The next day, after I had slept on that rougn concrete all night, I got a ride with a man who had earned his living as a tug boat captain. He had got hurt on the job and was drawing disabiltity. He talked pretty freely about his life. He had been a tough guy, rode Harley's and intimated that he had been a Hell's Angel and involved in some of ther rougher stuff like drugs and murder. Now, however, he had undergone a conversion to Christianity and lived as a Jehovah's Witness. He was headed for Louisiana to visit his brother, who hadn't quite made the transition to a better life. We rode most of the day talking about what had happened to him. I asked him about being a Jehovah's Witness and how that affected his life. He was kinda quiet about it and I had to accept that. As we approached Louisiana, he asked me if I would like to go with him to his brother's house to meet him. I got the impression he wanted me to witness the big difference between the two of them. I asked him if it was a safe thing for me to do,and he assured me that as long as I was with him that I'd be okay. So, I agreed to go if he would get me back to the highway where I could catch a ride. He said he would do that.
His brother's house was actually a trailer house set back off the road. Real junky place with old cars and old motorcycles that looked like they were there for used parts. I forget how many people lived there, but there wasn't enough room for each of them to have their own bedroom. The woman had teen-aged children from other marriages, he had a couple of older children, and they had smaller children together. The youngest one was less than a year old. The mood changed from a sweet lovingness to screaming bloody murder to a Mexican Standoff constantly. Most of the time they acted like I didn't exist, but the woman made sure my coffee cup was full, even when I didn't want any more. The brothers really seemed to like each other, and they danced around the big change in the older brother I had come there with. I never witnessed him coming on to his younger brother proselysing his religious views, but it seemed quite obvious that both of them were steering clear of the subject. I was impressed with the difference in their personalities. The older brother calm and serene, and the younger brother prone to violent reactions to anything that did not please him. There was one moment that appeared explosive. That was when the older brother offered them some money. The younger brother screamed as if in pain and left the trailer swearing to high heaven. He wouldn't take the money, but after he left in such an abrupt fashion, the woman took the money and thanked him profusely. We stayed there longer than was comfortable for me, but after a few hours my driver took me to a crossroads where I could get back on the road.
I don't remember the town in Louisiana he put me out at. It was at an intersection of I-10. The roadbed was built up to keep the swamps from flooding it, so it was truly a "highway". There was a river passing through this little town. It was hard to tell whether it was a natural river or one of the many canals networked all through southern Louisiana. Since it was late in the day, and it didn't look like I was gonna get a ride before dark, I eased my way down by the riverside to look for a hideout to spend the night.
My approach to the river bank was exposed to the little town on the other side of the river. I tried to get there without attracting any more attention than was necessary, so I just sort of ambled down there slowly so it might seem as if I was just sight-seeing without a plan to stay the night. As I got down to the river I was kinda surprised that it ran with a fast current. This seemed a little unusual this close to the ocean where rivers ususally spread out and run deep. Maybe it was a canal instead of a river. There was a small path that followed the water, but it didn't look like many people used it. I had to dodge my way through lots of bushes and tree branches that crossed the little path. That made me feel safer. The problem for me, as I moved into this thicket was that the bank sloped sharply toward the water, and there wasn't many level places for me to lay down. I walked further in the thicket than I intended to looking for a place that was a little more level. I had to settle for the best I could do. Even then I had to clear out a place to get comfortable, and still it sloped down toward the water.
By the time I got a sleeping place laid out and some soft leaves to lay on, twilight was approaching. I sat and looked out on the water. It looked like a good place to fish, because I saw several fairly large fish jump out of the water. Suddenly, while I was looking at a spot where one of those fish had last jumped, I saw the fish hawk circling over the same area, and sure enough, just as I saw it, it swooped down and caught a fish in it's beak and then swerved over to a big stump on the other side of the water and began it's feast.
As darkness settled in, the rotting, steaming smell of the swamp pervaded the place, and I could hear the night creatures calling each other as the gathering began. A fairly large number of bats were flittering above the trees lining the banks of the water. I watched them until it got too dark, and then went to sleep. It had been a long day.
Friday, April 25, 2003
The persona is that which in reality one is not,
but which oneself as well as others think one is.
~ Carl Jung
It interest me very much to read that Carl Jung came to the same conclusion that I have. Or rather, that we both came to the same conclusion others have. The meaning of this statement is something that needs to be understood before real progress can be made in getting beyond the conceptual world.
This is not to say that I have gotten beyond it, but that I sense that I do understand the meaning associated with Jung's quote now. I have only arrived at that meaning recently.
This all started when I returned from an involuntary 'out of body' trip many years ago. When I realized that I was back 'in my body' I realized I was saying one sentence over and over again. This sentence was the only thing that allowed me to remember I had been out of my body. The sentence was, "Everything is nothing but the idea that it is something, and it could be anything at all."
It took a while before I understood what that implied, and even longer before I knew what it meant to me in regard to my own world view. Eventually, after repeating this sentence redundantly for a long time I realized it meant that what I was perceiving as the sensory world was not the real sensory world at all. What I was perceiving was my ideas and concepts of what the sensory world is like.
This sentence I brought back with me from an out of body experience led me to begin to understand the psychological concept of projection. The notion that we only see ourselves in other people. As I began to understand this better I could see examples of it's truthfulness in my own relationship with the sensory perceived world and in other people's relationships with it too.
When I first began to get it, quite naturally I began to think of ways I could use this concept to get what I wanted from others. I realized that what people said about me or any other thing was a projection of what they thought about themselves. I realized both of us betrayed our innermost secrets about who we think we are with every description we made of the other.
I soon found out that this betrayal of self is very difficult to remain consciously aware of in the moment of betrayal. I thought at first that by acquiring a critical mass about how the other thought about themselves I could use that information to manipulate them for my own end game. The second thing I thought of was that the same method was possible for them to use... for or against... me. After that, I didn't seem to have the time to keeping a list of ideated personal attributes on anyone but myself.
Interestingly enough, in the past month I have read that according to Jung's psychology, all projected personal careactoristics happens on an unconscious level, and that is this same unconscious material that we need to become conscious of the most.
This entire process of my understanding projection had a little kink in it. It took a while for me to realize the careactoristics we project on others is not necessarily the way we really think we are. What we are perceiving in others is what we 'would' think of ourselves 'if' we acted and spoke as they did. Not only that, but only 'if' we acted and spoke like we 'think' they did for our own reasons. Other people don't do and say what they do and say for 'our' reasons. Nor do we do and say for their reasons.
This train of thought is how I arrived at the same conclusion as Carl Jung. We seem to think that everyone else, at some level, are basically the same as ourselves, that all of us do and say what we do and say for our own reasons. That's true in an ordinary sense, but it is not how we are the same. We are the same because each of us pretends that we are 'what' we think we are. We hallucinate that we are our own individual person, and that we own ourselves as individuals. But, we are not that pretense anymore than others are. We create the conceptual illusion as the artificial purpose of reason, and then pretend that reason rules the sensory world. It does not. Thank God!
but which oneself as well as others think one is.
~ Carl Jung
It interest me very much to read that Carl Jung came to the same conclusion that I have. Or rather, that we both came to the same conclusion others have. The meaning of this statement is something that needs to be understood before real progress can be made in getting beyond the conceptual world.
This is not to say that I have gotten beyond it, but that I sense that I do understand the meaning associated with Jung's quote now. I have only arrived at that meaning recently.
This all started when I returned from an involuntary 'out of body' trip many years ago. When I realized that I was back 'in my body' I realized I was saying one sentence over and over again. This sentence was the only thing that allowed me to remember I had been out of my body. The sentence was, "Everything is nothing but the idea that it is something, and it could be anything at all."
It took a while before I understood what that implied, and even longer before I knew what it meant to me in regard to my own world view. Eventually, after repeating this sentence redundantly for a long time I realized it meant that what I was perceiving as the sensory world was not the real sensory world at all. What I was perceiving was my ideas and concepts of what the sensory world is like.
