Incipient Vagabond--Verily

A neutron walks into a bar and orders a drink.  "How much do I owe you?" It asks the bartnender.  "For you," the bartender replies, "no charge."

Do people ever vex you?  When you say something and they are offended, or when you thought you were having a good time but then they don't respond to your requests to hang out, or they get really anxious about something, or start yelling or treat people rudely?  I have come across a personality model at an ecovillage that I visited, a commune that hosts more than a thousand visitors each year.  They share resources, strive to live by the gift economy, and succeed in that they handle very little money besides about 9000 dollars they need each year for taxes.  They don't make important decisions without consulting and gaining the approval of every permanent member.  This is quite a feat.  They live without electricity or petroleum, without money, and biggest of all, while they may each have their spirituality, they are not explicitly religious, they are not capital-C Christian or any other extant ideological sect.  Some of them embrace Quakerism.  I have been learning the dynamics of community for several years, and this is a significant feat for a group that is not related.  They are 8 years old now, so it stands to be seen whether they survive, but probably 96% of attempts of intentional communities do not get this far. 

Some things I know to be important for a community is that they have common goals, if not ideals.  They must have good processes of communication, and for resolving conflict.  So they explained to me they practice a process of nonviolent conflict resolution, called restorative circles, and of course they shared their mission statement. 

But people can be vexing.  People can be obstinate, agressive, defensive, shady, two-faced. How do you suss that out?  How do we create a society in which we do not resort to violence or oppression to generate harmony amongst ourselves, without resorting to jail, murder, war, lies, deceit, oppression, rape, theft, how do we escape greed, envy, wrath etc in a post-christian world?

Here's where the personality model comes in. It is based on the way people process their environment, and what motivates them in their actions.  So there are three anger-based, three fear-based, and three independent types.  What's curious is there is a trifecta, 3-6-9, who seem to be the noble type; then there is the progression 4-1-7-5-8-2-4.

From 1 to 9, they are perfectionist, helper, achiever, individualist, investigator, loyalist, enthusiast, challenger, peacemaker.  Each of those is assigned a number, each of them can have a wing-type based on the neighboring type, is inclined to be friends (or frenemies) with people of the same or similar type, and sexually attracted to the person whos number is opposite theirs--the number which combines with them to make a perfect 10 :)

  I imagine it all works like an atom, a molecule, in each individual, though we tend to occupy different positions with different people, or in search of different people, like covalent or ionic bonds.  Because along with the romance and friendship typology, we also can shift types, and they do not progress linearly, numerically.  I'll start with an individualist, arbitrarily.  An individualist doesn't care much for the way the world is, and lives primarily out of their imagination.  If stressed, because they don't have a well-developed personal worldview, they will seek to help those who they know, in order to get them to help them get back to a place of security.  This type of person, when healthy, however, might be inclined to direct energy toward real-world issues, because they are intriguing to think about.  It is unclear how far a person can go in transitioning, but I imagine it's not far, often, because of the nature of communities--we are our roles, to our people, and because of our duties, we probably only reinvent ourselves a few times in our lives.  However, I have traveled a lot, and when I plug in, I often encounter people of different types, and tend to mold myself to what they need.  Sometimes consciously, sometimes unconsciously.  It is intriguing.. I am a one, fundamentally, but in studying this, I have imagined myself in a variety of positions, and realized I have occupied several of them at various times in my life.  I have been a challenger.  I have been the investigator, I have been the helper.  MAny of them are part of my personality, and so I don't think I have ever transitioned permanently, only expressed differently.  When I am stressed I individualize--throw my hands up on my principles and run, hop a train and sing, drink, whatever.  When I find something I like, I often investigate, tending to be enthusiastic about the good parts, though not offering much, not seeking to assert myself to be respected or valued, though I will offer help when I can.  So I am investigating the place.  When I find what I like, and threats to it,  I become a challenger.  But this is easy for me because my fundamental type is one of anger.  Fear-based types, or those who abdicate responsibility, I don't understand and --you guessed it--get angry with.  Here's what's funny.  I have a friend who is a loyalist.  His romantic ideal is an individualist--one with an active imagination, always making up creative otherworlds and inviting people to explore them together, laughing readily.  This person's progression would be toward a principled individual, a perfectionist who wants to be good and promote good in the world.  So I postulate that to him, I at first resembled his ideal type--sincere, wide eyed, confident in his perceptions of another world that does not currently exist.  But as we interact, he may start to see that all of his attempts to coax me into playful imagining of other worlds really only causes me stress.  I stress about belonging, being relevant, and come up with weak contributions.  This disappoints him and leaves us fizzling.  Now, I have another friend who is an achiever.  He is masculine--he doesn't let his feelings guide him, so much as his sense of what needs done.  I admire him in this and submit myself to him because I want to participate, to learn from experiences with him.  In this way he makes me healthier.  However, my healthy type is to be an enthusiast, which is his romantic type.  This doesn't work for me with women, however.  The last woman I mingled with who was an achiever accused me of mothering her, and importantly she perceived me as occupying a stressed space (which , sure, my type is a stress type--I had an absent parent, who I have integrated my need to gain approval from into myself.  Only I integrated a submission, rather than an agression, because my mother was present so the best I could hope for without introspection and practice would be to become the absent father, or dutiful closeted gay father.  Which is funny only because I am sexually attracted to women but emotionally attracted to males.  I have to find me some male mentors and establish that as our relationship so they don't misinterpret it and I can deal with this and move on).  Moving on... An enthusiast who's healthy becomes an investigator, an investigator who is healthy becomes a challenger, and a challenger who is healthy becomes a helper. 

