my necklace like someone kneeling down beside a gunned down lover. He was still questioning me, yelling at me, but all I could think about was the beads. I picked-up the broken remains and cupped them in my hands. “You broke my necklace,” I said as I rose to meet him face to face, “you broke my fucking necklace.” I was ready to kill him. “That necklace meant something to me,” I said. “That was the only piece of jewelry anybody ever gave me that I actually liked. I’ve been through all kinds of things with that necklace – different countries, fights, everything. And now you broke it.”
“I’m sorry man, I’m sorry,” he protested, “It’s just that I have to be careful. You understand. I guess I’m kind of paranoid.”
“Yeah, no shit,” I said. I tried to forgive him, but I was still pissed. Then he starts-up again, “Do I have anything to worry about?” he’d ask staring into my eyes, “Are you a narc?”
“I’m done with this,” I said and stomped away. His calls followed me down the street, but I ignored him.
Thump, thump, thump – the sound of his heavy hooves coming up my stairs. Great. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he kept saying, “I’m an idiot. Come on. Come back to my place and drink a beer with me.” Finally I gave in. “OK. But if you start-up again, I’m leaving.”
“OK.”
The next day I woke-up with another hangover - cobwebs on the brain, dead cells floating in a sea of alcohol and marijuana. I thought about the necklace and the events of the night. I’m still pissed, but I can't stay mad for too long. I know what it’s like to be drunk, stoned, and volatile.
Sunday 1 April 2007
My Favorite Letter
Dear John,
Here I am at the SOU Library computer room and I am stoned. It's being a pretty good time except that typing is nothing like playing the piano. Oh, for a piano!
Here I am at the SOU Library and I have nothing whatsoever to say. Here I am at the SOU Library and it's one of those nights when the stars come out and they are playing musical instruments right through us. I am here at the SOU Library and I'm tired of being ignored!
Here I am at the SOU Library and I think that I'm going a little crazy because it's just one of those things that's got to happen once in a while. I am here at the SOU Library and I'm a little scared and shakey but somehow still typing. This type of writing is so private yet exposed at the same time, yet who can help but be in the silicon snake oil valley that is behind the beautiful creation known as the internet? Here I am at the SOU Library and i'm suddenly quite cold because this is the edge of the mountains. In fact it really is the foothills of this incredible place of ice and snow. I just want to write and I don't want to shiver so much and definitely think that there is nothing wrong with any of this stuff and I guess this is free associating and I don't really know where I am tonight and that's o.k. because it reminds me of what I descovered in Europe this summer, that I CAN go anywhere and be o.k. except into war torn everywhere.
I can't handle this level of violence on the planet. Where is the peace? Is it still out there? Come on guys I know you can hear me!!!! I laugh when I think of all that I've missed by being in this here and now. ...Where am I going with this? Suddenly I'm at the Oregon Country Fair and not only is it crazy because of the intensity of everything, in a crushing kind of way, but the man whom I really like is there with his beautiful girlfriend who I also really like, so that was hard but o.k. and nothing whatsoever like being in the middle of downtown San Francisco and walking around with a man who I really love but who is crazy messed up in a big way while eating mushrooms and trying not to absolutely fucking freak out!! And this is getting a little too off the track because believe it or not and at some point I HAD a point and it was to get back to you John with your information that you requested. Yes, our department store has everything you could possibly want to buy AND sell in it. And suddenly it's like I'm freaking in the middle of Johannesburg, and I have a hard time with even thinking of it as Africa because it's Africa in serious fucked up pain!! I think I went to SOuth Africa because I had to know some of the pain of this place that I helped create. Only body couldn't take the force of the blow which confronted my emotional wall of resistence against my emotions. It stopped me like a train about to wreck for good unless it could learn that it's a magic fluid train that doesn't need to break apart because it can become like water instead and flow. Here I am again and reading back through that I kind of enjoy smiling about some of the crazy things I said in it. Like the mountains of fair Scotland where rain falls in misty blankets of gray and everything is crying out in beauty that a certain kind of wonderful sadness has created. It must be the colors and it must be the kids that keep me alive on this January night. Sorry, suddenly I was in a CAt Power song and she is beautiful, and yes, I am listening to it as I write and it didn't suddenly just pop into the middle of my head randomly as I wrote you because I'm not quite that far advanced into my state of craziness amongst the sea weed and the wind blown wackiness of everything that is.
Well Johnny my dear Pilgrim of the seventh Order I couldn't agree more that this has been a splendid good time but it's getting ready on time for me to be out of here. (And meanwhile you are covering your mouth in the house and going "hee, hee,)" For not only am I crazy but I have the feeling that this is getting a bit on the long side and even you the reader get a little bit tired of silly things being written in the woods of the mind, with their every growing forest of neural pathways and dendrites as branches, axons as trunks and those other nobby things at the end of the neuron for roots. Only dendrites make more sense (for roots that is). Well gotta go. Love ya, boyfriend.
L
Here I am at the SOU Library computer room and I am stoned. It's being a pretty good time except that typing is nothing like playing the piano. Oh, for a piano!
Here I am at the SOU Library and I have nothing whatsoever to say. Here I am at the SOU Library and it's one of those nights when the stars come out and they are playing musical instruments right through us. I am here at the SOU Library and I'm tired of being ignored!
