Hey folks, my girlfriend Sierra & I are sharing a run-of-the-mill travel blog with occasional absurdist episodes from Southeast Asia. So far, we’ve experienced the tourist side of Thailand and all it’s multi-faceted scams & schemes. Next up: The Golden Triangle, Laos, & Burma.
There is something which changes the mind before traveling to a foreign land. As if in preparation, the mind renders the sight of daily routine into something naked & foreign. While driving the same roads in the evening, I hear each creak of the gas pedal as the body hims & haws across chipped pavement. I pull in the salty breeze and let it tickle my nose hairs. Copper sunshine pierces through a veil of stormy clouds. The hills of the Humboldt coast are like so many healing bruises with peaks of gold. Gusts from the ocean whip through me. Going to far on a one-way ticket, I wonder how long I’ll be gone for. Have I always been gone?
I look out onto the bay, following salty dock posts and depth markers stretching out to the breakwater. How many men have lived here, worked here, died here? Who inhabited this land before us and how did they live? Did they toil, live, and die like we do? What will the land look like after all the men have traveled away or died?
Will I be here again?
I have a job here. I have security. I have a bed to sleep in. If I stay and work a few years, I can make a lot of money and build a life for myself somewhere. I should think about my future. What if my health fails? How will I afford the hospital bills? What if my mother falls ill & I am to care for her; how will we survive?
We will survive the way all creatures do. We will eat when we are hungry. If there is no food we will forage, hunt, and fish. We will work gardens and raise hens. If the land is fallow and the hens are not laying we will dig through trash cans and dumpsters. We will attend Church dinners and wait in line at food banks. Onlookers will gaze down upon us but we will stand tall, knowing that all creatures are equal in death. We will eat silently with gratitude and we will share.
When we are tired, we will sleep. We will stir the coals and throw on a big log. We will make our beds. Whether they are beds made of feathers or beds made of cardboard, they are beds just the same.
Here in America, even the poorest of bums are rich on a world scale. We have nearly constant access to clean water. We have electric outlets and wifi in nearly every town. We have churches that hand out blankets and clothes.
Whether I have the finances or not, I will live how I live and I will die how I die. I will die like all things, which also live.
Here, “poverty-stricken” is a term meant to inflict damage upon a mans sense of pride. These things cannot harm the man who possesses strong will. The truly poverty-stricken are those unable to find food, warm clothes, or clean water. They may die as a result of their poverty.
What am I? I live under the table eating scraps. I collect enough to live & travel. I was dealt pocket Aces. Each time I capitalize on currency exchange by taking US dollars to foreign countries, I use my Aces against 2’s and 3’s.
It’s the game of men. Most men play by the rules or else find themselves alternately victorious and defeated by alienation. There’s that saying, “it’s not cheating if you don’t get caught.” A chosen few live as true kings; above, beyond, & without the games of men.
This is our privilege and this is our curse. Playing the games of men has dangerous consequences. We can dimly fathom the interplay of cause and effect. Like ocean waves, we are subject to laws of rhythmic correspondence. The surface sings songs knowable, yet beyond the depths lies a darkness each man imagines yet few men can prove. To light this darkness & catch a glimpse of the all-pervasive pressure is to make friends with enemies & make sense from confusion.
A handful of cold sand between my toes, I piss with the wind and light no cigarettes.
I $ave the monie$ doing $hit I don’t really wanna do so I can do cool-a$$ $hit tomorrow. I spend working hours maintaining the distribution of awarene$$e$~
The hourglass in my wallet collects racks that are tracked by no watches, the moments are scoped without relativity, like grains of moments falling down a warped bottleneck of attentive grasping.
The passing time carries my cares under the bridge of regret and onward to lap the shores of silty revelation. These eyes watch the hills change during daylight, reminding that we live in a slowly melting painting.
Time is called money. I may not be clock wise, but I am subject to the same cycles as the everything.
Gravity and distance meet to dissolve all form, sleeping & creeping beautifully like a bloody red sun rolling behind deep ocean blues, there is no way to contain the need to feel, think, & do.
Conceptual hot air takes the winds from corporeal sails and leaves nothing more behind than a snails pace and trails of slime.
Are we living legacies or leaving them?
Destroying preconceptions is tough work, like sawing through sun-hardened driftwood roots to build a fire to cook on. I keep sawing and sawing ’til the sun goes down, the teeth on this small folding blade are becoming dull, my arms burn as I huff and puff, I wonder: is the effort I exert greater than the fuel I harvest?
Time is never wasted, but it can be utilized instead of fantasized.
For a perpetual daydreamer, this is a cornerstone to balance.
“Clarity is power.”
Rambly laymanphiloreligoslaughterosophy musing complete.
Here’s a children’s song I wrote.It’s about homemade booze:
My bottle is a hole in a bucket, a hole in a bucket
A hole in a bucket
When I plug the holes, my bucket overflows,
my bucket overflows
If we don’t use the water, we’ll lose the water
we lose’ll the water, we’ll lose the water
California state is hella thirsty,
hella thirsty, hella thirsty
So let’s make a gutter for all the water
put it in a barrel, put in a barrel
We can to the orchard, pick us some apples,
pick us some apples, pick us some apples
In that water we’ll pour a little sugar,
Just a little dash, pour a little dash,
When that water starts a-bubbling, we add the apple mash, add the apple mash, add the apple mash
Wait three weeks and have yourself a drink,
have yourself a drink, before you start to think
Man, with all this juice I could be making fuel,
Making a killing, breaking rules an’ making fuel
We gone to the junkyard to get some copper,
Get some copper, and look out for coppers
Then we cook the wine and sell it to the neighbors,
sell it to the neighbors, and sell it to the neighbors
Now we got holes in our livers,
holes in our kidneys, and holes in our heads,
I fell down the ladder with a hole in my bladder,
while my belly gettin’ fatter.
Oh Daddy, my head don’t feel pain
burning high octane,
no pain And big gains with high octane.
a Wednesday cacophony blares in the barroom,
the empty noise from the morning has been filled
as an old jukebox roars, taking the lead
with grateful dead studio cuts, guns ‘n roses intermission
the puzzles in my mind will have to wait
while cue ball crashes, ball-to-wall
the whirling sound of solid rolls across felted marble
followed by a splash
of dense phenolic resin into the gutter
of plastic and wood- a Rube Goldberg racket follows
hands clap, glass tilts,
elbows grow lighter with each sip of ale
every so often,
hot tempers mix with icy glares,
quick and unmitigated as high-stake doubts
a stick smacks the floor from a drunkard’s fumble
he should talk louder but instead he mumbles
his hand wraps around the hips of certain trouble,
thunder rattles trees, a flash seldom seen
fast as a falling leaf,
the drunkard’s on the ground,
picking up teeth
like this, another cue ball scatters perfect pyramids, fifteen
faster as an oil-stained fist splits skin, shatters pearly whites
“spilt beer is a waste!”
the drunkard bemoans his lost beverage
‘cus it takes a young back one day to make a hundred bucks
while blood flows as free and warm as the summer breeze
I’d trade you for pleasure
if only she’d stay.
I’m content to see her come
and happy to see you go
what does it mean
to be left alone?
punch out time, go home
slide past these throbbing clocks
we’re working hardly
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small eastern fingers
sunset jet trails float
like humid amber fish scales;
bleak horizon filled
junkies in gutters
roll around on newspaper