Here there are some important relationship archetypes at play which can be learned from if you wish to go a little better informed into future relationships.  A helper who is unhappy becomes a challenger.  A challenger who is healthy becomes a helper.  So help a challenger and you get a helper.  These are more emotional types, not to be confused with the loyalist->peacemaker->achiever->loyalist flow. They are a good group to look for, because they tend to be groomed as proprietors.  They are less me-oriented, and the most civil types.  And again, different types can act different ways, depending on what a situation calls for and whether they are happy or stressed, so you have to watch the way they process a situation and sometimes test them to see how they process different invitations or threats.

Stillwater Sanctuary, as the community I visited is called, has 8 permanent members, and approximately three interns in any season. 

 E prime

Conjugations of the verb "to be" limits of the
What is beautiful depends on the person

Objectivity is elusive, illusory. I have a friend who informs me that there may not even be an objectivity, (at least from a social science POV, not one that we can access)--the most we can hope for is a universal subjectivity.  It seems that a final result of my search for truth, universal good, a right way of living--is to find what is effective, and what causes the least harm.  To create without destroying, to end without oppressing, is truly a process of beauty, the highest standard of art, for me.

This speaks nothing of those moments when destruction is our goal, of course.  When we seek to immolate, to explode something that is no longer useful to us or the purpose of which is to go through a process whos end result is intended to be residue, waiting to be reformed into new objects or subjects. 

If an object is a 3d form, then an event is a 4d form.  Imagine the earth being toroid.

Hey Folks!

So, I am living on my feet, by my wits and with faith in friends and community.  I have toured North America for the past two years, from San Francisco to Babylonia, Mexico (partially documented in previous posts--I might flesh it out more later-wild mangoes, herbs, monkeys, hammocks, bridges, cob oven, mountains and cute little kids and precarious roads) but need a more engaging medium), back up to Kansas (to work on a permaculture farm in Lawrence (undie run, cooperative houses, biking about) and on to Michigan--playing around in Forest Park and at a cooperative in St Louis, then on to Cleveland, Chicago, around the lake to Michigan, picking fruit and discovering more places, then down through Ohio again to Cleveland and up to New York, Boston, and back down to Baltimore, Asheville to work and mess up at Klaywerks, deciding to go home and ended up occupying Nashville for the winter holding down the fort on the windy Legislative Plaza, taking a crash course in politics and engaging the locals, learning about their issues and crash course organizing community.  As the weather warmed up, I planted several gardens, went to Chicago for the NATO protests, back to Kansas to visit family for a month, up to KC and Lincoln (I had other things I was supposed to be doing but resources and circumstances barred me from making it).  I stayed at a collective there and made friends, I had intended to stay and help start projects but remembered that the Bay is full of awesome people and resources and wanted to get more professional in order to do what I wanted to do more effectively and share it with a virtual audience , and find inspired and energetic and skilled folks to come out and help establish community and culture in all these depressing ass places!  So here I am.  I intend to get practice in circus arts, build costumes and exhibits, and maybe get a truck or just get a camera. I have amazing conversations with strangers, discover beautiful places, and now have great ideas that I want to manifest in art and events.  I know how to not only survive but thrive! And I think that if I can more effectively communicate what I'm up to, I can more effectively connect with the resources to manifest that art and those events.

https://maps.google.com/maps/ms?msid=208158339275309732723.0004a6a748ceaccc9e9ca&msa=0&ll=36.70366,-91.845703&spn=27.806654,67.631836

Hey,
So I'm in Asheville NC, I've been bouncing around still.  Living like that has allowed me to break wide open my scope of what can be considered home.  With a hammock, a water bottle, and a minicomputer (ipod) to stay connected with those I know and love, as well as a few smaller things, I can be at home almost anywhere.  It is taxing, certainly--I miss so many people and the interactions are less fulfilling.  But I'm working (off and on) and discovering and making connections.  Hopefully I'll have a breakthrough soon, however, and find a great place to base out of and a positive reputation and a daily life.  I have no responsibilities and thus have weak motivation.  I find myself feeling guilty for lethargy or lack of production.  I find myself not wanting to do things because they aren't investments in a greater story--just pissing in the wind where I may or may not reap benefits in the future.But this place is cool, I'm not completely under the thumb of human tyranny.  I think I'm heading back to California soon.

Tuxtla Gutierrez, another big rolling city, but nothing like DF, with a massive mexican flag--a mainstay of patriotism for the nationals.  A fine home, of a dentist's wife and son, though I never saw the man, they had two stories, running water; Luis and Marco and I, we went down to the plazas and climbed a great pyramid, lit up and maintained, played drums and sought a stick to spin as a staff; I explored as usual, and found a pineapple, a couple candidates (a broomstick, a slightly imperfect stick and an imbalanced stick), and a big dog, as well as an abandoned building on the shadowy residential side of the pyramid--in mexico they have taken stones and built cells, casing up the hill but with wells of dirt and plants regularly in the form of yards; this one was bulging with the roots of the tree by the sidewalk, and the door was open and it was dusty but with evidence of scoundrels, tenative tenants, guests morelike, in this bit of untended territory, a ghostly window into what was, and what will be, the first of its kind but definitely not the last.