Here I am at the SOU Library and I think that I'm going a little crazy because it's just one of those things that's got to happen once in a while. I am here at the SOU Library and I'm a little scared and shakey but somehow still typing. This type of writing is so private yet exposed at the same time, yet who can help but be in the silicon snake oil valley that is behind the beautiful creation known as the internet? Here I am at the SOU Library and i'm suddenly quite cold because this is the edge of the mountains. In fact it really is the foothills of this incredible place of ice and snow. I just want to write and I don't want to shiver so much and definitely think that there is nothing wrong with any of this stuff and I guess this is free associating and I don't really know where I am tonight and that's o.k. because it reminds me of what I descovered in Europe this summer, that I CAN go anywhere and be o.k. except into war torn everywhere.
I can't handle this level of violence on the planet. Where is the peace? Is it still out there? Come on guys I know you can hear me!!!! I laugh when I think of all that I've missed by being in this here and now. ...Where am I going with this? Suddenly I'm at the Oregon Country Fair and not only is it crazy because of the intensity of everything, in a crushing kind of way, but the man whom I really like is there with his beautiful girlfriend who I also really like, so that was hard but o.k. and nothing whatsoever like being in the middle of downtown San Francisco and walking around with a man who I really love but who is crazy messed up in a big way while eating mushrooms and trying not to absolutely fucking freak out!! And this is getting a little too off the track because believe it or not and at some point I HAD a point and it was to get back to you John with your information that you requested. Yes, our department store has everything you could possibly want to buy AND sell in it. And suddenly it's like I'm freaking in the middle of Johannesburg, and I have a hard time with even thinking of it as Africa because it's Africa in serious fucked up pain!! I think I went to SOuth Africa because I had to know some of the pain of this place that I helped create. Only body couldn't take the force of the blow which confronted my emotional wall of resistence against my emotions. It stopped me like a train about to wreck for good unless it could learn that it's a magic fluid train that doesn't need to break apart because it can become like water instead and flow. Here I am again and reading back through that I kind of enjoy smiling about some of the crazy things I said in it. Like the mountains of fair Scotland where rain falls in misty blankets of gray and everything is crying out in beauty that a certain kind of wonderful sadness has created. It must be the colors and it must be the kids that keep me alive on this January night. Sorry, suddenly I was in a CAt Power song and she is beautiful, and yes, I am listening to it as I write and it didn't suddenly just pop into the middle of my head randomly as I wrote you because I'm not quite that far advanced into my state of craziness amongst the sea weed and the wind blown wackiness of everything that is.
Well Johnny my dear Pilgrim of the seventh Order I couldn't agree more that this has been a splendid good time but it's getting ready on time for me to be out of here. (And meanwhile you are covering your mouth in the house and going "hee, hee,)" For not only am I crazy but I have the feeling that this is getting a bit on the long side and even you the reader get a little bit tired of silly things being written in the woods of the mind, with their every growing forest of neural pathways and dendrites as branches, axons as trunks and those other nobby things at the end of the neuron for roots. Only dendrites make more sense (for roots that is). Well gotta go. Love ya, boyfriend.
L
Monday 26 March 2007
What Moves You (Part II)
This is the 2nd post in the series. Click here for the 1st.
Ty and Nat started talking about a conversation they had a while ago with some bigwigs up in Portland. They were having dinner with said bigwigs when everyone started going around the table and describing what drove them through life. Natalie’s driving force was change. This didn’t surprise me.
I first met Natalie and Tyrone immediately after the Ralph Nader campaign in 2000. We were fresh, young idealists, and change was in the air. We shared a vision – one where people lived in tune with the environment and in tune with each other - and we firmly believed with a little bit of hard work, we could make it happen. We had no idea how much the odds were stacked against us, but the cold, hard door of reality slammed in our faces quickly enough. Years later, we’re no longer the fresh, young idealists we used to be. “I wouldn’t bet on it,” Natalie said, referring to the change we all hoped for, “but I still believe it could happen, and that’s what keeps me going.”
I knew Tyrone’s answer before he even said it – compassion. Tyrone’s a reader, a thinker, a philosopher – an Eastern philosopher to be exact. Mixed between Natalie’s copy of Marx’s Kapital, and various offerings by Noam Chomsky, you’ll find books by The Dali Lama, Ken Wilbur, and other Eastern-type philosophers. Those are Tyrone’s. But my knowledge of his answer came from more than that. Tyrone and I are alike in a lot of ways – not all ways, but many – especially in matters of the mind and spirit.
Then, like I hoped they would, like I knew they would, they asked what drove me. “Whew, that’s a good question,” I said looking away, taking a deep breath, trying to concentrate. I knew the answer, but how to put it into words??? So, I just jumped in. “I want to feel alive. I want to feel everything,” I said thinking for a moment, “but then sometimes it all gets to be too much, and I don’t want to feel anything.” They were looking at me intensely. So I went on. “And it changes from day to day. Sometimes I’m driven by selfish desires and other times they’re more altruistic, and I can feel those forces inside me struggling all the time.” I took a deep breath again. My heart was pounding, my blood was pumping, my skin tingling. Tyrone and Natalie were nodding their heads in agreement – egging me on. “What I really want is freedom. I want to live in a world where people can be free to be who they really are without worrying about what others think, where people don’t have to be afraid to be different. I guess what I really want is a world where people don’t judge each other so harshly.” I looked at them, and they looked at me, and there was nothing more to say. At that moment, there were no more questions to answer, no more fears to slay, no more doubts to vanquish.