This sentence I brought back with me from an out of body experience led me to begin to understand the psychological concept of projection. The notion that we only see ourselves in other people. As I began to understand this better I could see examples of it's truthfulness in my own relationship with the sensory perceived world and in other people's relationships with it too.
When I first began to get it, quite naturally I began to think of ways I could use this concept to get what I wanted from others. I realized that what people said about me or any other thing was a projection of what they thought about themselves. I realized both of us betrayed our innermost secrets about who we think we are with every description we made of the other.
I soon found out that this betrayal of self is very difficult to remain consciously aware of in the moment of betrayal. I thought at first that by acquiring a critical mass about how the other thought about themselves I could use that information to manipulate them for my own end game. The second thing I thought of was that the same method was possible for them to use... for or against... me. After that, I didn't seem to have the time to keeping a list of ideated personal attributes on anyone but myself.
Interestingly enough, in the past month I have read that according to Jung's psychology, all projected personal careactoristics happens on an unconscious level, and that is this same unconscious material that we need to become conscious of the most.
This entire process of my understanding projection had a little kink in it. It took a while for me to realize the careactoristics we project on others is not necessarily the way we really think we are. What we are perceiving in others is what we 'would' think of ourselves 'if' we acted and spoke as they did. Not only that, but only 'if' we acted and spoke like we 'think' they did for our own reasons. Other people don't do and say what they do and say for 'our' reasons. Nor do we do and say for their reasons.
This train of thought is how I arrived at the same conclusion as Carl Jung. We seem to think that everyone else, at some level, are basically the same as ourselves, that all of us do and say what we do and say for our own reasons. That's true in an ordinary sense, but it is not how we are the same. We are the same because each of us pretends that we are 'what' we think we are. We hallucinate that we are our own individual person, and that we own ourselves as individuals. But, we are not that pretense anymore than others are. We create the conceptual illusion as the artificial purpose of reason, and then pretend that reason rules the sensory world. It does not. Thank God!
Thursday, April 24, 2003
The swamps in Northern Florida just below the Okeefenokee are hauntingly beautiful. Spanish moss and the high humidity cast a swirl on everything that seems to make it move. Nothing ever looks the same at second glance, and the need to pinpoint something as stable and sound seems interrupted by the frogs croaking at all times of the day. Eternal springs of perfectly clear water emerge at random so deep that the divers find mastadon bones at the bottom of them that have been there seemingly from the beginning of time.
I didn't stand at the entrance to I-10 long, but the next few rides I got was short hops that eventually petered out just east of Mobile. One of the rides was with another trucker not driving his truck. He gave me $5 to get something to eat and let me out at an intersection that had a MacDonald's. I took my time eating a burger, and then wandered outside to see if I could find a safe place to sleep. The only possibility was a clump of young pine trees on the northwestern corner of the intersection.
I crawled over the wildlife fence put there next to the Interstate and began to look around. The pine trees looked like they had been planted deliberately. They were evenly spaced, and there was not much underbrush. As I walked into them I saw the trashy evidence that other bums had been there many times. It was too easy to be seen from the traffic around the intersection, and since it was still light, I didn't want to go to sleep there only to wake up with a knife at my throat. So, I started walking deeper into the woods. The woods were adjoined by a huge pasture with no fence between them, and there were dirt roads that meandered through the woods from the pasture. I imagined rednecks in pickups with CB radios patrolling through the woods looking to have a little fun. I regret seeing the movie EasyRider, and seeing Jack Nicolson's careactor get whacked this way.
Eventually, I walked back toward the Interstate and walked parallel to it for a few hundred yards to see if I could find a better hiding place to sleep. I soon saw the road had a bridge that crossed a small stream, and I thought maybe there might be a level place under the bridge that I could sleep. This bridge was different than the overpasses at the Interstate intersections. No one could see underneath the bridge, and so it wasn't fixed up with the concrete slabs usually found at the overpasses to control erosion of the ramps. There was just some concrete that had been sprayed under the bridge that hadn't been finished. The surface was very rough, and cut at my hands as I climbed up under the bridge. Usually, just beneath the big girders that span the crossing, there is a flat place the girders are anchored, and between the girders a flat smooth spot for sleeping can be found. This didn't happen here. It was all just rough concrete that was almost impossible to be relaxed on any way on.
I made myself as comfortable as possible, but it wasn't easy. The rough concrete wasn't level, but sloped down the grade toward the stream. I had some rope in my pack, and I found a way to tie it to the girders to keep myself from rolling down the grade into the water.
When I finally laid down, I begin to notice that there was a loud clanking noise when the big trucks crossed over the bridge. As I tried to settle into sleep, I could smell the swamp gases in the air, and hear the frogs and night sounds of all the creatures of the dark. It was still early in the Spring to worry about snakes. Between the clanking of the traffic above me and sleeping with one eye open for whatever my exposure brought to me, I nodded off and got a little sleep.
I didn't stand at the entrance to I-10 long, but the next few rides I got was short hops that eventually petered out just east of Mobile. One of the rides was with another trucker not driving his truck. He gave me $5 to get something to eat and let me out at an intersection that had a MacDonald's. I took my time eating a burger, and then wandered outside to see if I could find a safe place to sleep. The only possibility was a clump of young pine trees on the northwestern corner of the intersection.
I crawled over the wildlife fence put there next to the Interstate and began to look around. The pine trees looked like they had been planted deliberately. They were evenly spaced, and there was not much underbrush. As I walked into them I saw the trashy evidence that other bums had been there many times. It was too easy to be seen from the traffic around the intersection, and since it was still light, I didn't want to go to sleep there only to wake up with a knife at my throat. So, I started walking deeper into the woods. The woods were adjoined by a huge pasture with no fence between them, and there were dirt roads that meandered through the woods from the pasture. I imagined rednecks in pickups with CB radios patrolling through the woods looking to have a little fun. I regret seeing the movie EasyRider, and seeing Jack Nicolson's careactor get whacked this way.
Eventually, I walked back toward the Interstate and walked parallel to it for a few hundred yards to see if I could find a better hiding place to sleep. I soon saw the road had a bridge that crossed a small stream, and I thought maybe there might be a level place under the bridge that I could sleep. This bridge was different than the overpasses at the Interstate intersections. No one could see underneath the bridge, and so it wasn't fixed up with the concrete slabs usually found at the overpasses to control erosion of the ramps. There was just some concrete that had been sprayed under the bridge that hadn't been finished. The surface was very rough, and cut at my hands as I climbed up under the bridge. Usually, just beneath the big girders that span the crossing, there is a flat place the girders are anchored, and between the girders a flat smooth spot for sleeping can be found. This didn't happen here. It was all just rough concrete that was almost impossible to be relaxed on any way on.
I made myself as comfortable as possible, but it wasn't easy. The rough concrete wasn't level, but sloped down the grade toward the stream. I had some rope in my pack, and I found a way to tie it to the girders to keep myself from rolling down the grade into the water.
When I finally laid down, I begin to notice that there was a loud clanking noise when the big trucks crossed over the bridge. As I tried to settle into sleep, I could smell the swamp gases in the air, and hear the frogs and night sounds of all the creatures of the dark. It was still early in the Spring to worry about snakes. Between the clanking of the traffic above me and sleeping with one eye open for whatever my exposure brought to me, I nodded off and got a little sleep.
Wednesday, April 23, 2003
The bus I boarded in Key West took me to Homestead, Florida. Homestead is the jumpoff point for the Florida Keys, and is not in Monroe County. I didn't have to worry about being threatened with jail for hitch-hiking. I walked over to U.S.Highway 1, and looked for a place drivers could pull off the road if they took a notion to give me a ride.
I stood there a long time without getting a ride. Most of the traffic there is local, particularly during the week. Finally, a nice Cuban lady gave me a ride up to where the entrance to the Florida Turnpike crossed U.S.1, where I waited even longer for a ride that would set me up to get outta Florida.