We went down and rejoined the crowds, danced mildly but with little real interest.  The next day we hung about, and the following, slow to go, we finally took off a bit before sunset with little enthusiasm--lethargy sets in quickly, because every adventure starts off with an investment, a risk, a loss of a great deal of comfort--a sacrifice with the hope that it germinates into fruit, always new birth is the result of a loss, a giving up of energies.  But we did it, and didn't find a good place to thumb before walking all the way to Chiapas de Corzo, fortunately only a few miles beyond; we walked and arrived at the edge where we saw a small hillside with a stand of trees and darkness, inviting in its openness and cover simultaneous.  But as we were scoping it out, a man walked by down on the sidewalk, when my friends had gone out too far into the vulnerable space under the street light, and asked what they were doing.  Obedient as any other i've met here, my friends answered honestly, that we were looking for a place to camp, and the man said it belonged to another, and that in the daytime it was a parking lot.  I tried to persuade my friends that it was a good place to stay, and that we would be out early and it would not bring us any trouble, but they resisted so we went into town.  We went to the centro, as always, where a show had ended and there were people strolling about and a stage being dismembered.
Camped in the palacio
walked up through the humid jungle to the highway
caught a ride quickly, up to san cristobal de las casas, the weather dropping dramatically and awesomely
we wandered town a bit, but as my friends were where they wanted to stay, and i was tired of towns and wanted to be in the jungle where I could express myself and find food without societal impositions (cash), and so i parted for the final time from my friends.  i walked to the edge of town (though not before having intense urges to clear my bowels (a running theme throughout my time there), and upon seeing a wide open gate, with untended growth at the back, ran with relief to drop some fertilizer in the corner.  But the gate having closed behind me (no doubt by the guy who had seen me cross the road and into the place, being unsure whether i was supposed to be there, at least contented himself with my being trapped, and thus in a position where i would have to make contact with somebody in the building and thus likely to meet justice for trespassing if that were the case).  But all was fine, when i cleaned myself up and went to the back of the nearest business, and upon informing them that i had come in looking for a bathroom, and yes i was aware that there was no bathroom there, but now i was stuck, the ladies chuckled and went around to open it back up.
Off i went, into the land of collectivos, camionetas, trucks that go 10-30 miles at a go, for 20 pesos each, but i wouldn't have it and held fast, getting rides slowly but surely.  I got a ride from a couple coming from tuxtla, with treats from a weekend getaway, home to ocotzingo; they fed me a good starchy vegetable, steamed and soft with a spiky but loose and flimsy skin and a flavor between potatoe and sweet potato (jicama, i believe) and then soon after, just before sunset, another couple who had hosted a swedish girl once but spoke no english, though were apparently upper middle class, took me into the humid jungle and city of palenque.  I was here, finally, but there were no gypsies, only tourists again.  Where were the wild, wonderful, goofy gypsies?  I had expected several hundred people were coming to this, but no one was to be seen.
I found an internet cafe, and with my last five dollars, was able to buy 45 minutes of internet, to get directions on what to do once in town; then to buy some grande y dulce bread, and take a cab to el panchan, where the rainbow voice had assured me i would be sure to encounter fellow rainbowers.  I arrived, and there was no one, and i was a little disappointed, for i felt i would be awkward sitting at the entrance to this hotel and restaurant (jungle style, but tourist nonetheless).  But fortunately there was a tour guide, drunk and bored as well, with whom i spoke at length and we decided to go back for one more beer, if i had any change.  i did, so we walked and he informed me of some of his travels, how he had a son by a spanish woman, neither of whom would now talk to him, and lived in spain and america, respectively.  he told me he had heard drums the night before in the forest across the road, but would not have me walk into the forest now because of poisonous snakes.  he said men from the ruins, or the businesses, it was not known, were starting to be vigilant and shoo out us visitors, because we were arriving in greater numbers and too close to the ruins.  So he convinces me to go hide under a palapa, we'll stay the night and they won't notice and we'll leave very early.  but a woman and her daughter arrive and tell us we need to pay 2 dollars each--he says we'll pay in the morning.  No, now, and of course we can't and I say so and that I'll leave, but he persists, and somehow we end up simply moving to one farther away, after the women leave (submissive to the end).  We stay and they arrive again, and the same thing occurs again.  Well, we get up and out right at daybreak, but when he has shown me the path, he says he'll be paying off his half of the night's cost, and if i want to go back, and i should anyway, but only if and when i can, to pay off my two dollars.  he then wishes me luck.  I go off, into the forest on the path, high in spirits and begin to ascend.  but the area is unfortunately small, and i reach the back quite soon, a field some asshole has cleared and which has tall grass and nothing else, and a high barbed wire fence, but which i enter anyway to get some perspective and possibly scope out a good gathering location, because i'm aware rainbow is largely ad hoc.  But I descend finally, a bit forlorn, but take a different path around, and come upon a man with a shaved head and robes, and i am glad.
We talk, I share a bit of bread, and we talk and walk back to el panchan.  He is from Colombia, but has spent time in the US, but has been in Mexico for about a year.  He is barefoot, but as the day progresses we come to follow a couple of leads and try desperately to piece it all together, but end up walking some dozen miles and arriving at much the wrong location and end up coming back to where we started, where we should have stayed from the start, to wait patiently as the instructions dictated, at the entrance to panchan.
But all is well, finally, when we meet friendly travelers, a group from Kansas in fact, Brady and Clay, then Troy, and Andrea, a fantastic serendipitous event, which, as I've encountered before, because I put myself out there, asking the universe for something I want, time and again, looking for those who share my interests and passions, i encounter people who are willing and able to help me try.  Little did I know, in this first encounter, that these would become great friends, and I would, three months from then, join them on their permaculture village experiment in Lawrence, KS.  But for now, they simply gave me hope, saying surely "we" could pay the collective fee to bus us there.

So off to Babylon we went, merrily.

So Jonathan and I spent a good deal of time together over the course of about four days; I would come to the centro, first to make jewelry, for the company, to meet and get to know other vagabond gypsies who hopefully could give me some good ideas, some philosophy, company on adventures, or just to have fun with.  The thing is, there in Oaxaca there's a bit of a bubble of gypsy-types, who are radically different in appearance--though still very friendly, hospitable, and generally human *gasp!*.  But the rest of the people are quite typically mexican--either having some kind of gig that they put their every week into, using every resource they have to sell things--a cart, a pole with merchandise attached, their voice, their children, images of pretty girls or pretty girls themselves; then the rest are on vacation, largely ordinary tourists doing touristy things, which consists primarily of gawking, walking, buying, eating, and talking.  Thus, I found other sources of diversion, such as learning to make jewelry (I learned I'm not so much into such intricate and time-consuming things--I'll take a job talking to people or moving heavy things any day over that), practicing poi, and planning to buy a tattoo of a quetzalcoatl.  I's badass, but I ended up not getting it, for two reasons--we didnt have proper space and the henna we did didnt look so good.  Okay, so I guess there's three reasons: I went out the night before we did the henna and ended up getting smashed and losing all my money, and my watch.  I met some chulos (in the hard sense of the word--interesting and cool enough, but trying to prey on this gringo nonetheless).

