After spending that night deeply enlodged in my insanity and then discovering I had lost my glasses I decided there was no sense in spending any more time at this intersection. I sure wasn't going to leave there via hitch-hiking, and so I gathered my stuff to make the two mile walk to town.
The service road that run alongside the Interstate made for easy walking. There was hardly any traffic at all. That was probably a good thing, because I was so exhausted I could hardly walk in a straight line.
As I stumbled along past the store/restaurant with it's gas pumps and the house trailers I imagined the owners or managers living in, I wondered briefly what they might have thought of what they saw in me that morning. I had been inside the store a coupla times the previous afternoon to go to the bathroom and to buy a single cup of coffee with what little money I had. What difference they would see in the old man that had come into their domain with some amount of pride, and the creature they saw this fine Texa's morning. It was a fine morning. There was no evidence of the storm that had descended with so much havoc on my person in the twilight of the evening before. I wondered if it was coincident that I had been born at twilight within a coupla weeks of sixty-one years previous, and how I got to be in Texas on the bum instead of living in the fine house my people had intended for me to be living comfortably instead.
That wondering, that comparison started my thinking about my insanity. I had been accused of being an insane person most of my life, including my childhood. "Are you crazy boy?" was the mantra my parents and siblings adopted at an early age. I always answered no. Well, most of the time I answered no, but there were times when I wondered if they were right. As I got older the mantra only changed from boy to man. "Man, are you crazy?" Many time I considered that remark occasion for a fight. Only twice in my whole life did I ever lose a fight, so the mantra went underground for the most part. From the perphery sometime I would hear the remark, "Hey, you better watch out, crazy or not, that mofo will whip yo' ass."
After I left my first wife in the middle of the night after her lover had the arrogance to come and knock on my front door and ask to see her, I spent some time traveling, ended up in Reno, Nevada where I wrote:
"Weep and moan, weep and moan,
and cry for one's own pity.
To live this life in such a way
is just a little shitty.
It clings like putty to the soul
and begs for understanding,
but no one hears with glued up ears,
the pleas of silent ranting."
I left Reno in the middle of the night also, and on my way back to North Carolina I stopped to see an old friend, a fellow poet, who told me it was probably time to check myself in to the insane asylum. He asked me if I would like for him to call my mother. I thought about it. I thought of Ezra Pound and other poets who were considered crazy... and agreed. My mother told him she had been expecting this call most of my life, and agreed to make the arrangements for me to commit myself. I hoped I was going to my real home this time. It was only there I realized what crazy was, and for the first time in my life came to gnow I wasn't crazy. The Lifers there inside, one of whom was a childhood friend, told me so, and them, I believed.
The road to town was empty after I passed the store. I began thinking about the insanity I retreated to that allowed me to pass the night. The term insane seemed appropriate that fine morning. I am a word freak, if nothing else, and I started thinking about it's true meaning. In-sane. The storm drove me inside. There was no other place of comfort I could go on the outside. I had to endure what the storm brought; wind, water, cold, lightening. It penetrated my retreat to the overpass bridge and seem to seek me out to drench me with it's anger. There is no blame in the Chinese calling such a storm a dragon. The storm had all the attributes of a dragon I had ever read about. It was certainly as powerful as a dragon. The only sword I had to fight the dragon was the two-edged sword of discrimination, otherwise I was empty-handed.
As I plodded along on that Texas side road, I began to think of my original purpose in my hitch-hiking sojourns. This purpose came from my childhood, and the visions of that childhood that told me to obey the command of Jesus to "go ye therefore into all the world." I didn't realize the implications of going empty-handed, or not taking any money or extra clothing, but to just go, and if I found myself in some hostile place, to stamp the dust of that place off my feet, and continue on. Even though I could barely lift my feet to walk, I stamped the dust of that intersection off my feet. Of course, there was no dust on my feet. Like the rest of me, my shoes were wet.
Suddenly, I was filled with light! All my woes fell away from me. The light was that of understanding. I suddenly gnew why I was supposed to do this crazy traveling. It was to create within myself this "in-sane-ness". To create an inner sanctum to which I could retreat to weather life's storms. I gnew in that moment that I had done it, and that I had been doing it all along. Even though I didn't gnow what I was doing. I had done it!
I practically skipped my way to that little Texas town filled with great joy!
Thursday, May 01, 2003
I was dropped off a mile or two outside this town in Texas. I don't remember the name of the town and I'm too lazy to look it up. This intersection is a hitch-hiker's nightmare. It is not as bad as some intersections, there was a commercial establishment there. This place was like a general store with gas and a restaurant. They had a bathroom. It was a clean upbeat place with nice people inside, but it didn't do me much good because I didn't have any money to buy anything much.
There was a service road that ran along side I-10 that went to town, but this service road stopped not far past the store at a construction company's headquarters. On the other side of I-10 was a residential area. This residential area was the target of most of the local traffic that came out to the intersection and was apparently the reason the overpass was there. Interesting enough, the overpass had two bridges that carried traffic over the Interstate. There didn't appear to be enough traffic from that residential area, but this was Texas, and Texas is renown for doing things in a big way.
Outside of a couple of building and trailer houses around the store there was nothing but open plains behind the store to the north and west. For those of you who have traveled in West Texas, you know there is not much vegetation, almost no trees except along the creek banks and around houses where people have planted trees around the ranch houses. Lots of visual freedom, and with the humidity ususally less than 20% year round, you can see stuff a long way away.
On the northwestern segment of this intersection there were some fairly large piles of dirt that looked like it was stored there by the Highway Department. I never could figure out what they used this dirt for. During the night I was there I tried to find a place to sleep between the several piles of dirt, but I couldn't find a comfortable place to lay my head.
I couldn't find a good level place to sleep under the overpass bridges either. They just weren't set up the way most overpass bridges are.