A guy in a pick-up truck who was accompanied by a really pretty woman pulled over, and told me that he was gonna end up north of Miami, and that he could put me on I-95, but it might be a while. I climbed in the back of the truck, and off we went. The guy kept trying to have a conversation with me through the rear window of the pick-up. I didn't understand very much of what he said, but what I did understand left me with the impression that he had issues that had nothing to do with the reality I lived in. He was a VietNam Vet that did not seem to have come home from the war. After a while the woman complained about how the wind from the slide window was messing up her hair, and we rode the rest of the way around Miami with the window shut. When we got to where he was going to let me out we had actually moved north about 10-15 miles, but because we went in a big loop it took about an hour and a half.
Never the less, I found myself on I-95, just north of Miami, at a pretty run-down section of town in the very middle of a huge public housing project. There was a couple of chain-link fences between me and the Projects buildings, which allayed my concern somewhat, but did not prevent me from seeing the drunks and crackheads from wandering around on the sidewalks nearby.
The intersection I found myself at was not a good place for catching a ride.
There was a canal between me and the Projects with one of the chain-link fences running along side of it, and mangroves growing along both sides of the fence and canal. When I am on the road, I always look for an escape route in case I need to run for my life. Strange things happen on the road when people see you as a stranger in a strange land. The mangrove bushes looked like a good place to hide if I saw someone turning around to approach me for nefarious reasons. I wasn't getting even a hint that I might get a ride here, so I decided to see if I could find a place in the mangroves to get out of the public eye. I found a little tunnel through the bushes that lead me to a convenient "camp" other bums had used before me. The mangroves hid me, and the canal and chain-link fence kinda protected me from whatever over on the Project's side.
Once I squirmed my way back into the hideaway, I felt the exhaustion of the day, and decided to lie down and catch a nap. I woke up the next morning feeling pretty good about myself. I decided to hike up to the next intersection on I-95, and hope the cops wouldn't pick me up for walking on the Interstate. That worked out pretty good, and the next intersection was a little bit better because the traffic entering I-95 were going a little slower. I caught a ride fairly quickly that took me a hundred miles further north, and most importantly, well away from the perils of being on the streets in Miami.
From there I caught a ride with a trucker who was driving a rental car to Atlanta to pick up a new truck. He was a good man. He asked me if I was hungry, and stopped to buy me something to eat. When he asked me why, if I liked moving around, did I not drive trucks like he did. I told him I had thought about it, but figured at sixty something I was too old. He told me that wasn't true, that big companies like the one he worked for would train me for free, and told me how to do it. Oddly enough, his information proved true, and later, I did just that.
We moved through to Northern Florida chatting back and forth about what it's like to be out on the road, and both of us seemed to enjoy each other's company, but in the back of my mind I was thinking about whether I wanted to ride to Atlanta with him, and then go on back home from there. The further we moved North, the more I realized I wasn't ready to go home yet. I didn't have any money or any guarantee that I would eat regular, and I didn't have a sleeping bag to make myself comfortable at night... but I just wasn't ready to get off the road yet. I talked to my new-found friend about this, and he said he would let me off anywhere I liked.
We were approaching I-10, and I had to make up my mind before we got there. The month of March can still come up with some pretty cold nights even along the Gulf Coast. Going on to Atlanta and catching I-20 could prove disastrous this early in the Spring with no warm clothes and no sleeping bag. I recalled how long it took me to make up my mind to get out on the road again, and decided that since I was already out here I might as well get out at I-10, and continue my sojourn out to California one more time before I got too decrepid to do it. It seemed that no sooner than I made up my mind to keep on keeping on, than we came to I-10, and I left the comfort of my friend of short acquaintance for whatever the Gods may offer.
To be continued...
I stood there a long time without getting a ride. Most of the traffic there is local, particularly during the week. Finally, a nice Cuban lady gave me a ride up to where the entrance to the Florida Turnpike crossed U.S.1, where I waited even longer for a ride that would set me up to get outta Florida.
A guy in a pick-up truck who was accompanied by a really pretty woman pulled over, and told me that he was gonna end up north of Miami, and that he could put me on I-95, but it might be a while. I climbed in the back of the truck, and off we went. The guy kept trying to have a conversation with me through the rear window of the pick-up. I didn't understand very much of what he said, but what I did understand left me with the impression that he had issues that had nothing to do with the reality I lived in. He was a VietNam Vet that did not seem to have come home from the war. After a while the woman complained about how the wind from the slide window was messing up her hair, and we rode the rest of the way around Miami with the window shut. When we got to where he was going to let me out we had actually moved north about 10-15 miles, but because we went in a big loop it took about an hour and a half.
Never the less, I found myself on I-95, just north of Miami, at a pretty run-down section of town in the very middle of a huge public housing project. There was a couple of chain-link fences between me and the Projects buildings, which allayed my concern somewhat, but did not prevent me from seeing the drunks and crackheads from wandering around on the sidewalks nearby.
The intersection I found myself at was not a good place for catching a ride.
There was a canal between me and the Projects with one of the chain-link fences running along side of it, and mangroves growing along both sides of the fence and canal. When I am on the road, I always look for an escape route in case I need to run for my life. Strange things happen on the road when people see you as a stranger in a strange land. The mangrove bushes looked like a good place to hide if I saw someone turning around to approach me for nefarious reasons. I wasn't getting even a hint that I might get a ride here, so I decided to see if I could find a place in the mangroves to get out of the public eye. I found a little tunnel through the bushes that lead me to a convenient "camp" other bums had used before me. The mangroves hid me, and the canal and chain-link fence kinda protected me from whatever over on the Project's side.
Once I squirmed my way back into the hideaway, I felt the exhaustion of the day, and decided to lie down and catch a nap. I woke up the next morning feeling pretty good about myself. I decided to hike up to the next intersection on I-95, and hope the cops wouldn't pick me up for walking on the Interstate. That worked out pretty good, and the next intersection was a little bit better because the traffic entering I-95 were going a little slower. I caught a ride fairly quickly that took me a hundred miles further north, and most importantly, well away from the perils of being on the streets in Miami.
From there I caught a ride with a trucker who was driving a rental car to Atlanta to pick up a new truck. He was a good man. He asked me if I was hungry, and stopped to buy me something to eat. When he asked me why, if I liked moving around, did I not drive trucks like he did. I told him I had thought about it, but figured at sixty something I was too old. He told me that wasn't true, that big companies like the one he worked for would train me for free, and told me how to do it. Oddly enough, his information proved true, and later, I did just that.
We moved through to Northern Florida chatting back and forth about what it's like to be out on the road, and both of us seemed to enjoy each other's company, but in the back of my mind I was thinking about whether I wanted to ride to Atlanta with him, and then go on back home from there. The further we moved North, the more I realized I wasn't ready to go home yet. I didn't have any money or any guarantee that I would eat regular, and I didn't have a sleeping bag to make myself comfortable at night... but I just wasn't ready to get off the road yet. I talked to my new-found friend about this, and he said he would let me off anywhere I liked.
We were approaching I-10, and I had to make up my mind before we got there. The month of March can still come up with some pretty cold nights even along the Gulf Coast. Going on to Atlanta and catching I-20 could prove disastrous this early in the Spring with no warm clothes and no sleeping bag. I recalled how long it took me to make up my mind to get out on the road again, and decided that since I was already out here I might as well get out at I-10, and continue my sojourn out to California one more time before I got too decrepid to do it. It seemed that no sooner than I made up my mind to keep on keeping on, than we came to I-10, and I left the comfort of my friend of short acquaintance for whatever the Gods may offer.
To be continued...
Tuesday, April 22, 2003
After telling a story about what happened during the many years of hitch-hiking adventures in my youth, some people would inevitably say, "Yeah, ya can't do that any more, it's just too dangerous." I heard this remark many times and began to wonder if it were true. When I was sixty-one years old, I decided to go out hitch-hiking again to see for myself if these arm-chair quarterbacks were right.
I wasn't working. I didn't have any money for traveling any other way, and I still had months to go before I could sign up for a Social Security check to have a steady income to live like I really have wanted to for as long as I can remember.
