Incipient Vagabond--Verily

              I stole a tent from that hobo.  I'd come back from exploring town and he was back (I'd seen him earlier in the day walking out to beg for change), which was unfortunate because I had plans to pick up and be off quietly while he was out.  He started to tell me some stuff, at first things that he'd said before; that he smoked pot with Vanessa Hudgens and how the dude who killed Tupac tried to set him up.  It was alright, safe, because I knew he was just a little gone but besides a time killer, pretty harmless.
              But then he went into more depth about the framing, talking about how the guy had confided in him about the dead body, and how it was this girl they knew, and he saw the black hair, and then the police arrested him and held him because he was suspicious.  Shit, I start thinking in my head, could he be out here because he is hiding from the police?  He also told me about (I stayed through this whole time because I was having some lunch) how (because I had left all my stuff and he asked why and I said I trusted him, but in reality it was just because I knew he was too lazy to move just to keep my stuff, and besides I didn't leave anything valuable, just my sleeping bag and drums, which came to me free) he didn't steal nothin', not from family and friends, except this one time he stole his grandpa's shotgun and his momma's 4-wheeler.
"How come, you hunt?"  I asked him.
"No I was on a suicide mission.  Ya, I wanted to kill myself.  Then I just got angry, y'know, not really for any reason I was just angry at the world, and so I just wanted to kill somebody, anybody."
Shit, sorry I asked.  I got a little anxiety wellin' up at that moment.  I knew for sure I wanted to be gone that night.  But I didn't show no signs of it there.  I contemplated whether I should be getting this guy help, turning him into the authorities, whether they could do anything for him, whether they would do anything for him, and whether it would be better, or whether he was a menace to society.
See, it's those moments when I realize the extent of my autonomy as an individual in this world.  No longer do "adults" have the right answer.  They all have different answers, though sometimes there is more consensus than others, but ultimately it all depends on bias from past experience and temperament. So it's my decision.  Our decision, each and every one of us, and it affects ourselves and others incalculably.

Is it possible that I am simultaneously more vulgar AND more noble than most?  To some I am too sweet, and to others too dirty.  My value system, perhaps, simply doesn't mesh.  I have ideals which are unwavering, such as respect and harmony with nature, but some of my means are less welcome; considering euthanasia and sterilization of those who are unfit, allowing that survival of the fittest is natural and necessary, even with humanity; but then compassion and gentleness and discipline and eloquence, the things of civilization and culture, are subjects of appraisal in my mind as well; so individuals who are greedy, and irrational, and emotional, and impulsive, are not friends of mine.  I allow for mistakes, but flaws of temperament I too often cannot look past.  I would like to return to this subject more, later.

To capture the moment of the young man sitting there, leaning against the rail (a recurrent symbol in my view of the world), not idolizing but simply contemplating the cold survival and brutal existence of nature, and how distant man is from it.  The people standing at the railing, watching the racoon and taking its picture, as if to say "Oh hey, that's where we put nature."  Certain patterns of survival repeat themselves, like reactions in physics; I am like the coon, stealing in the night what humanity denies me in the day.

The only other thing really noteworthy in the past couple days is the street kids.  It started with just Tye-dye Andrew and his girl, strummin' down on the rock wall by Fisherman's Wharf; I approached them to get some socialization into my head to help calm my nerves before I tried my own hand at spanging.  We hung out, Andy hubo tocando la guitarra and I was singing along as he did some Johnny Cash, Sublime, Shinedown; today I'm headed back to play my drums alongside while his girl with big ole' doe eyes holds a sign; I'm gettin' a cut of the profits for finding cardboard and helping him remember songs with my laptop, so he can re-hear the songs and the words; plus with my drums and chatting with people.  So I oughta have a few dollars in my pocket soon enough.
This is all made easier by the fact that Monterey is a HUGE secret.  I was thinking about it when I got here; I thought "What's all the fuss about Santa Cruz?  Monterey is where it's AT!"  This I say, because there is a high proportion of natural spaces to home spaces here, the people are uber-friendly, and there aren't that many vagabonds--more homebums (old stationary chronic bums, all either alcoholics or mentally deficient or simply comfortable) than street kids and wanderers, though the street kid situation is different right now because thousands and thousands of kids are in Norcal right now, looking for work trimmin' bud, and Bright Eyes and Andy from Indiana and his girl are all talking about how most of them are probably being dumb about it, while I just sit here and listen, them full of knowledge about a world I hardly new existed until today.  That's the way of things, you know there are SO many communities that spread their networks across the globe, gamers and yachters and marathoners and fashionistas and furries, street kids and squatters, stamp collectors and surfers; all of them with their own body of knowledge which it's taken a lifetime to collect.  I'm awful tempted to join this culture for a week or a month; to become a street kid, to pick up their slick-talking ways and don't-give-a-fuck attitude, "Be content with nothing and believe you own everything."  Well I wouldn't put it that way, but yeah, I'm considering not having money for a month even though I can, whereas before I had no money simply because I couldn't.  "Have nothing, have everything"  perhaps?  But no, if I get money I will continue to be thrifty, and move up and say fuck them because I can get what I want and where I want and stay healthy and even though I love the present I can also plan for the future so I'm not chronically attached to any form of work, but instead maintain that flexibility that is liberty from attachment: for even these kids are attached in ways they don't realize.