“Conformity,” Tyrone said and I knew he understood. We all knew. We knew because our answers were just different ways of saying the same thing. Where there is compassion, there is no judgment. Judgment can only occur when you separate yourself from someone or something, and if you have compassion, you cannot separate. As the Buddhists, Taoists, Hindus or any wise man or any wise woman would say, that’s when you become one. And I have to believe in a world where that’s possible. I have to believe in change. Because if I didn’t, I really wouldn’t see any point in anything.
Ty and Nat started talking about a conversation they had a while ago with some bigwigs up in Portland. They were having dinner with said bigwigs when everyone started going around the table and describing what drove them through life. Natalie’s driving force was change. This didn’t surprise me.
I first met Natalie and Tyrone immediately after the Ralph Nader campaign in 2000. We were fresh, young idealists, and change was in the air. We shared a vision – one where people lived in tune with the environment and in tune with each other - and we firmly believed with a little bit of hard work, we could make it happen. We had no idea how much the odds were stacked against us, but the cold, hard door of reality slammed in our faces quickly enough. Years later, we’re no longer the fresh, young idealists we used to be. “I wouldn’t bet on it,” Natalie said, referring to the change we all hoped for, “but I still believe it could happen, and that’s what keeps me going.”
I knew Tyrone’s answer before he even said it – compassion. Tyrone’s a reader, a thinker, a philosopher – an Eastern philosopher to be exact. Mixed between Natalie’s copy of Marx’s Kapital, and various offerings by Noam Chomsky, you’ll find books by The Dali Lama, Ken Wilbur, and other Eastern-type philosophers. Those are Tyrone’s. But my knowledge of his answer came from more than that. Tyrone and I are alike in a lot of ways – not all ways, but many – especially in matters of the mind and spirit.
Then, like I hoped they would, like I knew they would, they asked what drove me. “Whew, that’s a good question,” I said looking away, taking a deep breath, trying to concentrate. I knew the answer, but how to put it into words??? So, I just jumped in. “I want to feel alive. I want to feel everything,” I said thinking for a moment, “but then sometimes it all gets to be too much, and I don’t want to feel anything.” They were looking at me intensely. So I went on. “And it changes from day to day. Sometimes I’m driven by selfish desires and other times they’re more altruistic, and I can feel those forces inside me struggling all the time.” I took a deep breath again. My heart was pounding, my blood was pumping, my skin tingling. Tyrone and Natalie were nodding their heads in agreement – egging me on. “What I really want is freedom. I want to live in a world where people can be free to be who they really are without worrying about what others think, where people don’t have to be afraid to be different. I guess what I really want is a world where people don’t judge each other so harshly.” I looked at them, and they looked at me, and there was nothing more to say. At that moment, there were no more questions to answer, no more fears to slay, no more doubts to vanquish.
“Conformity,” Tyrone said and I knew he understood. We all knew. We knew because our answers were just different ways of saying the same thing. Where there is compassion, there is no judgment. Judgment can only occur when you separate yourself from someone or something, and if you have compassion, you cannot separate. As the Buddhists, Taoists, Hindus or any wise man or any wise woman would say, that’s when you become one. And I have to believe in a world where that’s possible. I have to believe in change. Because if I didn’t, I really wouldn’t see any point in anything.
Sunday 25 March 2007
What Moves You
This is the first in a 2 part series....
After a long, hard week Tyrone and Natalie were on a mission for oysters and champagne. “Meet us over at the Marche,” Tyrone told me over the phone. “I don’t know. That place is pretty fancy isn’t it?” “Not in the bar,” he promised. That was good, cause I was wearing my black hoody complete with three holes resembling a ghost’s face on my sleeve, a pair of jeans, and a ratty pair of skateboard shoes that should’ve been replaced a long time ago. And I wasn’t about to change what I was wearing just to meet-up for a few drinks. Some people are all worried about style. My style is a lack of style.
I rode over there through the surprisingly warm March evening. When I walked in Ty and Nat were sitting there, champagne flutes in hand, and a big silver tray full of ice and empty oyster shooters on the half shell on table. “We saved one for you,” they said. “Cool, I haven’t had oysters in a while." I ate it. Mmmm-hmmm, it was the best oyster I ever had – fresh from the Northwest. The Marche is a little too snazzy for my taste, but all their ingredients are local. So, as far as snazzy places go, they’re ok.
We were all in a good mood for some reason. Maybe it was the weather, maybe it was the company, maybe it was the champagne and beer - probably all three. We talked about things like old roommates, Tennessee Williams’ Streetcar Named Desire, and sustainability. Natalie is the “sustainability expert” for an organic foods distributor, and we’re all a bunch of ex-Green Party radicals, so, we pretty much always end-up talking sustainability at some point. I looked at the champagne, the oysters, and thought of Natalie’s “sustainability” conference stories - the Hilton motels, the flame grilled salmon, the constant flying from one place to another. I saw nothing but contradictions. But I kept my opinions to myself. Who am I to burst their bubble? I've got plenty of my own contradictions. Besides their hearts are in the right place. Yeah, yeah, I know. The road to hell is paved with good intentions. Well then, take me to hell.
