Jon D Rapp ©2015
WitchDoctors Medicine by Jonathan D Rapphahn is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International License.
New Comp. Book Opened
Airport Day, San Jose
Smoking sticks outside the airport could be bad for my legal health… but who’s to say? The sweet unmistakeable aroma of indoor sativa, smoked outdoors at 3am. The TSA can’t stop this train. If you leave cold water extracts unpressed, you have something resembling a spice. My cinnamon spice jar ain’t full of cinnamon, let’s just say that.
I tried to catch a nap on this uneven bench. It wasn’t a bad minute; complete with drool and all. Valerian root turned my dreams into boat rides… and some strange asian lady rocked it too much and woke me up. I’m full on glycerites and insomnia.
Chad took a thumb print, he’ll be going for a while. What a stupid ride down from South Lake that was. Loud and drunk was the lot behind me as I drove us into oblivion, sober and clear as a rastafarian bluejay. I could talk more on that but who really cares? It was loud and chaotic and that’s all. I am grateful as a dancing bear for my friends though, without them I couldn’t have even come close. You can’t have “better” without a starting principle, that which you are trying to make better… and I am just play-dough and my friends make it all better.
Let’s not forget good ol’ St. Dupree for without whom none of this would be possible. Consider him a sponsor as well as an equally powerful entity. Then there are the lovely ladies that too often become temporary guardians of the worldly possessions that I cannot travel alongside (namely a white suitcase/Storm Trooper 1990 Volvo). Grandpa Patches, who deserves a wink and a nod and a fondle. Thank you. Give recognition where it is due; there are too many to name to catch them all. I hope to make the balance even with everyone before I take my last stage dive. I love them all.
So it goes; so begins the journey… well “The Journey” is always happening, but I digress. “This Journey” to Kaua’i and beyond may hold some grand directions. Do I want to participate in this smoldering cauldron of a society any more? Am I going to make a run for ex-pat living once I’m done here? What do I truly value and cherish in this world? And who the fuck cares what I have to say and why should they?
All this and more… lord willing. I brought the right amount of gear, I think. Paracord, bungees, safety pins, carabiners, duct tape, electric tape, a whole host of medical supplies, a bag of tinctures for the head, two changes of clothes, a hammock from Grandpa Sparks, a dry bag & water filter from Matt, a Tramontina machete, a Kabar hunting knife, more rope, fishing hooks, netting, snare, compass, lighters, sterno and stove, magnifying glass, candles, lots of pens and paper, an SAS Survival Guide book from my dad, a copy of Edward Abbeys “The Monkey Wrench Gang”. All stuffed into a USMC standard issue field pack, ordered with ebay assistance from my dirty Uncle Loose.
It weighs 49.5 lbs after they made me pitch my Zippo lighter fluid. What a stimulus package! “We just fuckin’ throw it out, they buy it again! Brilliant!” There’s a whole goddamn list of shit they can throw away that you paid for! And why the fuck do escalators have to remain on, always & forever at the airports (even when no one is on them for hours at a time)?! It all seems like a waste of resources, probably because it is. Fuck the “civilized world”. And fuck cursing in my journal for effect.
I’m kind of high off kava and valerian and ganja. Fairly relaxed and composed. But why shouldn’t I be? Off to Kauai without strings to tie me down. Just paracord.
I worry about adjusting to hiking with that pack. I have NO choice, however. I’ll carry a heavy load, and not for the first time. I had been getting some exercise in South Lake. I casually walked 5 miles home from the Montbleu the other night after $1 taco and $1 margarita night. I get my legs moving however I can.
Oh, Jemma Sparks, my sister… how I wish I could comfort you in the wake of Uncle Odie’s OD. What shitty timing for me to leave. I’m still numb to the feel of it all. He was an Uncle to me, a lover to you, and an asshole to most everyone else. He looked out for me and I stayed out of harms way, somehow… for now. Most people stayed away from him. But I love and miss him. He won’t be forgotten. He lives on through the stories Now him and Ren can reunite with all their other family, somewhere between the great divided skies. But it all begs the question… who’s next? A haunting concept… the meat grinder that is dope never loses its fuckin’ appetite. We’re all out here, hungry, playing food to another beasts appetite.