These kids have balls though; sleeping in bushes and having open containers of pot on the side of the walk, talkin' bout pot trucks fronted as taco trucks right on the sidewalk; asking passersby if they happen to have a million dollars they can spare, and seeking out and utilizing all the empty spaces; we found a space last night in what Andy thought was a bunch of businesses, mostly closed, but I pointed out was a college campus, right fuckn across the street from the Wharf, which is weird as hell; and as we're sitting here drinking and talking a motherfuckin' deer shows up, a four-point buck, and we talk about how he's just one of us, wild and pickin up what the world--nay, humanity--is putting down.  Still, I'm thinking how the hell did a deer get all the way up here to the coast through city streets and all those other facets of civilization?
Like the deer, like the raccoon, we are wildlife, real life, existing in our moment and not capturing ourselves and clambering to be anything beyond; I am not fully one of these I speak of, for I record for you, and thus I already deny myself like Moses, the one cannot fully be the other, for instantly he is committing treason and denying his membership as one or the other.

I am too real to be a badass.  My actions speak fantastic things about me; my personality falls short and gets hidden in the shadows below them.  Perhaps someday after I'm gone I'll be fictionalized as some kind of distant rebel; already I am there but the world doesn't know about it yet, can't know about it until after the fact--this is a way of things.  Perhaps my writing this is an effort at vindicating the rebel--he is not so straightforward as we cast him.  He has a momma, he knows empathy, and struggles, within and without his deeds and ideals. So I am writing down everything, and I leave it to my future editors to cast and recast my image in a form designed for better consumption.  Perhaps this will be me in a distant state, and if so I ask you to take your time trying to recall all of the senses behind each word, memory, idea.  And also remember that everything I've written could have been said in a different way, and sometimes I simply reached for the nearest word in my head, and so feel free to correct some things, for integrity to the essence of each statement is much more important than integrity to the word.

Anyway, it's getting on into the afternoon and I've got to get stuff done.

Walking forever on the beach... I only had two conversations today, and one of those was with myself. Fortunately, there was some diversion.