I'm writing about a place to sleep here because in the day and a half I spent at this intersection there was practically no traffic entering the Interstate here. I think there were less than five cars that used the onramp the entire time I was there. I got to that intersection about three in the afternoon, and it became fairly obvious I wasn't going to get a ride during the night. The store closed around 6pm, and there was no reason for anybody to get off the Interstate at this intersection and get back on.
As it got dark I moved out to see if I could find a good spot to lay down under a couple of trees the state had planted. The ground was gravelly and bare of grass, the best I could hope for was a somewhat level place to lay down and use my small day pack for a pillow. I laid down and tried to adjust to the small rocks beneath me. It wasn't working too well. I found myself just laying there wondering where the hell I got the idea to go on this trip in the first place. Finally, I gave it up and attempted to read my copy of the I Ching I had brought with me as a way of occupying my mind.
These types of sojourns have a tendency to bring out the worst in one's mental life. I guess that's the reason Jesus commanded his disciples to go ye therefore empty-handed. Depending on the kindness of strangers can bring one to realize that there ain't much kindness there to depend on.
I gave up on reading, tried to meditate, but that didn't yield the desired results either. I sat up, and found myself getting morose and feeling sorry for myself. I knew this was not a good thing, and could not lead to an attitude that would serve to get me out of this situation, but it had been a long day, I was tired, couldn't really rest, and that's when I saw the lightening out to the northwest. As soon as I became aware of the lightening I felt the breeze pick up.
I could see the storm coming a long way away out there in West Texas. In the mood I was in I knew damn well it was going to hit right on top of me, and it didn't make me feel prophetic to realize that. I knew the storm was going to be a while before it got to me, so I sit there a while just to watch it coming. When the wind started howling louder and louder I knew I was in for a rough time. I started picking up my stuff and ran for the cover of the overpass bridges.
The wind grew cold. It was coming out of the northwest. I scrambled to lodge myself under the wee space up under the bridge and tried to find a spot to get away from the wind. I didn't have any warm clothes with me, and I knew if I got wet then that cold wind was going to really put me in danger.
The rains came, and with the wind blowing at about 40mph there was not way to get away from it's dampness. Under the bridge I wasn't getting hit directly, but the swirl of the wind was bringing moisture with it and I was dank to the bone. Water started dripping through the sections of the bridge above me and starting running down the slope under the bridge and there was no dry place to sit, so my butt was completely wet, while the rest of my clothes, while not saturated, were damp through and through. With the wind howling through the underside of the bridge I just got colder and colder.
The storm, with it's wind and rain lasted about an hour. I was already in a bad mood when it struck, and now I was really feeling sorry for myself, and there was another ten hours before sunrise. There was no level place under the bridge to lay down comfortably, so I just lay there with my feet pointed down the slope leading down to the Interstate at a thirty degree angle. I kept slipping down the slope in such a way that the crotch of my pants kept creeping up between my legs and pinching me in entirely the wrong places. I had to shift myself up ever twenty minutes or so to keep my pants from cutting the circulation off in my crotch.
I cursed myself, I cursed the storm, I cursed the wind, the rain, the cold, and even God constantly for the next ten hours waiting for the Sun to come up and lift my spirits. Being in a tough spot like this was bad enough when I was young and more physically able, but sixty years and a lifetime of learning better than to let myself get into these situations, really brought my insanity, always lurking, to the fore. I was alone with my insanity for a long dark night.
When the daylight finally did come, I gathered my stuff together to start the long hike into town. I discovered I left my glasses out under the trees when I had attempted to read, so I went back down there to look for them. I looked for about an hour and never found them. I was 1500+ miles away from the comfort of home without good sight. I was dirty, wet, disenchanted to the extreme, and nobody to even turn to and say "Goddammit!". What a way to go.
There was a service road that ran along side I-10 that went to town, but this service road stopped not far past the store at a construction company's headquarters. On the other side of I-10 was a residential area. This residential area was the target of most of the local traffic that came out to the intersection and was apparently the reason the overpass was there. Interesting enough, the overpass had two bridges that carried traffic over the Interstate. There didn't appear to be enough traffic from that residential area, but this was Texas, and Texas is renown for doing things in a big way.
Outside of a couple of building and trailer houses around the store there was nothing but open plains behind the store to the north and west. For those of you who have traveled in West Texas, you know there is not much vegetation, almost no trees except along the creek banks and around houses where people have planted trees around the ranch houses. Lots of visual freedom, and with the humidity ususally less than 20% year round, you can see stuff a long way away.
On the northwestern segment of this intersection there were some fairly large piles of dirt that looked like it was stored there by the Highway Department. I never could figure out what they used this dirt for. During the night I was there I tried to find a place to sleep between the several piles of dirt, but I couldn't find a comfortable place to lay my head.
I couldn't find a good level place to sleep under the overpass bridges either. They just weren't set up the way most overpass bridges are.
I'm writing about a place to sleep here because in the day and a half I spent at this intersection there was practically no traffic entering the Interstate here. I think there were less than five cars that used the onramp the entire time I was there. I got to that intersection about three in the afternoon, and it became fairly obvious I wasn't going to get a ride during the night. The store closed around 6pm, and there was no reason for anybody to get off the Interstate at this intersection and get back on.
As it got dark I moved out to see if I could find a good spot to lay down under a couple of trees the state had planted. The ground was gravelly and bare of grass, the best I could hope for was a somewhat level place to lay down and use my small day pack for a pillow. I laid down and tried to adjust to the small rocks beneath me. It wasn't working too well. I found myself just laying there wondering where the hell I got the idea to go on this trip in the first place. Finally, I gave it up and attempted to read my copy of the I Ching I had brought with me as a way of occupying my mind.
These types of sojourns have a tendency to bring out the worst in one's mental life. I guess that's the reason Jesus commanded his disciples to go ye therefore empty-handed. Depending on the kindness of strangers can bring one to realize that there ain't much kindness there to depend on.