The mission at hand? Retain maximum presence while dissolving the western mind. If I die young, do not weep. According to a popular 80’s hit… it will have meant that I was GOOD. I would prefer a short life spent chasing with desire opposed to a long life spent quelling it. Who’s to say which is right? Not me. All I can do is what I feel to be right for me.
I texted Alice the other day asking if she had a minute to talk. She was playing hardball with me so I laid it out on a text and got the gratitude out & up off my chest, into the air. Her love enlightened me. Her words, her fire, her lessons… all brought me to a better place, ultimately. And I am full of love still. Even more than before, maybe. Agape.
Bugs is probably loitering at Lihue Airport, awaiting my flight to land so we can go seek out the Department of Human Services. I have to go in for a 6 month review to continue receiving my government food benefits. Hooray Hawaiian EBT! $320 per month ain’t bad at all.
If all else fails, I’ll tell the truth: lost the girl, got strung out for a bit; back to basics. I never claimed not to be an occasional dirt bag. I’m hoping I can get on the state health plan too. I may need it. I’m grateful for whatever I can get at this point. I’m trying to live as humbly as I can and just soak in the love of the moment. Love you too, Uncle Sam.
I’m now realizing that I should’ve gotten one of those waterproof journals. This one might become “The Lost Journal” in the lost jungles. I want to write consistently. Lord willing. But it’s raining a lot. “Rainy season”. We got called “haole as fuck” by another haole (white foreigner, derogatory/”one without breath” in Hawaiian) fisherman when asking where we could poach a camp spot. If the boot fits, I guess I’ll trudge the trenches in it!
Bugs and I poached our hammocks off into some brush, on the edge of a country club in Lihue. Haole as fuck indeed, we didn’t really know where to head from the airport. We ruck marched maybe 5 miles, my pack now weighs 60lbs with the food and water. I wonder what the effects from this living will create in terms of back pains. We are aimed at the North Shore, Kalaulau beach specifically. The Na Pali (“the cliffs”) Coast, an 11 mile “expert backpackers only” hike into untouched valley of indescribable beauty.
We heard that there is a tribe/commune living out there using sustainable gardening methods to keep everyone fed. I am very interested in that lifestyle and hope to be a formidable student, adequate teacher, and humble master when the time comes.
Bugs & I hopped a bus from Lihue to Kilauea, in search of outlaw camping at Secret Beach. I asked a random traveler on the bus for specific directions and he readily supplied them. I guess the secret is out.
We made it down there just in time for dusk and dark rain, a modest 1.5 mile hike from the bus stop. I’m starting to wear my boots without socks because it rains so much and my feet are perpetually drenched. To avoid trench foot, I periodically go barefoot ion stretches of pavement. Gotta give the dogs some air!
We had an okay night after we fumbled with our gear in the dark and got set up. We had a bowl of quinoa cooked over sterno. It was a hell of a lot better than poaching the outskirts of the golf courses.
We didn’t get hassled until our second day on the “secret” shores. But we had an awesome first full day! I ground scored a local Kauai surfboard that was missing a leash. We then hiked two beaches over to a pristine locale, after eating a nice breakfast of yerba mate and coconut oatmeal. I bathed in the ocean and did an hour of yoga in the sand; tuning my mind into the island rhythms as best as I can. Then I swam in the ocean some more. We had a large bowl of hot curry quinoa. We set up our camp sixty feet off the new beach, up on a hill in a beautiful little opening. I went to sleep smiling.
I awoke to rain, so I pulled out a book to read in my hammock until it stopped. When it did, I heard a man yelling at his dog, then at me, “HEY! HEY! YOU! I SAW YOU POKE YOUR FUCKING HEAD OUT! GET THE FUCK DOWN HERE! DO YOU KNOW WHERE YOU ARE?! GET THE FUCK OFF OF MY PROPERTY!” Some local meat head didn’t like the looks of me.