Continued in Part II.
After a long, hard week Tyrone and Natalie were on a mission for oysters and champagne. “Meet us over at the Marche,” Tyrone told me over the phone. “I don’t know. That place is pretty fancy isn’t it?” “Not in the bar,” he promised. That was good, cause I was wearing my black hoody complete with three holes resembling a ghost’s face on my sleeve, a pair of jeans, and a ratty pair of skateboard shoes that should’ve been replaced a long time ago. And I wasn’t about to change what I was wearing just to meet-up for a few drinks. Some people are all worried about style. My style is a lack of style.
I rode over there through the surprisingly warm March evening. When I walked in Ty and Nat were sitting there, champagne flutes in hand, and a big silver tray full of ice and empty oyster shooters on the half shell on table. “We saved one for you,” they said. “Cool, I haven’t had oysters in a while." I ate it. Mmmm-hmmm, it was the best oyster I ever had – fresh from the Northwest. The Marche is a little too snazzy for my taste, but all their ingredients are local. So, as far as snazzy places go, they’re ok.
We were all in a good mood for some reason. Maybe it was the weather, maybe it was the company, maybe it was the champagne and beer - probably all three. We talked about things like old roommates, Tennessee Williams’ Streetcar Named Desire, and sustainability. Natalie is the “sustainability expert” for an organic foods distributor, and we’re all a bunch of ex-Green Party radicals, so, we pretty much always end-up talking sustainability at some point. I looked at the champagne, the oysters, and thought of Natalie’s “sustainability” conference stories - the Hilton motels, the flame grilled salmon, the constant flying from one place to another. I saw nothing but contradictions. But I kept my opinions to myself. Who am I to burst their bubble? I've got plenty of my own contradictions. Besides their hearts are in the right place. Yeah, yeah, I know. The road to hell is paved with good intentions. Well then, take me to hell.
Continued in Part II.
Saturday 24 March 2007
Why I Farm
Here I sit on the base of the stairs winding their way up to my apartment. The sun breaks through the clouds bringing warmth on yet another beautiful spring day. The summer-like breeze rustles through the trees, caresses my face, and birds are singing everywhere. Yes, springtime is here.
I take off my socks and let my feet feel the elements – the sun, the wind, the song of the day. I’ve been volunteering at the Skinner Butte Community Garden for the last few hours. Something about working with the earth grounds me and I find I’m liking it more and more - playing in the dark, succulent soil, watching the critters crawl, slither, and fly, nibbling on greens as I go. I love coming back to a plot of land that I planted weeks or months ago, seeing everything all green and alive, and thinking, “Yeah, I did that,” (with some help from Mother Nature of course). And there’s nothing like eating food that you’ve grown yourself - reaping the bounty as I call it. It tastes like satisfaction.
My bounty today was some salad greens – spicy mustards and tasty arugula. And there was some purple leafed green which I don’t know the name of, but it tastes good. And finally there was a tiny, little cabbage about the size of an apple. And that’s exactly how I’m going to eat it - like an apple.
After spending the day working on a farm, I look at all those wonderful vegetables and just want to sink my teeth into them – eat ‘em raw. Just hands and teeth - no utensils, no pots, and no pans. Something about gardening seems to strip away all the bullshit, shows me what’s really important.
What I like most about farming is that it makes me feel good. Like I’m doing my part, like I’m doing something positive, something healthy. In today’s world, that’s a rare and beautiful thing.
I take off my socks and let my feet feel the elements – the sun, the wind, the song of the day. I’ve been volunteering at the Skinner Butte Community Garden for the last few hours. Something about working with the earth grounds me and I find I’m liking it more and more - playing in the dark, succulent soil, watching the critters crawl, slither, and fly, nibbling on greens as I go. I love coming back to a plot of land that I planted weeks or months ago, seeing everything all green and alive, and thinking, “Yeah, I did that,” (with some help from Mother Nature of course). And there’s nothing like eating food that you’ve grown yourself - reaping the bounty as I call it. It tastes like satisfaction.
My bounty today was some salad greens – spicy mustards and tasty arugula. And there was some purple leafed green which I don’t know the name of, but it tastes good. And finally there was a tiny, little cabbage about the size of an apple. And that’s exactly how I’m going to eat it - like an apple.
After spending the day working on a farm, I look at all those wonderful vegetables and just want to sink my teeth into them – eat ‘em raw. Just hands and teeth - no utensils, no pots, and no pans. Something about gardening seems to strip away all the bullshit, shows me what’s really important.
What I like most about farming is that it makes me feel good. Like I’m doing my part, like I’m doing something positive, something healthy. In today’s world, that’s a rare and beautiful thing.
Tuesday 13 March 2007
A Day at the Beach
Note: The last pic, "take off the burden," was taken by my friend Doug. The rest are mine, mine, mine.
Sunday 11 March 2007
Season of the Frog (Part II)
This is the 2nd part in a series.
Under the full moon I went. I locked my bike up at the edge of the park knowing that sometimes the best approach is a gradual one. I walked by the first patch of ash trees all huddled together in mass, like a group of gossiping teens. And there under the full light of the lunar star was a bench – my first stop. I smoked a little, drank a little, and took it all in - the sound of the frogs in the distance, the way the cool night air felt on my hands and face, the night sky being painted and repainted by the incoming clouds. America must have been singing of spring when they said, the days are longer, the nights are stronger, than moonshine.