I gave up on reading, tried to meditate, but that didn't yield the desired results either. I sat up, and found myself getting morose and feeling sorry for myself. I knew this was not a good thing, and could not lead to an attitude that would serve to get me out of this situation, but it had been a long day, I was tired, couldn't really rest, and that's when I saw the lightening out to the northwest. As soon as I became aware of the lightening I felt the breeze pick up.
I could see the storm coming a long way away out there in West Texas. In the mood I was in I knew damn well it was going to hit right on top of me, and it didn't make me feel prophetic to realize that. I knew the storm was going to be a while before it got to me, so I sit there a while just to watch it coming. When the wind started howling louder and louder I knew I was in for a rough time. I started picking up my stuff and ran for the cover of the overpass bridges.
The wind grew cold. It was coming out of the northwest. I scrambled to lodge myself under the wee space up under the bridge and tried to find a spot to get away from the wind. I didn't have any warm clothes with me, and I knew if I got wet then that cold wind was going to really put me in danger.
The rains came, and with the wind blowing at about 40mph there was not way to get away from it's dampness. Under the bridge I wasn't getting hit directly, but the swirl of the wind was bringing moisture with it and I was dank to the bone. Water started dripping through the sections of the bridge above me and starting running down the slope under the bridge and there was no dry place to sit, so my butt was completely wet, while the rest of my clothes, while not saturated, were damp through and through. With the wind howling through the underside of the bridge I just got colder and colder.
The storm, with it's wind and rain lasted about an hour. I was already in a bad mood when it struck, and now I was really feeling sorry for myself, and there was another ten hours before sunrise. There was no level place under the bridge to lay down comfortably, so I just lay there with my feet pointed down the slope leading down to the Interstate at a thirty degree angle. I kept slipping down the slope in such a way that the crotch of my pants kept creeping up between my legs and pinching me in entirely the wrong places. I had to shift myself up ever twenty minutes or so to keep my pants from cutting the circulation off in my crotch.
I cursed myself, I cursed the storm, I cursed the wind, the rain, the cold, and even God constantly for the next ten hours waiting for the Sun to come up and lift my spirits. Being in a tough spot like this was bad enough when I was young and more physically able, but sixty years and a lifetime of learning better than to let myself get into these situations, really brought my insanity, always lurking, to the fore. I was alone with my insanity for a long dark night.
When the daylight finally did come, I gathered my stuff together to start the long hike into town. I discovered I left my glasses out under the trees when I had attempted to read, so I went back down there to look for them. I looked for about an hour and never found them. I was 1500+ miles away from the comfort of home without good sight. I was dirty, wet, disenchanted to the extreme, and nobody to even turn to and say "Goddammit!". What a way to go.
Wednesday, April 30, 2003
I watched a TV show call 20/20 where they showed an experiment they did with young children about 6 years old. The purpose of the experiment was to show how males and females are raised differently. To conduct the experiment they made some lemonade, but rather than using sugar they used salt.
They served the salty lemonade first to the boys and then to the girls, and then interviewed them afterward. When they talked to the boys about how they liked the lemonade they were very forthright about how bad it tasted. "Ugh! It's terrible! It taste lousy. Don't you people know how to make lemonade?"
When they served the lemonade to the girls, every single one of them said it taste okay. Even though the camera had been on their faces showed otherwise. One sweet little girl went so far as to say it was delicious and asked for more.
Next, they gave the children presents. They had told them ahead of time they were going to receive presents and got the children excited about it first. All of them were looking forward to getting their present. All the presents were pretty disappointing stuff. Socks, pencils, notebook paper, etc.
After a little hoopla they gave out the presents and interviewed the children. The boys expressed disappointment and bewilderment that they had been led to have high hopes. But, all the little girls acted nice and polite, and said it was just what they needed. Not one of them expressed disappointment.
These experiments helped me to understand something that has befuddled me all my life. I guess this frustration I've felt was best expressed in the play My Fair Lady by the lead male careactor in song when he pondered, "Why can't a woman be like a man?" Now I finally am beginning to see the light.
In the Gnostic Gospels found in Egypt in 1945, the Gospel of Thomas contains only the sayings of Jesus. Two of these sayings seem germaine to these experiments. Saying #114 talks about how a woman can enter the Kingdom of God, whatever that is.
114) Simon Peter said to him, "Let Mary leave us, for women are not worthy of life."
Jesus said, "I myself shall lead her in order to make her male, so that she too may become a living spirit resembling you males. For every woman who will make herself male will enter the kingdom of heaven."
Saying #6 contains a real clue as to how a woman can become male, the admonition, "Do not tell lies..."
(6) His disciples questioned him and said to him, "Do you want us to fast? How shall we pray? Shall we give alms? What diet shall we observe?" Jesus said, "Do not tell lies, and do not do what you hate, for all things are plain in the sight of heaven. For nothing hidden will not become manifest, and nothing covered will remain without being uncovered."
Females seem to be taught from birth to be nice and polite, and to tell little white lies if necessary to reach that end.
Interestingly, in the story of Percival's quest to find the Holy Grail, he meets a fisherman who directs him to a castle. Once in the castle he is treated like royalty and then brought before the Grail King, who he discovers is the fisherman he met previously. The Grail King is brought into his presence on a stretcher. He is obviously a sick man. He has been wounded and is in constant pain. Percival doesn't realize his behavior at this moment is the test to see if he will be given the Grail. He should respond to his natural empathy and ask the Grail King about his pain. Instead he reverts to his knightly code, ignores the King's condition, and says something polite. He fails the test. Wakes up the next morning to find the entire castle empty, and then humiliated on his way out of the castle.
I think this story is synonymous with what Jesus says women have to do to become male to enter the Kingdom. They have to abandon the pretense of being "nice" and quit lying about how they really feel.