I decided to hitch-hike down to Key West, Florida. I used to winter at Key West during the cold months, and it was an interesting place to be. Only the most resourceful bums could survive the winter down there. It's a small island, and the pickin's ain't easy. Back then it was just another place where "the lazy ol' Sun ain't got nothing to do, but roll around heaven all day."
Not any more,of course, now it's one of the most expensive places in the U.S. to live, and the cops/thugs are hired to keep it that way. Bums are frowned upon with unmerciful vigor.
I didn't have much trouble catching rides down to Key West. I got some long rides with some fairly hospitable people. The view from the bridges crossing from island to island on the way down was still beautiful, and Key West didn't look very different thanks to the Dragonian preservation societies that dictate what's what about the town's look and feel. I walked around town for the better part of a day, and as evening approached I started looking for a place to hide. I hadn't brought a sleeping bag with me, and since the entire area is nothing but coral rock, finding a soft place to lay my head was as tricky as it ever was.
I hiked out to the edge of town, and just at dark saw some mangrove stands off the side of the road just across from the City golf course. There were little paths beaten down through the mangrove bushes where other bums had sought refuge for ages before me. I heard a bunch of drunks yelling and raising hell about a hundred yards away down to the waters edge, and I didn't wanna have a run-in with them, and I damn sure didn't want them to find me sleeping alone while I was off in the Land of Nod.
With a small flashlight I had brought with me, I finally located a small tunnel-looking path through the mangroves that looked fairly difficult to crawl through drunk, burrowed my way inside a thicker clump of bushes, and made myself a sleeping hole outta sight of the main path. It was not all that comfortable, and the litter on the ground was full of little sticks and coral rocks, but I was so exhausted from walking around town all day I dropped off into a troubled sleep for a few hours. I woke up a coupla times when the shouting from the drunks got too close to me, but did manage to get some rest.
A little before dawn I woke up, damp from the morning dew mixed with the sweat from all that walking in a tropical climate. I was cramped in a dozen places in my aging body, and the mosquitos had feasted on me all night long. This was not my best morning. I decided I might as well get up and see if I could find a cup of coffee, and then hitch-hike my way back to the mainland up toward Miami.
The only coffee I could find was in a service station and it was instant coffee with lukewarm tapwater, and those little pink packets of Sweet and Low that left an aftertaste that seemed worse than before I drank it. I walked out by the side of the road to try to get a ride outta this misery.
There was not much traffic that early in the morning. The cop appeared driving slowly along the front of the businesses along the road. I saw him coming a half mile off. It looked like he was just patrolling the stores to see if they were okay. I didn't expect him to pay me any attention. As he got closer to me I realized that I had become the focus of his attention. He drove directly in front of me and stopped, and then used his loudspeaker to tell me to move away from my bags and put my hands up in the air. I was a little confused, and I get I was a little more hesitant than he thought I should be, so he began threatening me and put his spot-light directly in my eyes. He got out of the car, slammed me up against the hood of the patrol car, handcuffed me, and patted me down none too gently.
After he was satisfied that I was not holding, he asked for my identification, told me not to move, and ran a PIN check on his computer in the car. He found out I don't have a police record, got outta the car, and with a very unfriendly tone of voice told me I had two choices. I could walk the 150 miles to Miami or I could catch a bus outta HIS county, but I was not going to hitch-hike in Monroe County, Florida, and I was not going to remain in Key West... period.
There was no sense in arguing. I did have just enough money to buy a bus ticket, although it left me with no money for food. He took me to the bus station, witnessed me buy the ticket for the bus ride, and then waited until the bus come and take me away. So much for my fond memories of my youthful days spent in Key West.
But, it got worse down the road when I finally got off the Keys and back to the mainland. Another story...
I wasn't working. I didn't have any money for traveling any other way, and I still had months to go before I could sign up for a Social Security check to have a steady income to live like I really have wanted to for as long as I can remember.
I decided to hitch-hike down to Key West, Florida. I used to winter at Key West during the cold months, and it was an interesting place to be. Only the most resourceful bums could survive the winter down there. It's a small island, and the pickin's ain't easy. Back then it was just another place where "the lazy ol' Sun ain't got nothing to do, but roll around heaven all day."
Not any more,of course, now it's one of the most expensive places in the U.S. to live, and the cops/thugs are hired to keep it that way. Bums are frowned upon with unmerciful vigor.
I didn't have much trouble catching rides down to Key West. I got some long rides with some fairly hospitable people. The view from the bridges crossing from island to island on the way down was still beautiful, and Key West didn't look very different thanks to the Dragonian preservation societies that dictate what's what about the town's look and feel. I walked around town for the better part of a day, and as evening approached I started looking for a place to hide. I hadn't brought a sleeping bag with me, and since the entire area is nothing but coral rock, finding a soft place to lay my head was as tricky as it ever was.
I hiked out to the edge of town, and just at dark saw some mangrove stands off the side of the road just across from the City golf course. There were little paths beaten down through the mangrove bushes where other bums had sought refuge for ages before me. I heard a bunch of drunks yelling and raising hell about a hundred yards away down to the waters edge, and I didn't wanna have a run-in with them, and I damn sure didn't want them to find me sleeping alone while I was off in the Land of Nod.
With a small flashlight I had brought with me, I finally located a small tunnel-looking path through the mangroves that looked fairly difficult to crawl through drunk, burrowed my way inside a thicker clump of bushes, and made myself a sleeping hole outta sight of the main path. It was not all that comfortable, and the litter on the ground was full of little sticks and coral rocks, but I was so exhausted from walking around town all day I dropped off into a troubled sleep for a few hours. I woke up a coupla times when the shouting from the drunks got too close to me, but did manage to get some rest.
A little before dawn I woke up, damp from the morning dew mixed with the sweat from all that walking in a tropical climate. I was cramped in a dozen places in my aging body, and the mosquitos had feasted on me all night long. This was not my best morning. I decided I might as well get up and see if I could find a cup of coffee, and then hitch-hike my way back to the mainland up toward Miami.
The only coffee I could find was in a service station and it was instant coffee with lukewarm tapwater, and those little pink packets of Sweet and Low that left an aftertaste that seemed worse than before I drank it. I walked out by the side of the road to try to get a ride outta this misery.
There was not much traffic that early in the morning. The cop appeared driving slowly along the front of the businesses along the road. I saw him coming a half mile off. It looked like he was just patrolling the stores to see if they were okay. I didn't expect him to pay me any attention. As he got closer to me I realized that I had become the focus of his attention. He drove directly in front of me and stopped, and then used his loudspeaker to tell me to move away from my bags and put my hands up in the air. I was a little confused, and I get I was a little more hesitant than he thought I should be, so he began threatening me and put his spot-light directly in my eyes. He got out of the car, slammed me up against the hood of the patrol car, handcuffed me, and patted me down none too gently.
After he was satisfied that I was not holding, he asked for my identification, told me not to move, and ran a PIN check on his computer in the car. He found out I don't have a police record, got outta the car, and with a very unfriendly tone of voice told me I had two choices. I could walk the 150 miles to Miami or I could catch a bus outta HIS county, but I was not going to hitch-hike in Monroe County, Florida, and I was not going to remain in Key West... period.
There was no sense in arguing. I did have just enough money to buy a bus ticket, although it left me with no money for food. He took me to the bus station, witnessed me buy the ticket for the bus ride, and then waited until the bus come and take me away. So much for my fond memories of my youthful days spent in Key West.
But, it got worse down the road when I finally got off the Keys and back to the mainland. Another story...
After telling a story about what happened during the many years of hitch-hiking adventures in my youth, some people would inevitably say, "Yeah, ya can't do that any more, it's just too dangerous." I heard this remark many times and began to wonder if it were true. When I was sixty-one years old, I decided to go out hitch-hiking again to see for myself if these arm-chair quarterbacks were right.
I wasn't working. I didn't have any money for traveling any other way, and I still had months to go before I could sign up for a Social Security check to have a steady income to live like I really have wanted to for as long as I can remember.