After while, I moved on, approaching my final destination, getting closer and closer. The moon’s reflection danced off puddles of water – molded by clumps of grass, rippling water, and clouds. And the frogs sang on, getting louder and louder with every step. I’ve been here several times over the years, but tonight they were at a whole new level. They were so entranced by their mating song; they didn’t even notice my approach. Not until I made it to the bench hidden in the darkness, under the trees, behind the water, mud, and grasses of the Amazon wetlands. All it took was one careless step and one frog went silent - then another, and another, and another. They dropped off like dominoes. Only the sound of the night air remained.
So I sat motionless, waiting. The frogs picked-up one by one, as I knew they would, adjusting to my presence, getting louder and louder. Soon they hit their peak and it was deafening. Sill I wanted more. I dreamed of plopping myself right in the middle of all that amphibian madness, but I figured the frogs didn’t want a human messing with their little orgy. So I listened on from a safe distance instead.
16 of the 32 ounces of beer had already made their journey from the bottle to my kidneys and now they were telling me it was time for the next part of the trip. So, I walked to the edge of the wetlands. A few solitary frogs were there singing their love song. “What are you guys doing out here?” I thought in their direction, “All the fun’s over there.” And I considered their chances of finding a mate, all the way out here, away from the crowd. Not too good. Survival of the fittest I guess. But is it really a question of the fittest, the strongest, versus the weak, the weakest? I’m not so sure. Maybe these frogs are just different. It’s not a difference a scientist would notice with all his or her abstract classifications based on physical appearance. No, it’s a difference on the inside, a difference in heart, in spirit, in personality. Maybe these frogs don’t like crowds. Maybe they don’t like following the masses. Maybe these frogs for some reason or another are different from all the other frogs. That doesn’t make them less valuable. After all, it’s diversity that makes the world the interesting, ever changing, beautiful place that it is. And aren’t these frogs just as much a part of that as the others? More? In fact, if variety is the spice of life, aren’t these rare, lonely frogs in some ways, the most precious frogs of all?
“Maybe. But that's a hard life to bear.” I thought to myself as I wished them luck and returned to my bench near the more obvious mass of frog existence.
I stayed with the frogs for some time, and when the beer was gone, it was time to go. I headed home, bought more beer, and spent the night drinking, smoking, writing, and thinking. I stayed-up till five in the morning. I woke at nine for work, had a job interview at one, and at nightfall did it all over again. This is how I live.
Under the full moon I went. I locked my bike up at the edge of the park knowing that sometimes the best approach is a gradual one. I walked by the first patch of ash trees all huddled together in mass, like a group of gossiping teens. And there under the full light of the lunar star was a bench – my first stop. I smoked a little, drank a little, and took it all in - the sound of the frogs in the distance, the way the cool night air felt on my hands and face, the night sky being painted and repainted by the incoming clouds. America must have been singing of spring when they said, the days are longer, the nights are stronger, than moonshine.
After while, I moved on, approaching my final destination, getting closer and closer. The moon’s reflection danced off puddles of water – molded by clumps of grass, rippling water, and clouds. And the frogs sang on, getting louder and louder with every step. I’ve been here several times over the years, but tonight they were at a whole new level. They were so entranced by their mating song; they didn’t even notice my approach. Not until I made it to the bench hidden in the darkness, under the trees, behind the water, mud, and grasses of the Amazon wetlands. All it took was one careless step and one frog went silent - then another, and another, and another. They dropped off like dominoes. Only the sound of the night air remained.
So I sat motionless, waiting. The frogs picked-up one by one, as I knew they would, adjusting to my presence, getting louder and louder. Soon they hit their peak and it was deafening. Sill I wanted more. I dreamed of plopping myself right in the middle of all that amphibian madness, but I figured the frogs didn’t want a human messing with their little orgy. So I listened on from a safe distance instead.
16 of the 32 ounces of beer had already made their journey from the bottle to my kidneys and now they were telling me it was time for the next part of the trip. So, I walked to the edge of the wetlands. A few solitary frogs were there singing their love song. “What are you guys doing out here?” I thought in their direction, “All the fun’s over there.” And I considered their chances of finding a mate, all the way out here, away from the crowd. Not too good. Survival of the fittest I guess. But is it really a question of the fittest, the strongest, versus the weak, the weakest? I’m not so sure. Maybe these frogs are just different. It’s not a difference a scientist would notice with all his or her abstract classifications based on physical appearance. No, it’s a difference on the inside, a difference in heart, in spirit, in personality. Maybe these frogs don’t like crowds. Maybe they don’t like following the masses. Maybe these frogs for some reason or another are different from all the other frogs. That doesn’t make them less valuable. After all, it’s diversity that makes the world the interesting, ever changing, beautiful place that it is. And aren’t these frogs just as much a part of that as the others? More? In fact, if variety is the spice of life, aren’t these rare, lonely frogs in some ways, the most precious frogs of all?
“Maybe. But that's a hard life to bear.” I thought to myself as I wished them luck and returned to my bench near the more obvious mass of frog existence.
I stayed with the frogs for some time, and when the beer was gone, it was time to go. I headed home, bought more beer, and spent the night drinking, smoking, writing, and thinking. I stayed-up till five in the morning. I woke at nine for work, had a job interview at one, and at nightfall did it all over again. This is how I live.