The cool thing in Oaxaca was all the lovely young ladies from the catholic school who happened to be really interested in our joyeria, hair wraps, and handsome faces.  My pal was as expert at talking to strangers as I am in English--that is, pretty damn good.  So we always had good company, and I was sad to leave.  That said, I started to see something I would realize later--that these gypsy jewelry vendors were as much stuck in their jobs as anybody in an office--they chase tourists and good weather and eek out a living but not much more... I definitely didnt want to get sucked into this, as I had to get to the jungle and start collecting monkeys and seeing mangoes... or something like that.  So after one final night hanging out together, which was actually the first night I met his girlfriend and got to stay at his house after leaving my other host, and a good luck smoke of the yerba buena, I was off.

I walked out of Oaxaca in about an hour and was just on the highway when I met Noblezza.  This is a trucker, and despite the feminine gender of his apodo, he was just a noble soul, full of compassion with nothing deviant about him (nothing he expressed, at least... he simply enjoyed passing the time with Oaxacan wanderers).  He just has a noble heart and knows many people, lives well and has love for all, driving a double stacked trailer which he pulled over right in front of me as I was walking even without my thumb out.  We had a blast, as we talked, I happy to have an opportunity to practice my spanish (the only thing about Jonathan--and I've encountered this in other people as well--is that since I didnt speak fluently, he coped by resorting to gestures and clammed up his lips when talking to me, using the few english words he knew instead).  The other thing was, he was eager to give me every opportunity to stop and see the great landscape after Oaxaca on the way to Tuxtla Gutierrez--hills of agave (whereas before Oaxaca it had been hills of cacti, many and great) and a gorgeous river which really made me wish I could just stop and go ask the nearest person if they knew where I could find a kayak, and they would be just as noble as Noblez and say "why certainly, I have one here!" and I could tell them I want to take the river to the city or the ocean, and explain my journey, and they would say, "That sounds wonderful!  Take the kayak, and when you get there, sell it and send the money back to me."   Life is rarely so full that our dreams cease to visit.

We enjoyed each other's company greatly, and instead of stopping in Tenochtitlan (something I very marginally regret, looking back on the geography of my tour), where people told me to stay a couple nights and party, for I was focused on Palenque, so I went with Nobleza to Juchitan, and stayed the night in the bus station gratis.  I had a small lesson there, in the form of a caballero from Guatemala who comes to Oaxaca three times a month to sell things, as all men of his culture clean as a whistle and living by his mano, ultra-conservative in manner, a different kind of nomad, he only had a cardboard box and there was a bit of a breeze... and I felt bad because these people are accustomed to hot hot sticky weather, whereas I am to the chilly wind of Kansas winters and San Francisco summers.  So, as he was very friendly (though a bit too talkative as I was ready to get some shuteye), I offered him the largest part of my space blanket, which had torn but was still plenty to cover him.  Those things are great, by the way.  My hammock-sleeping bag is already really warm, but not quite excellent enough for anything below 45, or warmth-sucking ground or wind, so having one of those under your butt makes all the difference.  The only problem is they are noisy, and people who havent seen a lot of technology think you{re pretty ridiculous to try to stay warm with a sheet of aluminum.  Still, he graciously accepted it as anything would help, and put it under him.  And he must have liked it, because it was gone with him when I woke up.

I got to hitching the next day, an adventure in the truest sense.  I set off with a test of intent, declaring that I would reach for Chiapas that day.  I got one small ride a little ways outside the pueblo limits, 15 minutes to the center of a wind farm.  I walked a ways, but as the landscape was just plains and ugly road development and up around the bend a bit, a concrete factory, and the only vehicles passing were work vehicles, it wasn't very pleasant or productive.  I was only about a half an hour going when I saw a bright green vest in a small clearing across the road.  I went to inspect it because I definitely wanted some diversion, and lo and behold, it was a motorcycle.  I got to looking at it, and noticed it had the keys in it.  Considering the lack of people living in the area, it made sense that it belonged to one of the workers and they felt pretty secure leaving it.  Now, I was facing a huge moral dilemma that had me rooted for an hour.

I tend to be a really good guy, but I've got a bit of a devilish streak in me.  Namely, if I want something and theres nobody around to stop me, I'm usually tempted to take it.  [I have some insight on this. It seems to me that theft is bred of an environment of scarcity, (or malice, but that is always an option, in my opinion, and fortunately scarce in my life) Coming from a home where interesting and valuable things are scarce, In fact, if it werent for my damned powers of empathy and the time I've spent growing an ethical bone through philosophy, I would've been out of there in a heartbeat as soon as I made sure I could pilot the thing.  But I think of others and knew it belonged to somebody relatively poor, as it didnt even have a battery--they were definitely salvaging all the life out of it they could.  I could be kilometers down the road before it ran out of gas though!  I would get to drive a motorcycle!  Yeah, but I would end up ditching the thing because I had no money to buy more gas, and I could get in trouble with the authorities.  It did have a plate.