The Miser and the River Crossing

I passed a group of kids and was walking along, ever toward the smokestacks looming in the indeterminable distance. There was an old man ahead, and as I played my bongos intermittently, he glanced back toward me. I didn't know if I was close enough for him to fully hear my music, but I knew I was getting lazy in my drumming for lack of pressure to perform, so it wasn't always great noise. Soon I stopped playing, but kept approaching. As I got to him, he bent over. I saw he was picking up a sand dollar that was clean and mostly perfect.
"Ahh, nice find," I said.
"Not a good one," he replied, and tossed it back down with the jerkiness of age.
I didn't say anything back, but kept walking along. Suddenly I was looking down, and considered that since we were so far away from most of the public access, there was probably a lot to find. I began scouring the shoreline with my eyes, and sure enough, I began to see sand dollars. I picked one up; his miserliness and materialism had infected me. Now I was slowed down, gathering and looking. I decided to leave him some good ones as well, since my youth allowed me some more swiftness in my searching; surely I would go farther than he and there would be plenty of good ones beyond. Then I realized he probably did this on a regular basis; one of his hobbies. I imagined he had a room full of coastal memorabilia; cluttered with shells and coins and natural trinkets. How sad, I thought, to be so attached to things.
As I kept walking, I realized that my desire to collect what was suddenly valuable had allowed the old man to catch up with me. I saw ahead that the waves met the river; I wondered about how deep it was. It struck me that I would have to cross it, or go several miles around. I paused, scanning the area. When the man got close enough, I asked him where I could go to cross it.
"I'll tell you if you give me some of those sand dollars that you took." I couldn't believe he was saying that!
"You mean the ones that I didn't leave for you?"
"Hardly a favor. I'm sure you've got all the best for yourself."
Naturally. Still, I left some great ones for you, or so I'd think" I gave him a couple anyway. I knew it wasn't what I wanted, to be greedy, but it was hard to fight it. I gave them to him for the principle of it, anyway, to prove that I could transcend the issue.
He took them, saying, "You've come too far. You'll have to walk on back a mile and take the road at the top of the stairs, and walk up another 2 miles."
I considered his words, working them bitterly in my head. I wasn't about to walk 5 extra miles just to get past 20 feet of water. I told him as much. He said I could try wading it. So I did. I rolled up my pantlegs to my knees, and tentatively stepped in. I got a couple of feet, but it looked dark and therefore deep ahead. My spirits sank. Still, I went back and set my stuff down, deciding to test it first without endangering my things--specifically, my laptop.
The old man walked away. I decided I didn't mind the water, I just didn't wanna get my clothes wet. So I stripped. Full buff. The man had gotten some distance back, and I knew he wasn't gonna loop back around; he could just cross the dunes back where he was. I saw some people in the distance ahead across the river, but it didn't matter. I got out in the water, and crossed au naturel. The first crossing I hit some deeper pockets; it got up to my thigh. So I decided to try closer to the lip of the delta. I stepped tentatively as I went, feeling for shallower ridges. I made it with nothing higher than half a foot. I tried a few more places, and finally felt secure enough to do it. I went back and grabbed my bag, but made sure to stay on the side of caution. My nerves were up, because I could not stand the risk of dropping my computer in the water. I walked slowly, feeling every step gently. It went according to plan. When I was almost to the other side, I was about to jump through, but I caught myself and kept walking slowly and certainly. I did not shout with joy until both feet were on flat, dry sand.

Now on the other side, it was absolutely worth it. The beach was littered with gems, both of rocks and shells; I gave up all resistance for about half a mile and collected the best ones, walking at a slower pace. I justified it to myself that I was going to craft something with them and sell what I could, so I didn't have to beg. I thought about how funny it would be to try to sit in town and sell to the folks in the street my wares, which they could simply go collect themselves. But I'm glad of it! Now that I'm in Monterey, I'm gluing together rocks and seaweed and carving into shell and I plan on selling it all down at Fisherman's Wharf on a blanket; I reckon I can translate 30-40 bucks.


In La Selva Beach, I returned to a struggle that has been pervading my self for years. I must fight against myself to stop from going back to my old ways. Darkness is dangerous, not for me, but for the world around me. I begin to think of ways to take what I want when nobody is around; I masturbate, and check security and make up excuses as to why I should and can take from other people. But I shouldn't. I need to respect that others own things, and I have no ability to judge how much somebody cherishes something; I may be taking a surfboard from one who has three, or this could be his primary passion, and he only just now got it as a gift from his family. Even whether or not the person deserves the item, I shouldn't do it simply because it plunges me over into illicit territory: anarchy, where anybody can do anything anywhere, and there are no common values and we do not work together, but instead are only returned to primitive, base, cruel and painful competition with the rest of nature.

In the few months past, I have been primed and eager to leave American soil. But as I encounter others, and consider what it will really be like in other countries, I start to realize how much this place offers. It is as exotic and dreamy to others as Colombia or Africa are to me; I still want to leave this land because other countries have histories of culture that are nothing like ours, but

I am putting faces to the words; learning the reality of culture, and difference of culture, and learning to cope with people of different backgrounds. I am seeing and feeling fear, and reaction.