Thursday 8 March 2007
Season of the Frog (Part I)
There are two kinds of people in Eugene: those that have been along the Amazon bike path on a springtime evening, and those that haven’t. It’s pretty easy to figure out. You just ask, “Hey, have you ever ridden along the Amazon bike path at night?” You’ll either get a strange look and a comment like, “No, why?” Or you’ll get an excited, “Yeah, isn’t it amazing.” And then you’ll both share a moment reflecting on the crazy, frog sounds of spring.
They’re always on my mind this time of year. Just a couple weeks ago I was telling a friend about them. She falls under the “those that haven’t” category. “They’re pretty cool,” I explained, “Sometimes I get a fourty-ouncer, go over to the park, and just listen to them.”
“Don’t they get quiet when you get near?”
“Yeah, but if you stay there long enough, they’ll start-up again. First you’ll hear one, then another, and then another, one-by-one, and then suddenly they’ll all kick-in at the same time – ribbit, ribbit, ribbit.” I motioned my hands up and down like frogs.
“You can actually see them?” she asked.
“No, I’m just imagining that’s what they look like,” I said as I flashed a smirk in her direction, “And then someone will go by on a bike, and they’ll get all quiet again. But after a while, they’ll start right back up, one by one, just like before. After a few times of that you can’t help but wonder if it’s always the same ones that start-up first.”
“Like the leaders?”
“Kind of, but it’s more like, are they the ones willing to take the biggest risk?”
She got a big smile on her face.
So, I’ve been meaning to visit my raucous friends for some time, but it’s always raining or just too damn cold – until last Sunday.
Earlier that day, someone told me we were seeing the last of the unseasonably warm, sunny weather. The clouds would be rolling in some time that night and the rains wouldn't be too far behind. "It will have to be tonight then," I told myself.
But when the moment arrived, inertia was against me. Time wasn’t on my side either. It was already 10PM and I was expecting a work call at nine the next morning. Not necessarily a big deal, but I wasn’t heading out there just to listen to a few notes and then be on my way back home. No, to truly appreciate something like this, you have to spend time with it. And you don’t go empty handed. A spliff and a fourty are mandatory. But I know myself. If I really start having a good time, well, there may be another fourty, and another spliff, and then maybe another fourty, and another spliff, so on, and so on. I reconsidered, thinking of all the options.
I could just wait till the next nice night - when I don't have to get-up early. But when will there ever be a night like this - it’s fairly warm, there's a full moon, it’s not raining, but it’s been raining really hard the last few days - perfect frog climate. No, this is the night. There will be no other.
I could skip the spliff and/or the fourty. Yeah, right.
So I said, “fuck it,” and threw caution to the wind.
To be continued....
They’re always on my mind this time of year. Just a couple weeks ago I was telling a friend about them. She falls under the “those that haven’t” category. “They’re pretty cool,” I explained, “Sometimes I get a fourty-ouncer, go over to the park, and just listen to them.”
“Don’t they get quiet when you get near?”
“Yeah, but if you stay there long enough, they’ll start-up again. First you’ll hear one, then another, and then another, one-by-one, and then suddenly they’ll all kick-in at the same time – ribbit, ribbit, ribbit.” I motioned my hands up and down like frogs.
“You can actually see them?” she asked.
“No, I’m just imagining that’s what they look like,” I said as I flashed a smirk in her direction, “And then someone will go by on a bike, and they’ll get all quiet again. But after a while, they’ll start right back up, one by one, just like before. After a few times of that you can’t help but wonder if it’s always the same ones that start-up first.”
“Like the leaders?”
“Kind of, but it’s more like, are they the ones willing to take the biggest risk?”
She got a big smile on her face.
So, I’ve been meaning to visit my raucous friends for some time, but it’s always raining or just too damn cold – until last Sunday.
Earlier that day, someone told me we were seeing the last of the unseasonably warm, sunny weather. The clouds would be rolling in some time that night and the rains wouldn't be too far behind. "It will have to be tonight then," I told myself.
But when the moment arrived, inertia was against me. Time wasn’t on my side either. It was already 10PM and I was expecting a work call at nine the next morning. Not necessarily a big deal, but I wasn’t heading out there just to listen to a few notes and then be on my way back home. No, to truly appreciate something like this, you have to spend time with it. And you don’t go empty handed. A spliff and a fourty are mandatory. But I know myself. If I really start having a good time, well, there may be another fourty, and another spliff, and then maybe another fourty, and another spliff, so on, and so on. I reconsidered, thinking of all the options.
I could just wait till the next nice night - when I don't have to get-up early. But when will there ever be a night like this - it’s fairly warm, there's a full moon, it’s not raining, but it’s been raining really hard the last few days - perfect frog climate. No, this is the night. There will be no other.
I could skip the spliff and/or the fourty. Yeah, right.
So I said, “fuck it,” and threw caution to the wind.
To be continued....
Friday 2 March 2007
The Circle K Girl
Walking home from a few rounds at the bars, hoping to meet someone, hoping to meet anyone, no such luck. I’m not really in the mood to party, but my mind is racing and my heart isn’t too far behind, so I know I’m gonna need more beer to put this night to an end. At this point in my life, I find the days are easy, even enjoyable. It’s the nights that are hard. So instead of going home, I turn around and head to the nearest beer store – The Circle K.