How ironic it is that women constantly complain about how men will not talk about their personal feelings. They seem to be projecting their own faults on to the men they accuse. The experiments with children mentioned above demonstrates this is not exactly their fault. I guess that's why it is so difficult for them. They have been honed from birth to be consummate and polite liars, and to say the proper thing instead of telling the truth of how they feel. It seems so instilled in them that can't bring this into a conscious realization and deal with it for what it is. No blame.
Now... about putting the toilet seat down. LOL
They served the salty lemonade first to the boys and then to the girls, and then interviewed them afterward. When they talked to the boys about how they liked the lemonade they were very forthright about how bad it tasted. "Ugh! It's terrible! It taste lousy. Don't you people know how to make lemonade?"
When they served the lemonade to the girls, every single one of them said it taste okay. Even though the camera had been on their faces showed otherwise. One sweet little girl went so far as to say it was delicious and asked for more.
Next, they gave the children presents. They had told them ahead of time they were going to receive presents and got the children excited about it first. All of them were looking forward to getting their present. All the presents were pretty disappointing stuff. Socks, pencils, notebook paper, etc.
After a little hoopla they gave out the presents and interviewed the children. The boys expressed disappointment and bewilderment that they had been led to have high hopes. But, all the little girls acted nice and polite, and said it was just what they needed. Not one of them expressed disappointment.
These experiments helped me to understand something that has befuddled me all my life. I guess this frustration I've felt was best expressed in the play My Fair Lady by the lead male careactor in song when he pondered, "Why can't a woman be like a man?" Now I finally am beginning to see the light.
In the Gnostic Gospels found in Egypt in 1945, the Gospel of Thomas contains only the sayings of Jesus. Two of these sayings seem germaine to these experiments. Saying #114 talks about how a woman can enter the Kingdom of God, whatever that is.
114) Simon Peter said to him, "Let Mary leave us, for women are not worthy of life."
Jesus said, "I myself shall lead her in order to make her male, so that she too may become a living spirit resembling you males. For every woman who will make herself male will enter the kingdom of heaven."
Saying #6 contains a real clue as to how a woman can become male, the admonition, "Do not tell lies..."
(6) His disciples questioned him and said to him, "Do you want us to fast? How shall we pray? Shall we give alms? What diet shall we observe?" Jesus said, "Do not tell lies, and do not do what you hate, for all things are plain in the sight of heaven. For nothing hidden will not become manifest, and nothing covered will remain without being uncovered."
Females seem to be taught from birth to be nice and polite, and to tell little white lies if necessary to reach that end.
Interestingly, in the story of Percival's quest to find the Holy Grail, he meets a fisherman who directs him to a castle. Once in the castle he is treated like royalty and then brought before the Grail King, who he discovers is the fisherman he met previously. The Grail King is brought into his presence on a stretcher. He is obviously a sick man. He has been wounded and is in constant pain. Percival doesn't realize his behavior at this moment is the test to see if he will be given the Grail. He should respond to his natural empathy and ask the Grail King about his pain. Instead he reverts to his knightly code, ignores the King's condition, and says something polite. He fails the test. Wakes up the next morning to find the entire castle empty, and then humiliated on his way out of the castle.
I think this story is synonymous with what Jesus says women have to do to become male to enter the Kingdom. They have to abandon the pretense of being "nice" and quit lying about how they really feel.
How ironic it is that women constantly complain about how men will not talk about their personal feelings. They seem to be projecting their own faults on to the men they accuse. The experiments with children mentioned above demonstrates this is not exactly their fault. I guess that's why it is so difficult for them. They have been honed from birth to be consummate and polite liars, and to say the proper thing instead of telling the truth of how they feel. It seems so instilled in them that can't bring this into a conscious realization and deal with it for what it is. No blame.
Now... about putting the toilet seat down. LOL
Tuesday, April 29, 2003
I've been notified that I don't update my blog in a timely fashion. Good. At least somebody is reading. It would be difficult for me to put up the front that I don't care. I do. Probably some personality flaw. But, if I didn't care, I probably wouldn't have a blog.
I had an acquaintance once who played the bass guitar most of his life, and then decided he wanted to play lead guitar. I played the tuba in the high school band and feel a deep affinity with keeping a bass line going, so when he asked if I would like for him to teach me how to play bass guitar to allow him to practice playing lead I was delighted. I played guitar for a long time, but only strummed chords to accompany myself while singing. Still, that did give me familiarization with the fingerings needed to play bass, so I didn't really start out cold and learn everything from the gitgo.
John and I had another connection besides music that helped our friendship along. We both like to smoke pot while playing music. He seemed to have an ample supply of some very good stuff, and so our practice sessions became an interesting time for both of us.
We got together a coupla times a week to get stoned and play. I was having a difficult time learning all the bass runs he had accumulated over the years, but he was a patient man, and even though I didn't play with the kind of precision he would have liked, what I did do allowed him to practice playing lead mo' bettah than he would have alone.
We didn't really have any ambitions to play in public, John and I, it was just an excuse to spend time together and have a good time. Things were going along fine until a woman friend of ours heard about what we were doing and wanted to get involved. We both knew this woman through different channels, but we both liked her as a friend, and thought it might be okay for this to happen.
We worked up a few songs that she liked mostly, and she began to talk about getting some gigs that might pay a little money, and suggested that exposure to the public would kinda force us to work harder at getting the music right. In other words, she took over the reins of us as a group, and soon enough it was not a casual gathering to socialize and enjoy each other's company, but had a purpose that went beyond individual wants and needs.
I guess John and I went along to get along. John had worked as a musician on a part-time basis in high school and college, and I had worked solo gigs during my travels on a pass-the-hat basis to pick up a little cash occasionally. Besides, she was making all the efforts to get the gigs and make it happen, so there was not much to complain about. She didn't smoke pot, and that came in as a big help in dealing with the public.