What I ended up doing was driving it around the little field a bit, and found a dirt "road" that led away from the highway some more, and followed it until I saw some movement in a meadow.  It had to be the owner.  I quickly killed the engine and paused a moment.  He was harvesting something.  I bet its drugs.  Or illegal farming.  Or maybe the guys at one of the companies around here grow this to supplement their income, and he's using his lunch break to collect the fruits?  I imagined all these options as I was walking the motorcycle back far enough that I could turn it around and restart it without him hearing.  I parked it the way I found it, but damn, I couldnt just leave it.  But I couldnt take it, eithe.  So I was just sitting on it when the guy came back.  My heart was pumping as I felt certain he'd run at me shouting when he saw me.  He just kept walking calmly.  He was older than I expected, and after my embarassing introduction, I lied that I had seen it from the road but didnt know how to drive it.  He laughed, and got to talking to me about his crop, his pueblo where they were largely mormon because some guys had come and preached the word to them and built a church, and then got to telling me how Ustedes son and what ustedes do (ustedes referring to me and the rest of america, because we are one and the same, of course).  Well, he finally took off on his motorcycle, but not before telling me that we hitch wrong, with our thumbs out--thats not how they do it down here, so what I should do instead is raise my arm and wave like an old friend.   So off I went back to the road.

And was punished by fate or karma or god for even thinking of stealing his motorcycle.  I walked for at least three hours, and was losing heart.  There's always a way it goes, the hitching.  First, you convince yourself to be optimistic.  You're in a good mood, if its early in the day, or youve been with good people, have some resources, etc.  But getting on toward the hour mark, you start to get grumpy.  I have a habit of walking a bit forward every 10-30 minutes or so, just because I hate not making progress and besides, I like the excercise.  Being out in the middle of nowhere, someplace where nobody else is, is often part of the goal.  But then you really start to get pissed, frustrated, depressed, anxious.  Finally you become resigned, and just go, then you start to enjoy being where you're at, and find yourself some diversion.  For me, this all came in the form of waving and saying "por favor, amigo", and half smiling; then translating and inventing insults to shout after they passed, then walking silently for an hour, pausing, then finding what had been a make-shift road flag but, actually looked like a surrender flag, just a white gunny sack atached to a stick, so I picked it up and got playful, getting a few friendly honks and waves yet still no stops; and finally I found a fence of cacti that were not of the nopáles variety, and tried cutting into them for water.  It didn't work.  They were too bitter, and didnt produce enough liquid.  I was out in my nalgene, but kept walking.  It was getting on about three oclock, and I started thinking, alright, I stay where I stay today and that's where I was meant to end up.  I round a bend and come upon a small settlement, or at least the public face of the settlement, because they often stretch back away from the road and only have a few people trying to make a buck off the passing cars.

I approached, and there was a nice tree to sit and rest a moment; I left my things there and walked across to chat with the people there, using the question "how far is the next town" as a pretext.  They were nice, and after talking a bit, offered me a bottle of water and a torta (sandwich).  I graciously accepted, and took off walkin some more in replenished spirits.

Now my luck flipped!  I guess I had done my penance, because I got ride after ride.  I met a guy who had worked in Los Angeles, and made the skin on the dinosaurs in Jurassic Park.  Hell yeah!  Now he worked in Ixhuantepec, had a mechanic shop there.  I met some other interesting people, and finally was getting close to the more humedo area--more greenery, more trees, less brown.  My spirits were up.  A ride in the back of a truck, a guy who had a son in carcel in San Jose gave me a hundred pesos (10 bucks), and then finally--when I had the urge to stop and eat a great meal and find a camp--I decided to keep at it, because that morning I had told myself, "I bet I can at least get to the border of Chiapas today".  And while it wasnt absolutely necessary, I figured while I still had daylight I'd keep trying.

This is where I have learned something about hitchhikers that I'd like to share.  I used to think at one point, that hitchhikers might be kind of lazy, because they just sit on the side of the road until somebody comes by and drives them to where they want to be.  Very passive.  I am very not okay with begging--I'm more of the make-it-.happen variety.  I cant stand begging for change, instead I ask for work.  I hitchhikefor several reasons--one, the environmental impact of driving, and I figure if you've got an extra seat, especially as a man, you should give your fellow man a lift.  Also, because buying bus tickets are boring, and I'm funding the unneccessary purchase of more gasoline.  I would be happy to walk or buy train tickets if there were no automobiles on the road.  I actually like the idea of walking the world, but its just so damn disheartening when everybody else is zooming by and the modern road makes the landscape so often so ugly.  The third reason is because it provides both the driver and myself great company, an opportunity for cultural or life exchange.  Still, I try to demonstrate as best I can when I hitch that I'm walking when I can/have to, and friendly and eager to share part of the day with them.  Sometimes I even think, if I had the opportunity to talk to them, I'd be willing to offer some gas money or work in exchange for a good ride and a meal.

Oh, and what I meant to point out was that yes, hitchhikers work through their patience, maintaining face, and drive to stay to the road through the boredom.

Now it was sunset and I was at the end of my day.  I had a truck pull over, to my delightful surprise, not too long after sticking out my thumb with little hope but with contentment that it was near the end of the day.  They had me hop in the back.  I shouted in through the wind a bit of my story, and we started climbing the hills.  I was stoked, and it showed! The guys inside were eating up my enthusiasm, and they were in a good mood too, as it was the end of a day for them selling "electronics"--all I saw was a few telivision remotes in the cab of the car.  I chuckled a bit to myself about the culture and the state of technology down here (not making fun of it, just at how different it was).  They ended up offering to bring me back to his house that night, and the next day we would go to Tuxtla Gutierrez.  I ended up staying for three and a half days and making some great friends, including a couple guys with whom I hitched to San Cristobal.