I decided to hitch-hike down to Key West, Florida. I used to winter at Key West during the cold months, and it was an interesting place to be. Only the most resourceful bums could survive the winter down there. It's a small island, and the pickin's ain't easy. Back then it was just another place where "the lazy ol' Sun ain't got nothing to do, but roll around heaven all day."
Not any more,of course, now it's one of the most expensive places in the U.S. to live, and the cops/thugs are hired to keep it that way. Bums are frowned upon with unmerciful vigor.
I didn't have much trouble catching rides down to Key West. I got some long rides with some fairly hospitable people. The view from the bridges crossing from island to island on the way down was still beautiful, and Key West didn't look very different thanks to the Dragonian preservation societies that dictate what's what about the town's look and feel. I walked around town for the better part of a day, and as evening approached I started looking for a place to hide. I hadn't brought a sleeping bag with me, and since the entire area is nothing but coral rock, finding a soft place to lay my head was as tricky as it ever was.
I hiked out to the edge of town, and just at dark saw some mangrove stands off the side of the road just across from the City golf course. There were little paths beaten down through the mangrove bushes where other bums had sought refuge for ages before me. I heard a bunch of drunks yelling and raising hell about a hundred yards away down to the waters edge, and I didn't wanna have a run-in with them, and I damn sure didn't want them to find me sleeping alone while I was off in the Land of Nod.
With a small flashlight I had brought with me, I finally located a small tunnel-looking path through the mangroves that looked fairly difficult to crawl through drunk, burrowed my way inside a thicker clump of bushes, and made myself a sleeping hole outta sight of the main path. It was not all that comfortable, and the litter on the ground was full of little sticks and coral rocks, but I was so exhausted from walking around town all day I dropped off into a troubled sleep for a few hours. I woke up a coupla times when the shouting from the drunks got too close to me, but did manage to get some rest.
A little before dawn I woke up, damp from the morning dew mixed with the sweat from all that walking in a tropical climate. I was cramped in a dozen places in my aging body, and the mosquitos had feasted on me all night long. This was not my best morning. I decided I might as well get up and see if I could find a cup of coffee, and then hitch-hike my way back to the mainland up toward Miami.
The only coffee I could find was in a service station and it was instant coffee with lukewarm tapwater, and those little pink packets of Sweet and Low that left an aftertaste that seemed worse than before I drank it. I walked out by the side of the road to try to get a ride outta this misery.
There was not much traffic that early in the morning. The cop appeared driving slowly along the front of the businesses along the road. I saw him coming a half mile off. It looked like he was just patrolling the stores to see if they were okay. I didn't expect him to pay me any attention. As he got closer to me I realized that I had become the focus of his attention. He drove directly in front of me and stopped, and then used his loudspeaker to tell me to move away from my bags and put my hands up in the air. I was a little confused, and I get I was a little more hesitant than he thought I should be, so he began threatening me and put his spot-light directly in my eyes. He got out of the car, slammed me up against the hood of the patrol car, handcuffed me, and patted me down none too gently.
After he was satisfied that I was not holding, he asked for my identification, told me not to move, and ran a PIN check on his computer in the car. He found out I don't have a police record, got outta the car, and with a very unfriendly tone of voice told me I had two choices. I could walk the 150 miles to Miami or I could catch a bus outta HIS county, but I was not going to hitch-hike in Monroe County, Florida, and I was not going to remain in Key West... period.
There was no sense in arguing. I did have just enough money to buy a bus ticket, although it left me with no money for food. He took me to the bus station, witnessed me buy the ticket for the bus ride, and then waited until the bus come and take me away. So much for my fond memories of my youthful days spent in Key West.
But, it got worse down the road when I finally got off the Keys and back to the mainland. Another story...
I wasn't working. I didn't have any money for traveling any other way, and I still had months to go before I could sign up for a Social Security check to have a steady income to live like I really have wanted to for as long as I can remember.
I decided to hitch-hike down to Key West, Florida. I used to winter at Key West during the cold months, and it was an interesting place to be. Only the most resourceful bums could survive the winter down there. It's a small island, and the pickin's ain't easy. Back then it was just another place where "the lazy ol' Sun ain't got nothing to do, but roll around heaven all day."
Not any more,of course, now it's one of the most expensive places in the U.S. to live, and the cops/thugs are hired to keep it that way. Bums are frowned upon with unmerciful vigor.
I didn't have much trouble catching rides down to Key West. I got some long rides with some fairly hospitable people. The view from the bridges crossing from island to island on the way down was still beautiful, and Key West didn't look very different thanks to the Dragonian preservation societies that dictate what's what about the town's look and feel. I walked around town for the better part of a day, and as evening approached I started looking for a place to hide. I hadn't brought a sleeping bag with me, and since the entire area is nothing but coral rock, finding a soft place to lay my head was as tricky as it ever was.
I hiked out to the edge of town, and just at dark saw some mangrove stands off the side of the road just across from the City golf course. There were little paths beaten down through the mangrove bushes where other bums had sought refuge for ages before me. I heard a bunch of drunks yelling and raising hell about a hundred yards away down to the waters edge, and I didn't wanna have a run-in with them, and I damn sure didn't want them to find me sleeping alone while I was off in the Land of Nod.
With a small flashlight I had brought with me, I finally located a small tunnel-looking path through the mangroves that looked fairly difficult to crawl through drunk, burrowed my way inside a thicker clump of bushes, and made myself a sleeping hole outta sight of the main path. It was not all that comfortable, and the litter on the ground was full of little sticks and coral rocks, but I was so exhausted from walking around town all day I dropped off into a troubled sleep for a few hours. I woke up a coupla times when the shouting from the drunks got too close to me, but did manage to get some rest.
A little before dawn I woke up, damp from the morning dew mixed with the sweat from all that walking in a tropical climate. I was cramped in a dozen places in my aging body, and the mosquitos had feasted on me all night long. This was not my best morning. I decided I might as well get up and see if I could find a cup of coffee, and then hitch-hike my way back to the mainland up toward Miami.
The only coffee I could find was in a service station and it was instant coffee with lukewarm tapwater, and those little pink packets of Sweet and Low that left an aftertaste that seemed worse than before I drank it. I walked out by the side of the road to try to get a ride outta this misery.
There was not much traffic that early in the morning. The cop appeared driving slowly along the front of the businesses along the road. I saw him coming a half mile off. It looked like he was just patrolling the stores to see if they were okay. I didn't expect him to pay me any attention. As he got closer to me I realized that I had become the focus of his attention. He drove directly in front of me and stopped, and then used his loudspeaker to tell me to move away from my bags and put my hands up in the air. I was a little confused, and I get I was a little more hesitant than he thought I should be, so he began threatening me and put his spot-light directly in my eyes. He got out of the car, slammed me up against the hood of the patrol car, handcuffed me, and patted me down none too gently.
After he was satisfied that I was not holding, he asked for my identification, told me not to move, and ran a PIN check on his computer in the car. He found out I don't have a police record, got outta the car, and with a very unfriendly tone of voice told me I had two choices. I could walk the 150 miles to Miami or I could catch a bus outta HIS county, but I was not going to hitch-hike in Monroe County, Florida, and I was not going to remain in Key West... period.
There was no sense in arguing. I did have just enough money to buy a bus ticket, although it left me with no money for food. He took me to the bus station, witnessed me buy the ticket for the bus ride, and then waited until the bus come and take me away. So much for my fond memories of my youthful days spent in Key West.
But, it got worse down the road when I finally got off the Keys and back to the mainland. Another story...
After telling a story about what happened during the many years of hitch-hiking adventures in my youth, some people would inevitably say, "Yeah, ya can't do that any more, it's just too dangerous." I heard this remark many times and began to wonder if it were true. When I was sixty-one years old, I decided to go out hitch-hiking again to see for myself if these arm-chair quarterbacks were right.
I wasn't working. I didn't have any money for traveling any other way, and I still had months to go before I could sign up for a Social Security check to have a steady income to live like I really have wanted to for as long as I can remember.