She came in one day and told us that she had arranged for us to play as the entertainment for an honors banquet for the local community college. There wasn't any money involved, but she thought it would be good experience for us, and maybe set the stage for more work down the line. We went along with her. It wasn't a big deal because we were only there to provide entertainment until the awards ceremonies started.
A somewhat startling, enlightening thing happened at that banquet. We set up early and played our small repetoire of songs we had prepared. John is not a singer, and was happy to play lead guitar in public for the first time. He got some applause and felt good about that. I played bass awkwardly and sang a coupla songs that got a little applause. And then the woman sang. The songs she chose to sing did not seem very appropriate for the situation to either John or I, but if that was what she wanted to sing there didn't seem to be much sense in trying to change her mind. The problem arose when the students at the banquet didn't stop their chatter and drool at her grand dame/bel canto efforts.
I could tell she was getting upset during the second piece. She got louder and louder, and she had totally lost her professional smile. Suddenly, she stopped singing, turned around and told John and I to stop playing, and marched right up to the head table and demanded that the community college officials shush the students down, that they were not being respectful of her talent. A red-faced college president acquised to her haughty demands, stood up, and explained to the students that they should calm down and listen to her sing.
She flounced back over to the bandstand, glared at John and I as if we were responsible for her tragedy, gave us an upbeat, and she began to sing the song from the beginning.
The students did quieten down for a while, but by the middle of the song they forgot about her being there, and if anything, got louder than before. This did not bode well. The woman stopped singing and it was time to go home. Talent seems to exist as a gift that must command respect rather than demand it, otherwise satisfaction is hardly ever guaranteed.
Needless to say this was our one and only gig. John and I tried to get together once or twice more as we had before the woman come along, but things just weren't the same. Then, he got a job outta town and we haven't seen each other since.
The woman? She's still around. Just the other day she stopped by my table at the local restaurant to feign the appearance that she was suddenly delighted to see me again. Then, she introduced me to the retired doctor she hoped would get her on the "A" list. He seemed very uncomfortable. Some things never seem to change.
I had an acquaintance once who played the bass guitar most of his life, and then decided he wanted to play lead guitar. I played the tuba in the high school band and feel a deep affinity with keeping a bass line going, so when he asked if I would like for him to teach me how to play bass guitar to allow him to practice playing lead I was delighted. I played guitar for a long time, but only strummed chords to accompany myself while singing. Still, that did give me familiarization with the fingerings needed to play bass, so I didn't really start out cold and learn everything from the gitgo.
John and I had another connection besides music that helped our friendship along. We both like to smoke pot while playing music. He seemed to have an ample supply of some very good stuff, and so our practice sessions became an interesting time for both of us.
We got together a coupla times a week to get stoned and play. I was having a difficult time learning all the bass runs he had accumulated over the years, but he was a patient man, and even though I didn't play with the kind of precision he would have liked, what I did do allowed him to practice playing lead mo' bettah than he would have alone.
We didn't really have any ambitions to play in public, John and I, it was just an excuse to spend time together and have a good time. Things were going along fine until a woman friend of ours heard about what we were doing and wanted to get involved. We both knew this woman through different channels, but we both liked her as a friend, and thought it might be okay for this to happen.
We worked up a few songs that she liked mostly, and she began to talk about getting some gigs that might pay a little money, and suggested that exposure to the public would kinda force us to work harder at getting the music right. In other words, she took over the reins of us as a group, and soon enough it was not a casual gathering to socialize and enjoy each other's company, but had a purpose that went beyond individual wants and needs.
I guess John and I went along to get along. John had worked as a musician on a part-time basis in high school and college, and I had worked solo gigs during my travels on a pass-the-hat basis to pick up a little cash occasionally. Besides, she was making all the efforts to get the gigs and make it happen, so there was not much to complain about. She didn't smoke pot, and that came in as a big help in dealing with the public.
She came in one day and told us that she had arranged for us to play as the entertainment for an honors banquet for the local community college. There wasn't any money involved, but she thought it would be good experience for us, and maybe set the stage for more work down the line. We went along with her. It wasn't a big deal because we were only there to provide entertainment until the awards ceremonies started.
A somewhat startling, enlightening thing happened at that banquet. We set up early and played our small repetoire of songs we had prepared. John is not a singer, and was happy to play lead guitar in public for the first time. He got some applause and felt good about that. I played bass awkwardly and sang a coupla songs that got a little applause. And then the woman sang. The songs she chose to sing did not seem very appropriate for the situation to either John or I, but if that was what she wanted to sing there didn't seem to be much sense in trying to change her mind. The problem arose when the students at the banquet didn't stop their chatter and drool at her grand dame/bel canto efforts.
I could tell she was getting upset during the second piece. She got louder and louder, and she had totally lost her professional smile. Suddenly, she stopped singing, turned around and told John and I to stop playing, and marched right up to the head table and demanded that the community college officials shush the students down, that they were not being respectful of her talent. A red-faced college president acquised to her haughty demands, stood up, and explained to the students that they should calm down and listen to her sing.
She flounced back over to the bandstand, glared at John and I as if we were responsible for her tragedy, gave us an upbeat, and she began to sing the song from the beginning.
The students did quieten down for a while, but by the middle of the song they forgot about her being there, and if anything, got louder than before. This did not bode well. The woman stopped singing and it was time to go home. Talent seems to exist as a gift that must command respect rather than demand it, otherwise satisfaction is hardly ever guaranteed.
Needless to say this was our one and only gig. John and I tried to get together once or twice more as we had before the woman come along, but things just weren't the same. Then, he got a job outta town and we haven't seen each other since.
The woman? She's still around. Just the other day she stopped by my table at the local restaurant to feign the appearance that she was suddenly delighted to see me again. Then, she introduced me to the retired doctor she hoped would get her on the "A" list. He seemed very uncomfortable. Some things never seem to change.