My struggle between the laws of society and the laws of nature. I am at that highly unfortunate boundary between the two where I can be animal or I can be man. Having no money, I must sleep where there is spare ground, and cannot rent space on somebody else's land. It is a problem vagrants deal with daily in cities and towns across the planet, where all land is either private or government-owned; nothing is simply "public." Rules abound as to where you can lie down. What is one to do, simply not sleep until they can afford to? Of course, the answer lies in the gray spaces. We can sleep where officials have turned a blind eye, or have neglected to search. Test the limits, until someone pushes back. The other thing is food, which I can collect wild, or take from dumpsters. Many before me have thought of this, and some places put "no scavenging" signs on dumpsters, and lock their dumpsters. What gives? "I don't want it, but you can't have it?" That seems just spiteful. Yes, it is discipline, to force our hand into finding jobs to plug into society. It is to prevent "pests" from latching on and growing. Anyway, those are my thoughts. I'm not trying to come up with a social conclusion, just coloring in a bit of the picture.

There is nothing new about escapism. That I know; plenty of folks before me have sought ways to get away from the system, society and all its seemingly silly and useless rules, to live life one's own way. A part of me is an escapist. But that isn't most of me. I think of myself as looking forward, and trying to manifest our collectiveness, not my disdain toward what exists. I am all about the connection of the people, beyond the commercial and superfluous connections made by media and business and the internet; real people interacting and sharing in real ways. Now that just sounds like a whole bunch of horseshit rhetoric, but we'll see if I can't live it.

I'm on the lookout for a travel buddy. I want somebody to share part of my trip with me. But the route I'm going, I haven't encountered but one other traveler. In the days to come, I'm sure I'll meet plenty of vagrants; while I skipped through Santa Cruz, Monterey oughta have a few. The problem is most of them are dirty, dumb, or old; I want somebody who's competent and wants more than just to drink themselves to shit. So we'll see; maybe I can find another couchsurfer or somebody on the road who's free. I just need to get some real time online in a warm room so I can get some shit done. See, there are consequences for my actions--this is what I get for leaving before I was really ready.


I snacked on dandelions and pickleweed, though I didn't eat very many of those for they need some cooking to get rid of the bitterness. I need a pot so I can cook or boil water whenever I'm somewhere I can make a fire. I hadn't thought about making fires when I left, for I left my stove and figured I'd just live on raw food or share cooking with CS hosts or something. But I've been spending a lot of time in the natural world, and whereas in the US we expect to be told when and where to do everything including shit, in a lot of the rest of the world things aren't quite so clean and sanctioned.

But then just after writing that last passage, I got a smooooth lucky break in Moss Landing! A man who showed up and was setting up what looked like a book club picnic, allowed me to talk to him for a few minutes. When I was about to leave debating about whether or not to ask him for some food, he asks: when was the last time you had a real meal?
I replied that I've had pickleweed and dandelions and a tortilla with instant coffee and honey today, but if you count the donuts and coffee yesterday morning, that was then.
"Here," he hands me a twenty, "There's a restaurant over there, and Casters' is over that way. When I was young I spent some time on the road too."

Woohoo! This is amazing! He has no idea how far this can go. Yes, I could hop on over to the restaurant and order myself a fifteen dollar meal, and have a fantastic experience, but then be back right where I was before an hour later. No, instead I will honor his charity by being uber-efficient. First, I'll get something small, like a 6 dollar burger or a snack bar, and then I will catch that bus I saw back a ways to Monterey. Hell ya! Monterey tonight! Then, as I was about to enter "Haute Enchilada," I keep walking back behind it, being curious. I see a small store beside it, and judging by the font of the signage, probably owned by the same folks. But then back farther I see a market with produce. Perfect! Nine ears of corn for a dollar! Tomatoes 79 cents a pound! I pick out a full basket of food, and it rings up to less than 6 dollars. Damn, I am in heaven. I rush back to snack a bit and thank the guy again, and then get to the bus stop and hope like hell that last bus hasn't gone. It hasn't.