I go in, underneath the buzzing fluorescents, among the open isles of dirty vinyl floors and convenient distractions. There’s not a single item in this place I’d call essential to society - except maybe beer.
I go straight to the coolers, past the imported, expensive stuff, right to the big bottles of domestics – the economical route. I scan through the prices, figuring I’ll get the usual – a 32 ouncer, maybe a fourty of Bud - but there flashing in front of my face, hanging from the cold, grey rack is a bright, plastic sign calling for my attention:
I look over the rest of the racks. It’s by far the best bargain. So I open up the door, reach back, and grab one. “Yeah right,” I say laughing to myself, “give me the High Life - limousines, dance clubs, sexy girls.”
I walk past the fossilized, rotating dogs and place my 32 ounces of The Champagne of Beers on the counter. The cashier has a camouflage colored bandana on her head. I’ve seen her before – another night weeks ago under similar circumstance - maybe a little less lonely, a little less desperate, but still the same. She was friendly, talkative, more importantly, interesting. So, I’m hoping for more of the same, not expecting much, but then she goes right into it, “I just got back from ten days off,” she says, “Ten days off and then I had to come back to work. I was hating it.”
“I can relate,” I reply.
“And my first day back I had to train the new guy.”
“Oh yeah?” I say, getting curious.
“But he already worked three days, so I really didn’t have to train him. He was like, ‘just sit back and take it easy.’ So, I didn’t have to do anything. It was the best day ever.”
“Don’t you wish every day could be like that?” I say.
“You got that right,” she replies.
“So did you have ten days off for vacation or what?” She was sick the last time I was in, so I’m wondering if there’s something more.
“No it was vacation,” she continues, “well, actually I was visiting family. You know how that is. Pretty stressful. It was like more work than work is.” Then after a brief pause she adds, “But I got a pair of socks out of it. So that’s good.”
I let out this big laugh. It carried me all the way out the clear, glass doors and all the way home. She wasn’t even trying to be funny. That was beauty of it. She was just telling it like it is.
I go in, underneath the buzzing fluorescents, among the open isles of dirty vinyl floors and convenient distractions. There’s not a single item in this place I’d call essential to society - except maybe beer.
I go straight to the coolers, past the imported, expensive stuff, right to the big bottles of domestics – the economical route. I scan through the prices, figuring I’ll get the usual – a 32 ouncer, maybe a fourty of Bud - but there flashing in front of my face, hanging from the cold, grey rack is a bright, plastic sign calling for my attention:
$1.69
32 oz. Miller High Life.
32 oz. Miller High Life.
I look over the rest of the racks. It’s by far the best bargain. So I open up the door, reach back, and grab one. “Yeah right,” I say laughing to myself, “give me the High Life - limousines, dance clubs, sexy girls.”
I walk past the fossilized, rotating dogs and place my 32 ounces of The Champagne of Beers on the counter. The cashier has a camouflage colored bandana on her head. I’ve seen her before – another night weeks ago under similar circumstance - maybe a little less lonely, a little less desperate, but still the same. She was friendly, talkative, more importantly, interesting. So, I’m hoping for more of the same, not expecting much, but then she goes right into it, “I just got back from ten days off,” she says, “Ten days off and then I had to come back to work. I was hating it.”
“I can relate,” I reply.
“And my first day back I had to train the new guy.”
“Oh yeah?” I say, getting curious.
“But he already worked three days, so I really didn’t have to train him. He was like, ‘just sit back and take it easy.’ So, I didn’t have to do anything. It was the best day ever.”
“Don’t you wish every day could be like that?” I say.
“You got that right,” she replies.
“So did you have ten days off for vacation or what?” She was sick the last time I was in, so I’m wondering if there’s something more.
“No it was vacation,” she continues, “well, actually I was visiting family. You know how that is. Pretty stressful. It was like more work than work is.” Then after a brief pause she adds, “But I got a pair of socks out of it. So that’s good.”
I let out this big laugh. It carried me all the way out the clear, glass doors and all the way home. She wasn’t even trying to be funny. That was beauty of it. She was just telling it like it is.
Friday 23 February 2007
Krishnamurti
No website of mine would be complete without paying proper homage to Krishnamurti, which is actually kind of ironic, since Krishnamurti would say something like, “You should pay homage to no man.” Then he’d probably go on and say … Let’s think about this. When you say, I look up to so and so, aren’t you placing them in position to look down on you. Aren’t you placing them in a position higher than yourself? Is this fair to you? Is it fair to the person you admire? To place someone in a position as teacher, guru, leader, or some other fixed role, and you as student, follower, disciple, this is a dangerous action. To call someone a teacher or guru, you are placing certain expectations on that person, your own expectations of what you believe a teacher or a guru to be. When you do that, are you not placing limits on whom that person really is? Aren’t you, in a way, closing off your own mind? And by placing yourself in a position as a follower, a disciple, aren’t you taking the easy way out, giving up your own responsibility? Aren’t you saying, well I don’t know what to do, so I’m just going to follow this person. Or I don’t know what to think, so I’ll just believe what this person tells me. When you follow somebody, aren’t you giving up your responsibility to think for yourself? There are no teachers. There are no gurus. We are all students, learning together.