Sunday, April 27, 2003
I still try to remember the guy who picked me up in Louisiana the next morning. I remember him stopping to pick me up. I was standing at the end of the ramp leading on to I-10 where it melded into the Interstate. I had started the morning at the bottom of the ramp entrance for a while, but there wasn't much traffic there, and it seemed like mostly local people using the ramp going to work somewhere nearby. Since I was going to California I felt like I needed to go up to the end of the ramp where the main traffic on the Interstate could see me. Although the traffic was going pretty fast and I knew from experience that not many people will slow down from 65-70 mph to pick up a hitch-hiker, moving up to where they would at least see me would be my best bet.
The guy who did pick me up had a small, light green car, and when he did slow down to pick me up he finally stopped a coupla hundred yards down the Interstate and then backed up on the shoulder of the road. When I got into the car I asked him how far he was going. When he told me he was going just past Fort Worth, Texas it made me feel pretty good. That would put me more than half-way through Texas, and more importantly, into West Texas, which has always been my favorite part of the country.
I don't remember much about what we talked about on the way there. Maybe because as we crossed the Sabine River and all the memories it contained for me, I was beginning to feel better and better that I had decided to turn West from Florida and head to California instead of going home to North Carolina. Texas itself, as a political entity is not what thrills me about this area. It's just that the land changes. The vegetation especially. There is less of it, and without the trees blocking my view I experience a visual freedom that doesn't exist in the jungle-like ambiance of the coastal plains where I grew up. There is less humidity in the air, and I can see stuff a longer distance away. This is where hitch-hiking has a distinct advantage over driving. I'm always the passenger, and don't have to worry about negotiating traffic. I can take all the time I like to take in the sights along the road.
The open prairie land of West Texas is only the start of this kind of freedom. As the land opened itself up for my viewing pleasure it stirred old feelings in me of all the times I had been through here before. This was my favorite route to cross the country.
It takes a good long time to get to Dallas from the swamp country of southern Louisiana. It's a long, gradual climb from sea level to the hill and range country surrounding Dallas. When I think about this area I always think Dallas, although Fort Worth is not that far away and the two cities are often mentioned in one breath as the same entity. I've spent some small time in Dallas and not much at all in Fort Worth. It's a prominent part of my travel history. When I see the outline of the city, either day or night, my memories of what happened to me there flood my imagination. It was no different on this day.
I do remember the guy I was riding with wanted to help me. I have learned to be very leary of drivers who want to help me. It's not that they are less than sincere, it's just that they don't have the experience of being on the road to know what will help, and often, their effort to help is not helpful.
I also remember the look of that town he was going to. He was going to see his sister, and only had her address, and so we drove around that town a bit looking for where she lived. There was a big railroad depot and lots of switching tracks. The tallest building in town was no more than four stories high. The town was famous for being a big stop on cattle drives and had a coupla national heros that came from that place. I don't remember the name of the town. We finally found his sister's place. He wanted me to meet her, and had offered her bathroom for me to shower and clean up some. She washed the few clothes I had while I showered. It was the only bath I was to have for the next two weeks. This part of the driver's helpfulness was the good part. The next part of his helpfulness was not. He took me out to the western edge of town where he said there was a truck stop. This intersection was at least a mile and a half from the downtown area, and there was hardly any traffic at all. I ended up spending the night under the overpass bridge that crossed over Interstate, but hanging around that intersection is another story all in itself.
The guy who did pick me up had a small, light green car, and when he did slow down to pick me up he finally stopped a coupla hundred yards down the Interstate and then backed up on the shoulder of the road. When I got into the car I asked him how far he was going. When he told me he was going just past Fort Worth, Texas it made me feel pretty good. That would put me more than half-way through Texas, and more importantly, into West Texas, which has always been my favorite part of the country.
I don't remember much about what we talked about on the way there. Maybe because as we crossed the Sabine River and all the memories it contained for me, I was beginning to feel better and better that I had decided to turn West from Florida and head to California instead of going home to North Carolina. Texas itself, as a political entity is not what thrills me about this area. It's just that the land changes. The vegetation especially. There is less of it, and without the trees blocking my view I experience a visual freedom that doesn't exist in the jungle-like ambiance of the coastal plains where I grew up. There is less humidity in the air, and I can see stuff a longer distance away. This is where hitch-hiking has a distinct advantage over driving. I'm always the passenger, and don't have to worry about negotiating traffic. I can take all the time I like to take in the sights along the road.
The open prairie land of West Texas is only the start of this kind of freedom. As the land opened itself up for my viewing pleasure it stirred old feelings in me of all the times I had been through here before. This was my favorite route to cross the country.
It takes a good long time to get to Dallas from the swamp country of southern Louisiana. It's a long, gradual climb from sea level to the hill and range country surrounding Dallas. When I think about this area I always think Dallas, although Fort Worth is not that far away and the two cities are often mentioned in one breath as the same entity. I've spent some small time in Dallas and not much at all in Fort Worth. It's a prominent part of my travel history. When I see the outline of the city, either day or night, my memories of what happened to me there flood my imagination. It was no different on this day.
I do remember the guy I was riding with wanted to help me. I have learned to be very leary of drivers who want to help me. It's not that they are less than sincere, it's just that they don't have the experience of being on the road to know what will help, and often, their effort to help is not helpful.
I also remember the look of that town he was going to. He was going to see his sister, and only had her address, and so we drove around that town a bit looking for where she lived. There was a big railroad depot and lots of switching tracks. The tallest building in town was no more than four stories high. The town was famous for being a big stop on cattle drives and had a coupla national heros that came from that place. I don't remember the name of the town. We finally found his sister's place. He wanted me to meet her, and had offered her bathroom for me to shower and clean up some. She washed the few clothes I had while I showered. It was the only bath I was to have for the next two weeks. This part of the driver's helpfulness was the good part. The next part of his helpfulness was not. He took me out to the western edge of town where he said there was a truck stop. This intersection was at least a mile and a half from the downtown area, and there was hardly any traffic at all. I ended up spending the night under the overpass bridge that crossed over Interstate, but hanging around that intersection is another story all in itself.