So on the bus, I realize how badass I am. I get on and go to the back, and wrangle my back resecuring the wires holding it together. Then I pull out a full ear of corn, husk it, and chomp away. This girl ahead of me glances back once, and then doesn't do so again except through the vanity plate on her make-up thing. I laugh to myself about how long she's doing her thing; about as cliche as you can get. The rest of the bus is poor, dirty, blue-collar (and worse) fellas, and later, families of ethnic background. Very few white folks. I'm not judging, just observing. Long story short, I end up chatting with the girl because we're both trying to make a connection to Monterey in Salinas, I give her the shirt off my back, she gives me a cigarette, we chat, she tells me she was homeless in Monterey for a little while and knows some good places but won't tell me because last time she did that for a cute boy she found out he was a slob and he fucked up the beautiful, natural space. I told her I could understand that, and I told her about my Leave No Trace philosophy subscription, my goal in life to leave the world more beautiful than I found it, and an anecdote about cleaning up a ravine up north a bit and the Japanese rock tower I built there. I realize this is stupid, because I'm obviously trying to convince her that I'm worthy of her knowledge, and could just be a slick sleazy bastard, but oh fucking well. It's honest. She at least points me in the direction of some park space near the bus stop, and the library for the morning, and then throws her number down on a piece of paper. "Call me tomorrow and let me know what you're up to." she says. I don't tell her that my phone's dead and I can't.

I get down to the park and start lookin' around. Plenty of brambles, too few trees, and thick with litter and foliage. I know there's gotta be something better farther down; so i keep walking. I hear a fella singing. I leave my stuff on a tree and walk down barebacked on the path to search out a better space, and maybe some nice fellow vagrant. I find a nice one, but I didn't ask for one with brains; this guy is a damn fool, and a drunk, and probably a bit schizo. Oh well, I can handle it. I'm a bit sad I can't play some tunes on my computer, cuz I sure as hell don't wanna fight somebody for my laptop in the middle of the night, but it's alright still. So I crashed with this nutso hobo who kept repeating himself and telling me about all the famous people he's met and kept calling me an angel and a devil and a police informant and said I should go to school and become a cop if I'm gonna go that way anyway, cuz we need more good cops, but I better stay good. I just kept playing along, giving him shit and fucking with his logic and mocking him, most of it went over his head, and then I busted out the bongos and he sang some old rock hippy music like Johnny Cash and the Doors. Then he drank all my alcohol after I went to sleep. He'll probably tell everybody I was Jim Morrison come back from the grave to sing with him and share secrets of the afterlife. Oh well. I saw him this morning with a styrofoam cup walking downtown. I'm a damn hypocrite because it pisses me off to see more than a couple travelers who are obviously leeches, bums who don't work and are dirty and steal public services. On that note, I'm gonna go wash my laundry in the river now that my computer's done charging here at the library. It ain't easy livin' free.


Half my life's in books written on pages (Aerosmith)

And a joke:
What did the elephant say to the naked guy?
"Fine, but can it pick up peanuts?"

I have decided to take a journey around the world, through every continent, and taking several years (obviously)... The idea is to take my time and to really listen for what the world has to teach. This is my story.



Day 1:
I embarked today. I failed immediately. I left late, forgot my sunglasses, my water bottle, was unable to sell my rock climbing harness, am broke, and JUST as I found a community of people who I appreciate and who appreciate me, I have to leave. But nonetheless, I am in a very good mood. I was humoring myself earlier that I could speak spanish, and almost eerily immediate after, I got a phone call from a girl I had accepted as a couchsurfer who speaks better spanish than english and asked for complicated directions to my home. I failed.
The weather out is phenomenal. Lots of fog, moreso than Frisco, sweeps up and buries Skyline Blvd on what is probably a regular basis. I was steeped in awe when I was descending the Pacifica side of the hill and was treated to a duskset vista of the sun behind fog, so thick that it looked like the moon, but with yellower light, and completely removed in my vision from the reflected colors on the ocean. Though I'm not one for mysticism, I felt it like a premonition of a dying planet, the sun in its last years.
The reason I am in such an infallibly good mood, is my circumstances. Perhaps I'm lulled into a sense of comfort from the niche I carved out and am fleeing from right now, but I feel set at the beginning of a new stage, the birth of an adventure, after a period of tenuous self-torment and chaotic turmoil, the moratorium of my 20th year completed; I have found my reason in nothing, and a sustainable way to live, to auto-educate, to share my life and beliefs and a way to put myself into again, after the detour that was San Francisco. We shall see. Carpe Omnius.
Spending tonight along some fine piece of California coastline, listening as the ocean coos me to sleep.
I'm currently trippin' on the fact that I have no responsibilities, yet a general mission, which combine to allow me a self-developing itinerary which I contribute to with minimal energy on the daily, making progress, forging ahead, but with no pressure except what the day puts in my way. To pick up a craft or to read and volunteer and meet folks and explore is my sole vocation, to learn from and about nature, nature including people just as it includes physics.