I stayed in Oaxaca for a week and a day.  My first priority was to spend the little money my pal Juan had given me on getting in contact with a host.  I sent out a few messages: first, to a few hosts, second, to ask if anybody in Oaxaca was up for hanging out.  This is my tactic for every new city I'm in, for two reasons: because I would like a host with whom I can exchange conversation, work, meals, and information and have some static/familiarity with during my time, and second because even if I can't get a host I want to have some good company, and couchsurfing is damn good at providing good company.  So for the first night, I was hanging out in the centro, where I saw a guy in a black robe leading a group of about 6 people.  I smiled at him because of his garb, and he smiled back and approached me.  We exchanged pleasantries and he informed me that they were doing a night tour of churches, and he invited me to join, even though it was going to be in Spanish.  I was just looking for some diversion, so I said no problem, because I could at least spend some time listening to an orator speaking in spanish.  We walked and talked, and he complimented my eyes, which I've never had before.  I see.  Oh well, he's still nice, and I dont write guys off just because they're attracted to me... they are good company and they are often nice enough to me and I just stick to my boundaries and communicate thoroughly any issues.  Well, I didnt end up getting to stay at his place, and he directed me to a quiet corner in a church plaza where I could sleep and probably not be bothered by the police.  Ive since learned that in Mexico it is common that churches are safe havens for the weary traveler; it is essentially public space and they have remarkably few homeless here so people often have a pitying ear for you, and there is absolutely no reason to panhandle.

In Mazatlan, I got to go snorkeling with the oyster divers and learn how to pick them and open them.  I then learned how to make a fishing rod out of a soda bottle, and sat on the beach making some jewelry from seashells.  I went walking around the Bora bora hotel and found a treasure trove of rich sand composed of sea glass and small shells and shell bits.  I went walking around in the evening and bought a bit of grub, and found that the cart chef was a real amicable fellow, so instead of building up the energy to go hang out at the bars, I decided to go buy some beer and hang out with them.  I learned that his apprentice was learning english, so we hit it off, exchanging conversation as I've found so often very useful since then, with him in English and me in spanish, switching back to our home languages only to finish thoughts that we wanted to quickly.  He invited me to stay at his house and we shared some of his skanky weed, not too great but hey it got us high.  He was supposed to be finding a new apartment of his own with his wife, but admitted to me in private that he ahad spent too much on his end on drinking, drugs, and prostitutes--though she had spent her fair share too.  I joined them on their house hunting expedition, and got to see some quinta apartments and be there for a moment looking in on their hopes for the next chapter of their life, but had to simply wish them luck and leave soon enough on the next part of my expedition.
I helped a woman and her daughter to move a solid 12 cubic meters of concrete blocks into their yard, and it was endearing, watching the daughter play her part as they probably assumed I was doing it to court her--and while she was cute, she was too young and I only did it as a quixotic gesture.  I walked on down the road a couple kilometers and, after pasing a frightening military road block (I'd had a bag of weed and no passport, and this was one of my first encounters with the big gangs of men with semiautomatic rifles on hand) and then jumped over to the train tracks; they seemed decrepit and the nature on the other side was much more appealing than the littered road offered.  I only made it about one kilometer before a couple fellas invited me over to their casa to figure me out and offer me some weed; by the time this was all over the sun was setting and they said the rail patrol would pick me up if I crashed anywhere else, so offered me to sleep in the "house" next door, basically just a leanto made of sticks and planks.  The next day I came back to town and bought a bus ticket as far as I could because I let everybody convince me there was no way anybody was going to give me a ride hitching.
But by the next morning I was in Puebla with 20 pesos to my name.  I had to hitch.  I told myself that hell, I'll ask for help if I need to, if I cant get a ride, and Ill walk a ways, and Ill look for a horse or a burro or a bike to steal, or work for somebody for one if I need to.  I was walking out of town when the police picked me up, they saw me walking and said to themselves I was a dangerous fool, so offered to bring me to the migration office, where they said I could get a bath and make a phone call for money and other stuff; we went but when the office guy found out I didnt have a passport, shit went awry.  They couldnt help, and I felt soooo bad because this was the first time Id encountered police straight up helping somebody, going out of their way when nothing was otherwise wrong, and they pretty much got scolded for it.  While my stomach hit the floor thinking my adventure was over when itd hardly begun, I profusely said its okay, I understand, I will face the consequences.  To my surprise and relief, they said I could leave, no problem, since I hadnt directly asked for help, but they couldnt do anything for me but deport me.  The police took me to a gas station and said ask the camionetas (trucks), stick out my thumb, whatever, but be careful.  so I was on my way, and damn it was good going.  A young contractor picked me up and squeezed me in between he and his buddy and the stick shaft.  We went a ways, they dropped me off cuz they had to go another direction, and I walked a ways because so far in the country and I still hadnt been able to walk in the countryside.  So I walked a bit, they picked me up again after 45 minutes, and we drove another 45 minutes to the caseta where they turned off for tehuantepec, and I went on just up the hill a ways before another guy picked me up and we had some good bilingual exchange before we arrived together in Oaxaca.  Aside from forgeting my watch in the bushes beating off between when the first guys dropped me off and picked me up again, this first hitching experience in Mexico was a complete success.  Bravo! I should have done it sooner, damn.

I was scared to enter it, and thus I told myself I wasn´t going to go there until I had a fixed-blade knife.  So I bought myself a $40 throwing knife... god I miss that thing.  Yeah, it´s of the past now.  That´s because I was out walking, waiting for my bus to leave, when I was about to climb the ramp to a bridge and saw a couple of cops.  They were just finishing frisking and ¨ticketing¨a chico and saw me.  I felt innocent enough and decided to play that full ante and figured they´d let me pass.  But my dumb ass fooled itself.  I was so confident that I said ¨No, no tengo no drogas, puedes buscar¨ That is, I said I didn´t have anything, they could even check--so they did.  And they confiscated my knife.  And while they had taken note of how much money I had, I hadn´t.  I thought I saw only a one-dollar bill and a coupon for two tacos at Jack in the Back.  They started to bolster their case, telling me it was pretty illegal to have a knife there, and I said yeah I was from the US and it was illegal there, but I´d seen the news and wasn´t taking any chances.  They asked if I had a passport--no.  That´s all, no excuses.  I panicked, and all I could think of was that all I had was my four 500 peso bills in reserve in my shoe... and no fucking change.  So when they said I´d have to pay a ticket or go to jail, and inferred that it was in my hands to decide and tell them if and how I could pay, I knew what they were doing... and I hadn´t felt that way since I sat in my room waiting for my stepdad to choose what he was going to whip me with.  My stomach churned; I took out the nasty ziploc with my money and they took it, and almost took 1000 pesos--then thought better of it and gave me back 500.  My mind and heart were racing.  It felt like a bad broma.  I kept thinking--this can´t happen.  Where´s the US cops to help me out?  I obviously couldn´t shout for a US cop to help me out.  I thought about how they might kinda be looking out for their cartel cronies--that´s a shudder and a half.  Well, I made it anyway, cursing in english the whole way back, kicking walls and shouting and convulsing with anger.  What a welcome, huh? 