Saturday, April 26, 2003
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.
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?
Saturday, April 19, 2003
"It might be impugningly crass to suggest an otherness as symbolic of some sha-man only rewarded by unheralded manifestation, as though some alchemical mystery were a virtue, much to be desired as the result of otherworldliness and heroic behavior... and who would gnow... unless implicit within it's own transparency?"
This is about as close as I get to creating something that means no thing at all. It might be noted that recently I have taken the term "meaning" to derive from the expression "me-and-thee-ing". Me-and-ing is the essence of what me-anding is all about. Meaning can not be other than that which is most essential about ones personal relationship with this, that, or the other. Perhaps just an other way of saying the same thing as 'nothing much to it' except as beholder.
Beholded-ness itself, as evoked by some object of desire, is but a state of woe being ripped apart by the dead
weight of a predator ripping open the belly of death... tormentingly... a little at the time, instead of whopping it open like a pinata and spilling it's guts all over the floor. I hate being beholden, even to my own concept of reality, whatever that unwittingly is.
With the question being: Why would I feel beholden to what I have been taught to perceive as "real"? When, what I act like is true, only exists to bear witness to "the big lie" for sake of convenience, and only possesses ex-is-tense as some piteous, transmogrified variation of scheme, vaunted into birth while in the throes of some unbridled lust to please the other.
This is about as close as I get to creating something that means no thing at all. It might be noted that recently I have taken the term "meaning" to derive from the expression "me-and-thee-ing". Me-and-ing is the essence of what me-anding is all about. Meaning can not be other than that which is most essential about ones personal relationship with this, that, or the other. Perhaps just an other way of saying the same thing as 'nothing much to it' except as beholder.
Beholded-ness itself, as evoked by some object of desire, is but a state of woe being ripped apart by the dead
weight of a predator ripping open the belly of death... tormentingly... a little at the time, instead of whopping it open like a pinata and spilling it's guts all over the floor. I hate being beholden, even to my own concept of reality, whatever that unwittingly is.
With the question being: Why would I feel beholden to what I have been taught to perceive as "real"? When, what I act like is true, only exists to bear witness to "the big lie" for sake of convenience, and only possesses ex-is-tense as some piteous, transmogrified variation of scheme, vaunted into birth while in the throes of some unbridled lust to please the other.
Wednesday, April 16, 2003
I guess I've always suffered from delusions of grandeur. It's not that I go around thinking I am an important person, but that, like many others, I think the thoughts of geniuses. Therein lies the rub. It's difficult to relate this to other people without their thinking that you think you're something. It's not that I think I'm something when I attempt to relate thoughts of genius, it's the very fact that I do. And... what it takes to get to the place where I can and have.
What it takes is not going along to get along. Not going along to get along can seem very difficult. Especially when it goes against the grain of what many people call common sense. But, that's the whole point. It takes more than common sense to think the thoughts of geniuses. Thinking the way one must think to go along to get along does not result in unusual thinking patterns. It results in what's most common in human thought. To access rare patterns of thought requires one to abandon the usefulness of common knowledge to go where no man has gone before.
On the other hand, having gone where no man has gone before and encountering rare patterns, it seems most difficult to relate these concepts to people who rarely go beyond the realm of ordinary thinking. No blame.
Being exposed to concepts and ideas that go beyond the realm of ordinary thinking can be very invigorating. These concepts and ideas have a power of their own that demands expression. To express unusual ideas sometimes requires feedback from others to allow oneself to explore the possible meaning attached to such things. People enraptured with common knowledge are not much help. So, the problem of getting beyond common knowledge is accompanied by the problem of communicating what one has found with a worthy adversary who can help one verify one's own experience.
I guess this is like a two-edged sword in a way. First there is adopting the kind of behavior that can lead to rare thinking, which requires a type of seeking that goes beyond the ordinary, and this leads to another kind of seeking, that of finding other seekers who have gone beyond the ordinary so that communion of the extraordinary can bring resolution to what has been found.
So, this has been my life. I have done what I thought it took to approach the extraordinary and been successful to some degree, and I have sought others who have done something similar so we could talk about what we returned from that which is extraordinary with.
There are lots of people who have studied the experiences of people who have gone beyond the ordinary realm, and who are conversant with what can happen there, and not so many people who have actually had the experiences themselves. Sometime it seems difficult to tell the difference. Some people are so familiar with what they've studied that they actually think they've had the experiences, and can convince others, temporarily, that they gnow what they're talking about. And, it's comforting to think you have actually met up with another person who can give you the nod when you tell them of what you have experienced. You wanna believe they really have experienced something similar to what you have experienced, and when you're desperate for confirmation that what you've experienced is the real thing you find yourself exhibiting another form of going along to get along... for the sake of getting the nod. However, in the end, all things will out, and sooner than wanted, you find yourself allone again hoping with only hope left for the real thing. Sharing with a contemporary who has done the deed themselves.
What it takes is not going along to get along. Not going along to get along can seem very difficult. Especially when it goes against the grain of what many people call common sense. But, that's the whole point. It takes more than common sense to think the thoughts of geniuses. Thinking the way one must think to go along to get along does not result in unusual thinking patterns. It results in what's most common in human thought. To access rare patterns of thought requires one to abandon the usefulness of common knowledge to go where no man has gone before.
On the other hand, having gone where no man has gone before and encountering rare patterns, it seems most difficult to relate these concepts to people who rarely go beyond the realm of ordinary thinking. No blame.
Being exposed to concepts and ideas that go beyond the realm of ordinary thinking can be very invigorating. These concepts and ideas have a power of their own that demands expression. To express unusual ideas sometimes requires feedback from others to allow oneself to explore the possible meaning attached to such things. People enraptured with common knowledge are not much help. So, the problem of getting beyond common knowledge is accompanied by the problem of communicating what one has found with a worthy adversary who can help one verify one's own experience.