I decided to hitch-hike down to Key West, Florida. I used to winter at Key West during the cold months, and it was an interesting place to be. Only the most resourceful bums could survive the winter down there. It's a small island, and the pickin's ain't easy. Back then it was just another place where "the lazy ol' Sun ain't got nothing to do, but roll around heaven all day."
Not any more,of course, now it's one of the most expensive places in the U.S. to live, and the cops/thugs are hired to keep it that way. Bums are frowned upon with unmerciful vigor.
I didn't have much trouble catching rides down to Key West. I got some long rides with some fairly hospitable people. The view from the bridges crossing from island to island on the way down was still beautiful, and Key West didn't look very different thanks to the Dragonian preservation societies that dictate what's what about the town's look and feel. I walked around town for the better part of a day, and as evening approached I started looking for a place to hide. I hadn't brought a sleeping bag with me, and since the entire area is nothing but coral rock, finding a soft place to lay my head was as tricky as it ever was.
I hiked out to the edge of town, and just at dark saw some mangrove stands off the side of the road just across from the City golf course. There were little paths beaten down through the mangrove bushes where other bums had sought refuge for ages before me. I heard a bunch of drunks yelling and raising hell about a hundred yards away down to the waters edge, and I didn't wanna have a run-in with them, and I damn sure didn't want them to find me sleeping alone while I was off in the Land of Nod.
With a small flashlight I had brought with me, I finally located a small tunnel-looking path through the mangroves that looked fairly difficult to crawl through drunk, burrowed my way inside a thicker clump of bushes, and made myself a sleeping hole outta sight of the main path. It was not all that comfortable, and the litter on the ground was full of little sticks and coral rocks, but I was so exhausted from walking around town all day I dropped off into a troubled sleep for a few hours. I woke up a coupla times when the shouting from the drunks got too close to me, but did manage to get some rest.
A little before dawn I woke up, damp from the morning dew mixed with the sweat from all that walking in a tropical climate. I was cramped in a dozen places in my aging body, and the mosquitos had feasted on me all night long. This was not my best morning. I decided I might as well get up and see if I could find a cup of coffee, and then hitch-hike my way back to the mainland up toward Miami.
The only coffee I could find was in a service station and it was instant coffee with lukewarm tapwater, and those little pink packets of Sweet and Low that left an aftertaste that seemed worse than before I drank it. I walked out by the side of the road to try to get a ride outta this misery.
There was not much traffic that early in the morning. The cop appeared driving slowly along the front of the businesses along the road. I saw him coming a half mile off. It looked like he was just patrolling the stores to see if they were okay. I didn't expect him to pay me any attention. As he got closer to me I realized that I had become the focus of his attention. He drove directly in front of me and stopped, and then used his loudspeaker to tell me to move away from my bags and put my hands up in the air. I was a little confused, and I get I was a little more hesitant than he thought I should be, so he began threatening me and put his spot-light directly in my eyes. He got out of the car, slammed me up against the hood of the patrol car, handcuffed me, and patted me down none too gently.
After he was satisfied that I was not holding, he asked for my identification, told me not to move, and ran a PIN check on his computer in the car. He found out I don't have a police record, got outta the car, and with a very unfriendly tone of voice told me I had two choices. I could walk the 150 miles to Miami or I could catch a bus outta HIS county, but I was not going to hitch-hike in Monroe County, Florida, and I was not going to remain in Key West... period.
There was no sense in arguing. I did have just enough money to buy a bus ticket, although it left me with no money for food. He took me to the bus station, witnessed me buy the ticket for the bus ride, and then waited until the bus come and take me away. So much for my fond memories of my youthful days spent in Key West.
But, it got worse down the road when I finally got off the Keys and back to the mainland. Another story...
I wasn't working. I didn't have any money for traveling any other way, and I still had months to go before I could sign up for a Social Security check to have a steady income to live like I really have wanted to for as long as I can remember.
I decided to hitch-hike down to Key West, Florida. I used to winter at Key West during the cold months, and it was an interesting place to be. Only the most resourceful bums could survive the winter down there. It's a small island, and the pickin's ain't easy. Back then it was just another place where "the lazy ol' Sun ain't got nothing to do, but roll around heaven all day."
Not any more,of course, now it's one of the most expensive places in the U.S. to live, and the cops/thugs are hired to keep it that way. Bums are frowned upon with unmerciful vigor.
I didn't have much trouble catching rides down to Key West. I got some long rides with some fairly hospitable people. The view from the bridges crossing from island to island on the way down was still beautiful, and Key West didn't look very different thanks to the Dragonian preservation societies that dictate what's what about the town's look and feel. I walked around town for the better part of a day, and as evening approached I started looking for a place to hide. I hadn't brought a sleeping bag with me, and since the entire area is nothing but coral rock, finding a soft place to lay my head was as tricky as it ever was.
I hiked out to the edge of town, and just at dark saw some mangrove stands off the side of the road just across from the City golf course. There were little paths beaten down through the mangrove bushes where other bums had sought refuge for ages before me. I heard a bunch of drunks yelling and raising hell about a hundred yards away down to the waters edge, and I didn't wanna have a run-in with them, and I damn sure didn't want them to find me sleeping alone while I was off in the Land of Nod.
With a small flashlight I had brought with me, I finally located a small tunnel-looking path through the mangroves that looked fairly difficult to crawl through drunk, burrowed my way inside a thicker clump of bushes, and made myself a sleeping hole outta sight of the main path. It was not all that comfortable, and the litter on the ground was full of little sticks and coral rocks, but I was so exhausted from walking around town all day I dropped off into a troubled sleep for a few hours. I woke up a coupla times when the shouting from the drunks got too close to me, but did manage to get some rest.
A little before dawn I woke up, damp from the morning dew mixed with the sweat from all that walking in a tropical climate. I was cramped in a dozen places in my aging body, and the mosquitos had feasted on me all night long. This was not my best morning. I decided I might as well get up and see if I could find a cup of coffee, and then hitch-hike my way back to the mainland up toward Miami.
The only coffee I could find was in a service station and it was instant coffee with lukewarm tapwater, and those little pink packets of Sweet and Low that left an aftertaste that seemed worse than before I drank it. I walked out by the side of the road to try to get a ride outta this misery.
There was not much traffic that early in the morning. The cop appeared driving slowly along the front of the businesses along the road. I saw him coming a half mile off. It looked like he was just patrolling the stores to see if they were okay. I didn't expect him to pay me any attention. As he got closer to me I realized that I had become the focus of his attention. He drove directly in front of me and stopped, and then used his loudspeaker to tell me to move away from my bags and put my hands up in the air. I was a little confused, and I get I was a little more hesitant than he thought I should be, so he began threatening me and put his spot-light directly in my eyes. He got out of the car, slammed me up against the hood of the patrol car, handcuffed me, and patted me down none too gently.
After he was satisfied that I was not holding, he asked for my identification, told me not to move, and ran a PIN check on his computer in the car. He found out I don't have a police record, got outta the car, and with a very unfriendly tone of voice told me I had two choices. I could walk the 150 miles to Miami or I could catch a bus outta HIS county, but I was not going to hitch-hike in Monroe County, Florida, and I was not going to remain in Key West... period.
There was no sense in arguing. I did have just enough money to buy a bus ticket, although it left me with no money for food. He took me to the bus station, witnessed me buy the ticket for the bus ride, and then waited until the bus come and take me away. So much for my fond memories of my youthful days spent in Key West.
But, it got worse down the road when I finally got off the Keys and back to the mainland. Another story...
After telling a story about what happened during the many years of hitch-hiking adventures in my youth, some people would inevitably say, "Yeah, ya can't do that any more, it's just too dangerous." I heard this remark many times and began to wonder if it were true. When I was sixty-one years old, I decided to go out hitch-hiking again to see for myself if these arm-chair quarterbacks were right.
I wasn't working. I didn't have any money for traveling any other way, and I still had months to go before I could sign up for a Social Security check to have a steady income to live like I really have wanted to for as long as I can remember.