In hindsight, they probably weren´t looking out for them, as the news reported that the murders there had occurred to mexican citizens, directly related to the drug  business.   Other people have shared the sentiment with me that the government here is corrupt, that the police are highly politicized, and there are protests that some of the murders were political, and it certainly is easy to imagine that with how large the pandillas and drug business are here.

Since then, I spent 25 hours on a bus recording my memories from the past few months, and in agony for the lack of exercise--going from hitchhiking and bicycling and working hard labor 8 hours a day and exploring Santa Barbara each day with friends and playing with fire and bikes and food and alcohol, to not even being able to stretch my legs, was not fun. 

It´s really tremendous what a border does.  I´ve been very much against the idea of borders for a long time, because it really limits our freedom--but it does so much to make America the bubble that it is.  Mexico... really, it´s such a juxtaposition.  Not against America--that bit was predictable; but more surprisingly, it contradicts itself. In the same country, the same towns even, there are Walmarts but few streetlights, donkeys tied to trees and dogs walking the streets but a personal presentation ethic that makes it practically taboo to have hair longer than an inch; really, I´ve only seen maybe one other person since entering the country with long hair.

By far, San Luis Obispo to Santa Barbara have been the greatest parts of my trip so far; the bike ride to Arroyo Grande through valleys and hills and then back along Pismo/Shell Beach to see the variety of colors, shades, and textures of landscapes--I explained to my host Chris the next day something I hadn't realized until that moment, that I had never seen the weather interact with the landscape the way it did there--clouds casting shadows on proximal hills and running into mounts and changing shape and direction... It really was quite magical.  It´s those types of spaces that remind me why traveling is so great; it´s not necessarily the destination that is worth the trip, but the way you get there--enriching your adventure by NOT spending money on housing and transportation, what an earthshattering idea.  The thing is, when I arrive at places, often in those with lesser quality of living, the people are so preoccupied that they don´t get to explore the spaces relatively close to themselves.  This is something that it takes downtime to do--time where you have no needs and must find your own diversion--the kind of introspection and personal or community development that is a luxury of the wealthy or intellectual, mostly.  One might argue against me that there are plenty of poor people who travel--street kids and rednecks, etc--but these people had to first come from the lap of luxury, ie a country that provides its needs even when they dont provide them for themselves. 

So Santa Barbara... I don´t know if I talked about it before, but damn.  I arrived in the passenger seat of a rad guy from Irvine who had brought some other guys north to los alamos, and this was a perfect introduction to SB: full of people who are interesting and interested and active and generally vivacious--they know they are privileged with opportunity and utilize it to its utmost.  That´s absolutely not a bad thing; I´d rather see people who have power using it well, like royalty it gives hope and enlightenment even to those who don´t have it .  People who go surfing and love learning and practice new skills every chance they get; many who share and few who are lethargic, lots of ideas and creativity.  There were people like Mohammed, who went to school for 5 years and now is planning to go to Brazil, He surfs and looks like Burt Bacharach (and gets just as much play :). 

Perhaps I´ll just write some of the stories I have from Santa Barbara.  Having spent a couple months in such a vibrant and proactive place was really enriching:
I found a campsite as soon as I got to isla vista, an open space preserve right on the outskirts of the square mile town.  There were already three other guys squatting there, and it really was a precious sight, these guys being unpestered by the locals, working together to build a campsite and preparing for the coming rain.  I talked to them, met them all, buddha and crazy and jack, or whatever they were... asked them if theyd been bothered and such.  Nothing, so I felt great.  I hid my stuf in some blackberry thicket and went exploring on my bike.  There´s nothing like traveling a new town or any space, really, on a bicycle.  I was *****

I said this morning I was either going surfing or fishing; I chose fishing and was rewarded with a scorpionfish and a boogie board.

Rode down looking for the beach past the Snowy Plover Protection Area

Well hey there!  It's been a while hasn't it; I've got plenty of news to update.  I could regale with every detail, which could be appreciable because it's so different than anything you experience in most life, but it'd be way too long and boring, especially in such a dry forum as this with no color.  It's a bit awkward to write here, because I want to say everything, and this thing has a double identity as a blog and a journal; so do I write for an audience or is this merely a memory book?  When you write down memories, they tend to transform in the process; when you think about it, you can include images, and sounds, and you don't really imagine in words; but since every word has different connotations, even for the same person in different times, let along for different people, you automatically set an ideas fate with the way you say it.  Perhaps the most important thing here is that I get a record to work with in the future, and to develop my storytelling ability, so I will focus on tangible memories and keep the concepts and abstract tangents to a separate, private document.  In fact, I'm going to take all this out now and put it there, and I don't really know why I'm still typing this.  I'm very bad at being prudent, but this is good practice. 