I guess this is like a two-edged sword in a way. First there is adopting the kind of behavior that can lead to rare thinking, which requires a type of seeking that goes beyond the ordinary, and this leads to another kind of seeking, that of finding other seekers who have gone beyond the ordinary so that communion of the extraordinary can bring resolution to what has been found.
So, this has been my life. I have done what I thought it took to approach the extraordinary and been successful to some degree, and I have sought others who have done something similar so we could talk about what we returned from that which is extraordinary with.
There are lots of people who have studied the experiences of people who have gone beyond the ordinary realm, and who are conversant with what can happen there, and not so many people who have actually had the experiences themselves. Sometime it seems difficult to tell the difference. Some people are so familiar with what they've studied that they actually think they've had the experiences, and can convince others, temporarily, that they gnow what they're talking about. And, it's comforting to think you have actually met up with another person who can give you the nod when you tell them of what you have experienced. You wanna believe they really have experienced something similar to what you have experienced, and when you're desperate for confirmation that what you've experienced is the real thing you find yourself exhibiting another form of going along to get along... for the sake of getting the nod. However, in the end, all things will out, and sooner than wanted, you find yourself allone again hoping with only hope left for the real thing. Sharing with a contemporary who has done the deed themselves.
Tuesday, April 15, 2003
An interesting subject has been proposed on one of the discussion groups I subscribe to. The subject is about
whether or not there will actually be a 2004 Presidential election. The resident wise man is suggesting that we have already seen the last election to be held in the United States. I share this sentiment of this speculation.
After this present regime bought it's way into power I was very concerned, but I didn't entertain just how far they would go to close the deal. And, in my mind, it is a deal. After all, they are a group of businessmen you know, and business is business. In this case, it's the business of who is going to run the country and the world. Their real intent, of course, is to take over the entire world, by force if necessary. They're off to a good start. Now that they have "conquered" Iraq, and already threatened Syria if they don't cooperate, their intent is clear.
What could exist as a more succinct example to the world leaders of what could happen to them personally than the way they went after Saddam Hussein and his sons with their smart bombs. They openly admitted that their preemptive strike was not about Iraq, but about the assassination of Hussein. They weren't attempting to oust the government of Iraq, and hold a War Criminals Trial for it's leaders, but to murder the ruling family in as efficient manner as possible. That done, anarchy followed to destroy the assets of the merchant and professional class, and resistance was futile. Who, amongst the leaders of the various countries of the world would not easily see what would happen to them and their family if they resisted or did not cooperate with these power hungry thugs?
Remember the rhetoric about reducing the deficit during the previous elections and how doing that would put the country in good shape? That seems to have happened and the economy was in good shape, not only did the deficit get lowered, but there were surpluses besides that. The problem with having a surplus is that it does no provide the climate for the takeover of the government by a cadre of businessmen whose goal is the success of the military industrial complex.
With the election(?) of the present regime, balance and order were guaranteed to be shattered. Peace and a fair election was not conducive to their effort either, so a war had to be generated to foster the patriotism needed for a nationalistic movement and to squash resistance. The problem is that these people are not concerned with the nation. They have bigger fish to fry. In fact, all the fish. The want to take over the whole kit and kaboodle. They want to rule the world. If you think Saddam Hussein was tough on people who objected to his heavy-handed, oppressive ways, wait until you witness the way the Homeland Security guys handles dissent. You just gonna hate it up there in the Gulags of Alaska where even the Eskimos sus[pect that Hell is cold instead of hot. Me? I'm aiming for the not-so-luxurious suites down at Guantanemo Bay. Like the businessmen say, ya gotta plan ahead.
whether or not there will actually be a 2004 Presidential election. The resident wise man is suggesting that we have already seen the last election to be held in the United States. I share this sentiment of this speculation.
After this present regime bought it's way into power I was very concerned, but I didn't entertain just how far they would go to close the deal. And, in my mind, it is a deal. After all, they are a group of businessmen you know, and business is business. In this case, it's the business of who is going to run the country and the world. Their real intent, of course, is to take over the entire world, by force if necessary. They're off to a good start. Now that they have "conquered" Iraq, and already threatened Syria if they don't cooperate, their intent is clear.
What could exist as a more succinct example to the world leaders of what could happen to them personally than the way they went after Saddam Hussein and his sons with their smart bombs. They openly admitted that their preemptive strike was not about Iraq, but about the assassination of Hussein. They weren't attempting to oust the government of Iraq, and hold a War Criminals Trial for it's leaders, but to murder the ruling family in as efficient manner as possible. That done, anarchy followed to destroy the assets of the merchant and professional class, and resistance was futile. Who, amongst the leaders of the various countries of the world would not easily see what would happen to them and their family if they resisted or did not cooperate with these power hungry thugs?
Remember the rhetoric about reducing the deficit during the previous elections and how doing that would put the country in good shape? That seems to have happened and the economy was in good shape, not only did the deficit get lowered, but there were surpluses besides that. The problem with having a surplus is that it does no provide the climate for the takeover of the government by a cadre of businessmen whose goal is the success of the military industrial complex.
With the election(?) of the present regime, balance and order were guaranteed to be shattered. Peace and a fair election was not conducive to their effort either, so a war had to be generated to foster the patriotism needed for a nationalistic movement and to squash resistance. The problem is that these people are not concerned with the nation. They have bigger fish to fry. In fact, all the fish. The want to take over the whole kit and kaboodle. They want to rule the world. If you think Saddam Hussein was tough on people who objected to his heavy-handed, oppressive ways, wait until you witness the way the Homeland Security guys handles dissent. You just gonna hate it up there in the Gulags of Alaska where even the Eskimos sus[pect that Hell is cold instead of hot. Me? I'm aiming for the not-so-luxurious suites down at Guantanemo Bay. Like the businessmen say, ya gotta plan ahead.