Day 2: The Night of the First Real Day of Trekking.
Today I made about 70 miles, met a felon, picked blackberries, encountered an old acquaintance from a year ago, picked blackberries and random fruit (one was both sweet and spicy), learned that bamboo is freakin' delicious, and got to hang my hammock for the first time. We'll see if I get good enough with it and have a streak of nights being able to use it, I might just ditch my sleeping bag as I get farther south. So I started out early this morning, walked down the last of skyline blvd to downtown Pacifica where there were several stoplights in a row which made for prime hitching territory; unfortunately the first guy who stopped only took me over the hillside to montara--though to be honest I'm kind of glad it was only this long, for this guy kept talking about how just that morning he had been in handcuffs, and the only reason he was out was because he had a surrender date; I suspected him of being a meth maker because he was making vague excuses about "as long as we clean our shit up". Well, I wasn't gonna press it. Not long after, however, I caught another guy to drive me clear down to Half Moon Bay; good distance for a couple of hours of unknown. Then I hit a dry spell; almost an hour of nothing. Finally this guy drives up in a brown van with his cat--haha how cliche. After today, I'm starting to see the truth in many cliches; Santa Cruzans all dress the same, even the kids, and there's STILL VW's with peace signs on the back and flowers in the front. Oh well, culture is culture, and it's kind of nice to know that some things are static. Now I got this fine set-up down in Capitola for the night with a hammock in a tree on a cliff by the sea :)
However, I was wondering at myself earlier today as to why I had no urge to stay in SC--in fact, to keep moving. I finally realized; I have taken to the idea that I need to do work, real physical work, and Santa Cruz is still too close to all that ennui and solitude and boredom that was San Francisco for me. I need, psychologically, to get some more distance between me and it to feel more comfortable with slowing down. But the rest of California doesn't really have much draw for me either--I've already done Santa Barbara and San Diego, and Los Angeles just looks like one big filthy heaving tumor; so I'm torn between the safety of the US and the adventure but unknown of South America. Finally, and in swift closing, I am about out of food since I left my non-perishables at the squat (a bit silly of me, but I was trying to be good about waste and take the stuff that I would decay if I didn't eat it, and leave the boxes and cans for Dan), and I don't get money until October 4th. Gotta stay creative and have my eyes open for all the free food I can forage.
Event: Sitting on the cliffside with my hammock and bongos playing along to Jerk It Out eating bamboo watching the water under the full moon

Day 3:
Already this has been a great trip. Perhaps I should just refrain from judging, because for probably every one of my high moments there will be an equally low one. Oh well.
First I must express that, had it not been for the serendipitous connection with the kids of 509, this may never have happened. Were it not for the silly self-ascribed necessity of saving face when having set a date and failed to embark the first time, I would have delayed yet again. But that is the wonder of community: others can push you to do things you would have never expected alone. This can go up or down; but the fact is the phenomenon.
Now I have seen already many wonders of this everyday world; comedians in Los Angeles, neighbors running into each other in distant places, Barack Obama's inauguration as president, survival while climbing seemingly doomed cliffs, sea otters swimming up to me, waterfalls and badlands and great plains and the vast instance of time that is life on earth; but this journey stands well on its own already. I intend to make it one of my life's works, and thus I must do it well. I have walked half the distance of Monterey Bay just today, playing the Bongo's Fred and Ted, talking and smiling and laughing and jumping the whole way. The natural life in this area is spectacular as well; badgers, racoons, skunks, cats, dolphins, crabs, spiders, ptarmigans, seagulls, other birds I've only seen before in National Geographic.
Needless to say I was pleased to the brim, and it expanded every time I encountered some wonderful friendly person who shared my love for life; and on the flipside my cynical self jumped to the surface every chance he got, creeping in with every disdainful judgment toward folks with issues I've steamed over in the past. Hopefully soon this will fade into a distant whisper; already now I am beginning to love/cherish those I used to despise for their flaws, mistakes, shortcomings, and oversights. As I experience different niches of reality I increasingly develop my awareness that life is still the same, the same phenomena pervade life from physical phenomena, to single-celled organisms, to individual humans and societal organizations. The latest example of this was when I realized that organisms have been "manufacturing" proteins, chemicals, etc, forever, because this is the most efficient way; so it follows that a higher level of organization (corporations) will tend toward that same most efficient conclusion. And that is all okay; we can learn to channel our world, to nourish it and to take appropriate preemptive action to avoid the more dangerous aspects of our nature. Life is still the same and will continue to fight fiercely and enduringly until the world grows cold with old age.