AWOL for more than a week; lots to say, I just hope I haven't forgotten much...
I read in a book about a fella (that's my new word, just got done with Grapes of Wrath--that's what I like about education, is that along the way you pick up these little tidbits that help add flavor and color to your life.  I hope I'm as interesting as I feel.) who had done a few trips before, and he tried journaling, but his brain punished him by losing all the memories; and the next trip he took photographs, and he was again punished because the places looked nothing like what he remembered, so the one he was on in the book, he recorded nothing.  I'm going to continue to record,

Last week I was settling into the nomad lifestyle, picking up each day, doing what it demanded of me, taking what came, and settling in at night.  It's comforting to know that you can have a place to sleep no matter where you are.  I got a ride from this woman who looked completely clean-cut, but talked about how her husband had been in a maximum security prison and how visiting him was a pain in the ass, and smoked in her car from the carton of Marlboro's in the back, and then bought me a whole fuckin' chicken and big jug of water at Safeway, plus two half sandwiches and a bunch of granola bars.  I was faced with a major moral dilemma, because I didn't want to offend her, but I also felt obligated to self-respect and because I believe that in simply sharing my personal beliefs I can open up others to consideration; instead of telling them what they are doing is wrong, you simply tell them that personally you don't partake, and then they may inquire or simply be inclined to readjust their opinions of people who do those things, or who they expected you to be, or simply to think about something they'd never heard before, possibly because they'd closed themselves off to the people preaching it to them before.  Anyway, I took it all from her, because she had been so hospitable (and besides, I was famished), with graciousness and geniality.  It was so debasing, though, because I had set myself on being almost vegetarian, and I abhor bottled water, and individual-packaged items, so the whole thing was blasphemy to my own moral philosophy.

Then I got a ride from some guys in King's City (which is hardly a city and certainly not a place of kings) and they said they could get me as far as Paso Robles, but after some real good congenial conversation they proffered that I come with them camping in San Simeon, as they'd be passing back through by  PR on the way back the next day.  I was absolutely for the idea, because I was eager to have good company finally after several days of only minor, superfluous conversation.  The guys car broke down, their friends picked us up, we feasted like carnivores, we got stoned and drank and were gluttonous and went to the beach for hours and I swam in the ocean with this fella who'd just got out of the navy (Omar, my favorite one of the whole group and obviously the most alpha, though they were all on pretty equal terms, respectful of each other, they'd obviously grown up together and I was glad for the opportunity to be a part of it, if even for only two days; these were the kind of healthy and deep relationships that I find myself yearning for when I am out or looking for company or a conversation buddy online... I realize that I have no long relationships, not many people who will go far out of their way to share in my pain or to sacrifice other things to do something for me, at least not men who are peers.)  Anyway, we got back to town the next afternoon and the guy who had so graciously offered us a tow to his friend's shop, took us to a place where the guy wanted a week to work on it and 1500 bucks.  No way.  That meant, however, that I was stranded, because they were headed the opposity direction.  My spirits would have been on the floor, if it weren't for the fact that I had picked up money earlier in the day that my sister sent, $150 woohoo more money than I've had in 6 months!!  I invested it wisely, all but a 5 i gave to this black girl trying to sell me cologne, a horrible salesgirl but persistent, no nuance, just crudely answering my declination with her yes's, and who got me to give her the 5 because she had already asked me for more, playing the can-i-have-a-car-no-then-can-i-have-movie-tickets game.  Anyway, I crashed in Salinas River that night, and hitched the next day down to where the gas station was that the timing belt had gone out on the car, and went in and chatted with the guy who luckily was working again that day, this turned from "hey what's up I saw you the other day you'll never believe why I'm back," to hanging out wasting time with him till I was tired to hanging out with the cashier at a gas station till midnight to go drink and shoot the shit to drinking and shooting the shit and spontaneously going and buying a hundred worth of cocaine and splitting it in his car until 4 in the morning.  Yeah, that's the best part of this whole update and I dropped it in four lines out of 60.  I know, I'm a great storyteller.

So anyway now I'm in SLO, I camped at the creek, climbed Madonna mountain, got sick with the shits and stunk up the backyard and got some CS hosts and found out that the regularly clean the hobos out of the creeks so I'm a little worried about my stuff but I'm getting it today, and mailing stuff home finally so i'll have a lighter pack, and biked thirty miles roundtrip to Arroyo Grande and Pismo Beach yesterday on this bike I stole, a great decision considering it an investment in my travel, but I'm feeling pangs of guilt as well as paranoia that the person who I took it from is going to see me on it.  I justify it by "at least I'm using the shit out of it" and that I had a way more valuable bike which got taken, and I hope they're not too hung up on material posessions, and fuck them because less property makes you happier.  Maybe I'm being immoral and jaded and angry because I know I'm wrong, and anger is a way of coping with it, really in humanity if we are angry it's usually because we are wrong or hurt, which explains why negative energy is so bad, because if you wrong somebody, they are angry because they are hurt, and you are angry because you are wrong, and maybe I shouldn't steal anymore, but dammit, I needed this and it's very useful and I don't take very much, but I've already told you I have absolutely shitty moral fiber.

Today: Hiking Bishop's Peak in SLO and going fishing at the lake. Tomorrow, getting a ride to Santa Maria and biking to Solvang, a dutch community. The next day, biking to Goleta, UCSB's hometown to mack on college kids.

How many days can I go without shoes?  I have flip flops but I'm trying to minimize their use; I wore them once yesterday, in the recycling center.  I'm going to carry them and some hiking boots, but I still want to count; I've been mostly barefoot the past few days but today will be the first official! 



I came up to SF for the Bluegrass festival, I went snooping around my neighbors things and found a bottle of like 25 Lorazepams, which are like Valium, which I shared with my surfers.  I had a total of 6, they were pretty sweet, just two and a beer and you're good for several hours.  I'm done with them now, though, it was something to try.  Now I missed my ride to SLO and have to finagle my way down there; we'll see how quick I can get there!  If all else fails I can at least go hitch.

              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.