I decided to hitch-hike down to Key West, Florida. I used to winter at Key West during the cold months, and it was an interesting place to be. Only the most resourceful bums could survive the winter down there. It's a small island, and the pickin's ain't easy. Back then it was just another place where "the lazy ol' Sun ain't got nothing to do, but roll around heaven all day."
Not any more,of course, now it's one of the most expensive places in the U.S. to live, and the cops/thugs are hired to keep it that way. Bums are frowned upon with unmerciful vigor.
I didn't have much trouble catching rides down to Key West. I got some long rides with some fairly hospitable people. The view from the bridges crossing from island to island on the way down was still beautiful, and Key West didn't look very different thanks to the Dragonian preservation societies that dictate what's what about the town's look and feel. I walked around town for the better part of a day, and as evening approached I started looking for a place to hide. I hadn't brought a sleeping bag with me, and since the entire area is nothing but coral rock, finding a soft place to lay my head was as tricky as it ever was.
I hiked out to the edge of town, and just at dark saw some mangrove stands off the side of the road just across from the City golf course. There were little paths beaten down through the mangrove bushes where other bums had sought refuge for ages before me. I heard a bunch of drunks yelling and raising hell about a hundred yards away down to the waters edge, and I didn't wanna have a run-in with them, and I damn sure didn't want them to find me sleeping alone while I was off in the Land of Nod.
With a small flashlight I had brought with me, I finally located a small tunnel-looking path through the mangroves that looked fairly difficult to crawl through drunk, burrowed my way inside a thicker clump of bushes, and made myself a sleeping hole outta sight of the main path. It was not all that comfortable, and the litter on the ground was full of little sticks and coral rocks, but I was so exhausted from walking around town all day I dropped off into a troubled sleep for a few hours. I woke up a coupla times when the shouting from the drunks got too close to me, but did manage to get some rest.
A little before dawn I woke up, damp from the morning dew mixed with the sweat from all that walking in a tropical climate. I was cramped in a dozen places in my aging body, and the mosquitos had feasted on me all night long. This was not my best morning. I decided I might as well get up and see if I could find a cup of coffee, and then hitch-hike my way back to the mainland up toward Miami.
The only coffee I could find was in a service station and it was instant coffee with lukewarm tapwater, and those little pink packets of Sweet and Low that left an aftertaste that seemed worse than before I drank it. I walked out by the side of the road to try to get a ride outta this misery.
There was not much traffic that early in the morning. The cop appeared driving slowly along the front of the businesses along the road. I saw him coming a half mile off. It looked like he was just patrolling the stores to see if they were okay. I didn't expect him to pay me any attention. As he got closer to me I realized that I had become the focus of his attention. He drove directly in front of me and stopped, and then used his loudspeaker to tell me to move away from my bags and put my hands up in the air. I was a little confused, and I get I was a little more hesitant than he thought I should be, so he began threatening me and put his spot-light directly in my eyes. He got out of the car, slammed me up against the hood of the patrol car, handcuffed me, and patted me down none too gently.
After he was satisfied that I was not holding, he asked for my identification, told me not to move, and ran a PIN check on his computer in the car. He found out I don't have a police record, got outta the car, and with a very unfriendly tone of voice told me I had two choices. I could walk the 150 miles to Miami or I could catch a bus outta HIS county, but I was not going to hitch-hike in Monroe County, Florida, and I was not going to remain in Key West... period.
There was no sense in arguing. I did have just enough money to buy a bus ticket, although it left me with no money for food. He took me to the bus station, witnessed me buy the ticket for the bus ride, and then waited until the bus come and take me away. So much for my fond memories of my youthful days spent in Key West.
But, it got worse down the road when I finally got off the Keys and back to the mainland. Another story...
I wasn't working. I didn't have any money for traveling any other way, and I still had months to go before I could sign up for a Social Security check to have a steady income to live like I really have wanted to for as long as I can remember.
I decided to hitch-hike down to Key West, Florida. I used to winter at Key West during the cold months, and it was an interesting place to be. Only the most resourceful bums could survive the winter down there. It's a small island, and the pickin's ain't easy. Back then it was just another place where "the lazy ol' Sun ain't got nothing to do, but roll around heaven all day."
Not any more,of course, now it's one of the most expensive places in the U.S. to live, and the cops/thugs are hired to keep it that way. Bums are frowned upon with unmerciful vigor.
I didn't have much trouble catching rides down to Key West. I got some long rides with some fairly hospitable people. The view from the bridges crossing from island to island on the way down was still beautiful, and Key West didn't look very different thanks to the Dragonian preservation societies that dictate what's what about the town's look and feel. I walked around town for the better part of a day, and as evening approached I started looking for a place to hide. I hadn't brought a sleeping bag with me, and since the entire area is nothing but coral rock, finding a soft place to lay my head was as tricky as it ever was.
I hiked out to the edge of town, and just at dark saw some mangrove stands off the side of the road just across from the City golf course. There were little paths beaten down through the mangrove bushes where other bums had sought refuge for ages before me. I heard a bunch of drunks yelling and raising hell about a hundred yards away down to the waters edge, and I didn't wanna have a run-in with them, and I damn sure didn't want them to find me sleeping alone while I was off in the Land of Nod.
With a small flashlight I had brought with me, I finally located a small tunnel-looking path through the mangroves that looked fairly difficult to crawl through drunk, burrowed my way inside a thicker clump of bushes, and made myself a sleeping hole outta sight of the main path. It was not all that comfortable, and the litter on the ground was full of little sticks and coral rocks, but I was so exhausted from walking around town all day I dropped off into a troubled sleep for a few hours. I woke up a coupla times when the shouting from the drunks got too close to me, but did manage to get some rest.
A little before dawn I woke up, damp from the morning dew mixed with the sweat from all that walking in a tropical climate. I was cramped in a dozen places in my aging body, and the mosquitos had feasted on me all night long. This was not my best morning. I decided I might as well get up and see if I could find a cup of coffee, and then hitch-hike my way back to the mainland up toward Miami.
The only coffee I could find was in a service station and it was instant coffee with lukewarm tapwater, and those little pink packets of Sweet and Low that left an aftertaste that seemed worse than before I drank it. I walked out by the side of the road to try to get a ride outta this misery.
There was not much traffic that early in the morning. The cop appeared driving slowly along the front of the businesses along the road. I saw him coming a half mile off. It looked like he was just patrolling the stores to see if they were okay. I didn't expect him to pay me any attention. As he got closer to me I realized that I had become the focus of his attention. He drove directly in front of me and stopped, and then used his loudspeaker to tell me to move away from my bags and put my hands up in the air. I was a little confused, and I get I was a little more hesitant than he thought I should be, so he began threatening me and put his spot-light directly in my eyes. He got out of the car, slammed me up against the hood of the patrol car, handcuffed me, and patted me down none too gently.
After he was satisfied that I was not holding, he asked for my identification, told me not to move, and ran a PIN check on his computer in the car. He found out I don't have a police record, got outta the car, and with a very unfriendly tone of voice told me I had two choices. I could walk the 150 miles to Miami or I could catch a bus outta HIS county, but I was not going to hitch-hike in Monroe County, Florida, and I was not going to remain in Key West... period.
There was no sense in arguing. I did have just enough money to buy a bus ticket, although it left me with no money for food. He took me to the bus station, witnessed me buy the ticket for the bus ride, and then waited until the bus come and take me away. So much for my fond memories of my youthful days spent in Key West.
But, it got worse down the road when I finally got off the Keys and back to the mainland. Another story...
Monday, April 21, 2003
I was enticed to read The Eden Project with comments that it might be interesting in regard to projection. This was the aspect I seem to have gotten a little out the book. The most interesting part of his comments about projection had to do with the view that the content of projected material is normally unconscious stuff that we need to become conscious of to expand our conscious. At least, that's the way I read it. I have used such unconscious material for that purpose, and have known that others were not conscious of projecting stuff about themselves. Basically for the purposes of entertainment, in the past, I have devised elaborate schemes to use other people's unconscious awareness that everything they said betrayed "who they think they are", to manipulate them into about anything I liked. But, that doesn't help me much and much less them. It's like shooting fish in a barrel. Ernest Hemingway would have hated it. It's not to die for... is it?