So it turns out the bamboo wasn't bamboo; they are some kind of reed, and they are still damn difficult to get the right stuff out of. But that's okay, because it was a learning experience, and that's exactly what I'm out here for. I love (though sometimes hate) that I am learning by trial and error. That is the way I learn how to make a good bed, to find the right food, what to do when entering a new town, and get practice making momentous decisions. FINALLY, I can become coordinated and capable and action-oriented. This should complement my academic education well. The thing is, so often we get caught up in being told what to do, everything has been done a thousand times before, so we can be assured that anything we do, we can do the right way the first time, or at least have a fail-safe. Not so in nature, mon frere; do or die. So far, the worst that's happened is that I've had to walk a few miles back to town to take care of some business, and have had to climb over a high wall to get to a water fountain, and had to find my way by flashlight and been a bit uncomfortably cold. Hopefully my common sense stays hardy for the bigger stuff in the future. I am cautiously optimistic--okay, a little more than cautiously optimistic.

On a slightly less dapper note, It's very easy for me to start getting down on myself. To start feeling like the stranger. I wander into a new town, LaSilva, and start to worry the locals are going to judge me, to look upon me as an intruder and a morally degenerated individual who slacks off and leeches and is generally useless. But then I remember my experiences in the past, even in hometowns, and I realize that most people are earnest, though they may be a bit wary and apprehensive, though some are totally cool with the wacky stranger. I also still totally can't believe Kaeli was down with me. I feel like it was a trick; way too good to be true. This BEAUTIFUL girl took my compliments in stride and stuck with me; she was even messaging me and apologizing for little things I wouldn't expect others to even hardly pay attention to; absolutely sweet girl, maybe she's just free with her love? I don't know, but I do know it makes me feel like the luckiest man in the world and eases some of my more depressed moments like a little honey on the finger.

I am at the gates of paradise. Perhaps it will not last, but that is okay. Now that I am here I realize that paradise is a perspective, not a place. Paradise can be all around us, in fact omes from within us, but we must be coaxed into letting it speak; for it is the Tao, Nirvana, Atman, enlightenment. It is personified and set apart as God, but this is only because of the limitations of language. But all this has been said before, so I must return to my experience.
[Post edit: After seeing the sunset at Le Selva Beach tonight, I am reconsidering these flowery words above. Paradise can definitely be made much closer with a physical realm that is supportive of life, promotive of our survival. What I mean by that, is seeing the confluence of so many sensory pleasures (colors, sounds) and land, sea, life, and man living in such clean harmony, makes one think that there is plenty for all of us to share, and to continue surviving. Nonetheless, some places require much more energy to be considered as this way, or to be made this way]
I realize, at least, if this turns out not to be Paradise, that this is at least a good life for me; or at least a good period for what should be a whole life for me. For I am able to travel, and work, at my leisure; there is no shortage of distance for me to explore, and presently I may be completely present and not want for anything. Thus I may stay and read and write, moving with the seasons and the weather; I may take refuge in the abundance of humanity's collective achievements, learning skills in exchange for energy and skill and tactility, a few moments of my youth; and by that same vein I can use the wonderful tools of knowledge and common sense to find food for myself; already I have come up with ways of collecting berries, discovered a wonderful shoot which provides a maize-like sustenance, combined foods I would have never thought of before for meals (cucumber, milk and honey?), and volunteered time, work, and conversation for leftover hotdogs, marshmallows, and donuts. In closing, I am at peace in this moment, for I am glad that I can live what I've thought, and do what I speak.