That’s Krishnamurti - a hard-ass, a purist, a free thinker. That’s why I love the guy.
Anyway, as if that’s not introduction enough, I’ll describe him more with a story. Stories are good.
One night I was at this party out on a farm. I didn’t know many people there. I felt a bit out of my element, so I spent most of the night sitting on the ground, staring into the fire, poking at it, thinking of something to say, and not finding much.
But later in the night, the sound of dogs howling in the distance was heard and it woke a long, lost memory. “Are those coyotes?” someone asked. “No, coyotes have a more eerie sound to them,” I said. Then I shared what was found...
“This one time I was at a Vipassana meditation retreat out in the middle of nowhere. A Vipassana retreat is where you go out and spend ten days doing nothing but meditating. There’s no distractions - no TV, no radio, no books, nothing to write with, nothing to read, no cell phones, nothing. You can’t even talk. All there is to do is meditate and walk the grounds. As you can imagine, after a few days of that our senses were kind of starved for excitement. So, even the smallest things seemed amazing. Looking on a blade of grass was like looking upon the universe itself.
Anyway, this one night at like four in the morning, we were all sleeping in the dorm room, and all of a sudden this pack of wild coyotes starts howling in the hills. They were yipping and making all these crazy sounds. Like I said, it was really eerie sounding - sent a chill up my spine. It would’ve been awesome any time, but the fact that our senses were at an all time high, made it even more amazing. So, we just laid there in our beds, in the dark, listening to the manic coyotes, not able to say a word.”
“Have you ever read any Krishnamurti?” this punk-rocker girl jumped in and asked. “Krishnamurti kicks some serious ass,” I replied twisting my head as I said it, adding emphasis.
“Wow. That has got to be the best response I’ve ever got about Krishnamurti at a party.”
“Who?” a girl across the fire asked. The fire light was dancing across her face. She sat in a kind of lotus position. I looked around the fire – everybody was listening.
“Krishnamurti,” I replied, “He’s like this eastern philosophy guy. But he’s not Buddhist or Hindu or Taoist. He doesn’t believe in any of that stuff. And he doesn’t believe in meditation either. He would say by meditating, you’re trying to be something. And you can’t try to be something; you just have to be it. Like you can’t try to be happy; you just have to be happy. But he’s got this attitude, like he’s pissed, like he can’t be happy till you’re happy. Yeah, that's Krishnamurti.”
We all sat there in silence for a moment pondering. Then the conversation drifted on into the night.
Anyway, that’s the end of my story. No point really, except to share a memory and introduce one of the greatest thinkers of our time – normally I’d say something like “all hail Krishnamurti,” but I don’t think he’d like that. So just go read him and decide for yourself.
That’s Krishnamurti - a hard-ass, a purist, a free thinker. That’s why I love the guy.
Anyway, as if that’s not introduction enough, I’ll describe him more with a story. Stories are good.
One night I was at this party out on a farm. I didn’t know many people there. I felt a bit out of my element, so I spent most of the night sitting on the ground, staring into the fire, poking at it, thinking of something to say, and not finding much.
But later in the night, the sound of dogs howling in the distance was heard and it woke a long, lost memory. “Are those coyotes?” someone asked. “No, coyotes have a more eerie sound to them,” I said. Then I shared what was found...
“This one time I was at a Vipassana meditation retreat out in the middle of nowhere. A Vipassana retreat is where you go out and spend ten days doing nothing but meditating. There’s no distractions - no TV, no radio, no books, nothing to write with, nothing to read, no cell phones, nothing. You can’t even talk. All there is to do is meditate and walk the grounds. As you can imagine, after a few days of that our senses were kind of starved for excitement. So, even the smallest things seemed amazing. Looking on a blade of grass was like looking upon the universe itself.
Anyway, this one night at like four in the morning, we were all sleeping in the dorm room, and all of a sudden this pack of wild coyotes starts howling in the hills. They were yipping and making all these crazy sounds. Like I said, it was really eerie sounding - sent a chill up my spine. It would’ve been awesome any time, but the fact that our senses were at an all time high, made it even more amazing. So, we just laid there in our beds, in the dark, listening to the manic coyotes, not able to say a word.”
“Have you ever read any Krishnamurti?” this punk-rocker girl jumped in and asked. “Krishnamurti kicks some serious ass,” I replied twisting my head as I said it, adding emphasis.
“Wow. That has got to be the best response I’ve ever got about Krishnamurti at a party.”
“Who?” a girl across the fire asked. The fire light was dancing across her face. She sat in a kind of lotus position. I looked around the fire – everybody was listening.
“Krishnamurti,” I replied, “He’s like this eastern philosophy guy. But he’s not Buddhist or Hindu or Taoist. He doesn’t believe in any of that stuff. And he doesn’t believe in meditation either. He would say by meditating, you’re trying to be something. And you can’t try to be something; you just have to be it. Like you can’t try to be happy; you just have to be happy. But he’s got this attitude, like he’s pissed, like he can’t be happy till you’re happy. Yeah, that's Krishnamurti.”
We all sat there in silence for a moment pondering. Then the conversation drifted on into the night.
Anyway, that’s the end of my story. No point really, except to share a memory and introduce one of the greatest thinkers of our time – normally I’d say something like “all hail Krishnamurti,” but I don’t think he’d like that. So just go read him and decide for yourself.
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