Something I read in The Eden Project, however, helped me to understand the real problem to address, is that the unconscious material we project on others, along with other unconscious material we may never project is responsible for the decisions we make about what life amounts to for us individually. We seem play to the concepts inherent in "who we think we are". "Who we think we are" is the audience of archetypes we attempt to please with ourevery word and action. It's a constant inner process we attempt to rationalize to the world around us all the time, and yet, is not itself represented to the outer domain. And especially not to "who we think we are."
It's hard to get outta the box. It's hard to do because, classically, ya gotta do it in real time. Ya gotta recognize the projected material as such in the immediacy of it's presence, when ya have the opportunity to recognize and eradicate the support given that keeps it alive and reeking havoc in yo' punkin head. I suspect this thought is the seed behind the saying, "If you meet the Buddha on the road... kill him!"
Saying #28 oif the Gospel of Thomas, found along with other Coptic writings at Hammuradi in Egypt in 1945, kinda freaks with this notion though. The comments about coming here empty and wanting to leave here empty as par for the course, cast a doubting pall about the process of emptying oneself. If this truly the case, that emptying oneself may exist as a natural process happening in nature as we live and breath, then any effort designed to empty oneself of the processes that make up "who we think we are", is not only unnecessary, but exists as a sure path to the "road to hell paved with good intentions. "Dried rushes underneath... no blame."
[A response to a nihilist correspondent who states, "Patriotic stuff, like we killed all the indians so God could have a nice place for the white folks."]
Aiyeeee... a bitter pill with passion? Whatta ya mean "we"? Why would they not? Easy pickin's! It's the nature of the beast. Do you really think all the people in the US sending money to those Nigerian money scams are black? Easy pickin's goes both ways. Some Indian Reservations are raking it in with oil and casinos. Again, easy pickin's! Why would they not?
Why are you taking sides? Is the law of nature so personal an affair with you that you got to single out this or that for blame? Does it really matter which one gets picked for what? I always liked the ol' Navy expression "any port in a storm." I get the distinct impression neither 'this' nor 'that' will seek vengence if yo' decisions seem fair and based on the bottom line. "Why can't we all just get along?"
I get so exasperated with the continuous nagging I get from my Will-to-Live. What a party pooper! He must be from Texas. Such dragonian measures he metes out. No frigging sense of humor at all! "He's no Yellow Dog!"
Don't mess with Tejas! We gone be let it shine... let it shine... let it shine! God Bless America!! Ti yi yippee, yippee yo!
Hell, it must work. Look at all the people who moved to Texas. It's practically Megopolis now... potholes, computers, prophylactics, and all. The next thing ya know, all public employees will have to wear a ten-gallon off-white cowboy hat both on-the-job and off. The pure-white cowboy hats with jewel-encrusted hat bands will be reserved for "El Jeffe, The Navajo Code Talkers, and the NRG Nabobs"...natch!
(See, ___, we want ya vote! We know what a contribution Native Americans have made to the Regime.That's why we included them token Code guys. Now, let bygones be bygones, Chico, or... it's off to the Gulags again. Sucker!)
Long Live Tha KING OF ARABY!!! EL JEFFE!!!... La MAGNIFIQUE!! He that cometh! He that see-eth! He that conquereth! Bestower of FREEDOM [to the shocked and awed, non-union oil peons, from whom all tax write-offs flow!]!!
Aiyeeee... a bitter pill with passion? Whatta ya mean "we"? Why would they not? Easy pickin's! It's the nature of the beast. Do you really think all the people in the US sending money to those Nigerian money scams are black? Easy pickin's goes both ways. Some Indian Reservations are raking it in with oil and casinos. Again, easy pickin's! Why would they not?
Why are you taking sides? Is the law of nature so personal an affair with you that you got to single out this or that for blame? Does it really matter which one gets picked for what? I always liked the ol' Navy expression "any port in a storm." I get the distinct impression neither 'this' nor 'that' will seek vengence if yo' decisions seem fair and based on the bottom line. "Why can't we all just get along?"
I get so exasperated with the continuous nagging I get from my Will-to-Live. What a party pooper! He must be from Texas. Such dragonian measures he metes out. No frigging sense of humor at all! "He's no Yellow Dog!"
Don't mess with Tejas! We gone be let it shine... let it shine... let it shine! God Bless America!! Ti yi yippee, yippee yo!
Hell, it must work. Look at all the people who moved to Texas. It's practically Megopolis now... potholes, computers, prophylactics, and all. The next thing ya know, all public employees will have to wear a ten-gallon off-white cowboy hat both on-the-job and off. The pure-white cowboy hats with jewel-encrusted hat bands will be reserved for "El Jeffe, The Navajo Code Talkers, and the NRG Nabobs"...natch!
(See, ___, we want ya vote! We know what a contribution Native Americans have made to the Regime.That's why we included them token Code guys. Now, let bygones be bygones, Chico, or... it's off to the Gulags again. Sucker!)
Long Live Tha KING OF ARABY!!! EL JEFFE!!!... La MAGNIFIQUE!! He that cometh! He that see-eth! He that conquereth! Bestower of FREEDOM [to the shocked and awed, non-union oil peons, from whom all tax write-offs flow!]!!
Sunday, April 20, 2003
The first list I subscribed to when I got online, and was itself the reason I got online discusses neurolinguistic programming. I serendipitously stumbled into a book at the Community College library entitled Frogs Into Princes, and byreading it discovered that NLP is based on the concepts of my first hypnosis model Milton Erickson. The subject of hypnosis has been one of my most enduring and endearing interests. I took my first course in hypnosis from Harry Aarons up in New Jersey, and Milton Erickson attended the graduation ceremony and spoke individually to each of the graduates. My own audience with him changed my life drastically.
So, when I read that book on NLP and realized that it was based on Erickson's stuff I became very interested in learning more about it. The book I read was the only material I could find at that time, and the only other source seemed to be on the internet. Luckily, an ISP with a local telephone number opened here in town, and I signed up for this new way of seeing the world with my primary intent that of finding out more about NLP.
I began participating on the NLPtalk discussion list and learned about the various seminars and training sessions available. I attended numerous seminars after this with Richard Bandler, Rex, and Carmine, and found this stuff to have usefulness for me in several areas of my life.
The discussion list got to be kind of boring though, with lots of people arguing about stuff that was insignificant. The impression I got was that NLP should have produced the most change in the people who were most involved in it, but the people on the discussion list never seemed to change. So, when I got interested in other subjects I unsubbed from NLPtalk to pursue them.
The other major discussion group I have participated in is called the Gospel of Thomas group. I joined this group after being impressed by a book I found interesting also. The book is called the Gnostic Gospels by Elaine Pagels. I subscribed to this list with the intention of using it to address my childhood religious instruction. I received this instruction in a series of Protestant churches. Although the churches I attended were considered quite moderate in view, as opposed to those of the evangelic persuasion, they managed to piss me off to the extreme anyway. I reacted badly, and it affected my social life in a detrimental way, and I felt like I needed to find out why I get so angry about this stuff. Especially in the sense that I have professed, in the past, not to believe a word of it.
I guess, in consideration of my basic personality needs, I exist as a person who gets bored fairly easily. When I become interested in a particular subject I get fairly deep into it with a great deal of intensity, and look for other people to model who seem to have learned a great deal about the subject. Once I have moved myself to the place where I am as proficient in that subject as they are, or have expended my interest, I move on.
Interestingly enough, however, I left the NLP group and then the GoT group only to find myself subscribed to them again. While I have expended my real interest in them, and especially with some of the less interesting people who will never change from their intensely disagreeable natures, probably including myself, other subjects seem tame by comparison. It amazes me that those who have the least to contribute are the ones who write the most. Again, probably including myself. Is this all there is?