Bugs and I scrambled our shit together and debated whether to go face him or not. He was standing there glaring and telling me to, “SHUT THE FUCK UP AND DON’T LOOK AT ME!”… fine with me, ya ugly moke (“redneck cholo”)!.
I was reluctant to face him, almost scared, but I remembered that his anger represents “the dark principle”. It can hurt my body but not my soul. Hippie Jedi Shit. It seemed to distract me well enough, I didn’t psych myself out. I climbed down the hill (razor in my right pocket), looked him in the eyes, face-to-face with “yes sir, no sir” until it was diffused. He threatened to pop me in the face, which I was expecting. I put my hands behind my back knowing that most Hawaiians won’t accept anything less than a square scrap.
He didn’t get his fight, but he got his solitude. His property should be posted if he doesn’t want “wackjobs like us” that need to “get their shit together” to amble through his beachfront land. I didn’t know who he was. So I named him Dick.
We hiked out and the rain came right on schedule. Cold wet and trudging along the highway towards Anini beach campground in search of a hassle free night of county permit camping in exchange for our last bit of cash. It took us all day to walk here. I went through all the grieving stages, into acceptance. It got me through the hike. It was long, wet, and brutal. Not to mention my pack is overloaded, ergonomically unstable, and snapping threads.
We met some kind folks at the campground. There is outlaw camping a ways back, but it’s rumored to be infested with tweakers. We opted to pay the $5 each for peace of mind camping. There goes the last liquid cash. At least we’ve still got hash.
Tomorrow we go in search of Crazy Jane’s Lettuce Farm, where it’s rumored that she takes in campers for two hours of work trade per day. It would be nice to settle for a while since it’s too rainy to ford the rivers into Kalaulau Valley. All this constant daily movement is draining me. We haven’t been eating all that much, and all we have left is quinoa and oatmeal to eat for dinner. The rain got us down, and Bugs lost his hammock straps in the morning commotion. We felt as if we were going to break.
Luckily, we made some friends that provided ham, bread, cookies, juice, tobacco, herb, and good company. We had a makeshift thanksgiving-style feast under the bathroom overhang, wind howling and rain pissing everywhere, it was the most secure spot we could find to cook. Sterno doesn’t like wind.
Tyson and Brooke told us to get into Kalaulau without paying the camping fees, we’d have to sneak through the first 6 miles starting at 3am (by moonlight?!) because there is a ranger that patrols at sunrise and it costs $200 to buy a permit. Sounds like hyperbole to me… take the rumors with grains of quinoa for now. I don’t doubt the greedy disposition of these American wildlife organizations, though. Cocksuckers. Southeast Asia doesn’t pull that bureaucratic bullshit. People are free to live as long as they aren’t trespassing. I must go!
Anini Beach: Outlaw Style
The air is calm tonight, meshing perfectly with my internal specifications. It feels like there is no space between the inside and outside of my body; no friction from reality whatsoever. There is something distinctly relieving about this moonlit mile trot back to the edge of the ranger patrol zone. Tweaker land. No safe bets over here, but I’m okay on that. A taste of blood for my enemies as my machete wields sharp and true.
We had another feast of sorts with the campers: bacon avocado cheeseburgers, with a couple of 40ozs to pass around in between bites. Tyson and Brooke are from Milwaukee. They’re young and green-horned in the nomad-living. They don’t seem to enjoy the struggle as much as the rest of us restless fools. Tony is from Alabama, a nutjob surfer & roofer depending on the tide. He’s the heir to a large piece of land that some lumber company has been drooling over for generations. He plans to have it clear cut and sold off as soon as his family keels over. I urged him to do something more constructive, more long-term financing… but his response was “I don’t give a shit about that shitty fuckin’ swamp land, they can have it! I just want the money so I can get the hell outta there.” Man giveth and man taketh. Amen.
Today was a good rest day. My knees are starting to swell up pretty bad from walking endlessly. Bugs and I are too burned out to set up our hammocks, so were hoping the weather will hold off while we sleep on a 10′ x 12′ tarp bed on the sand of the beach. We’re under these weird berry trees that keep throwing them at my pages with each yawn of the wind, splattering bits of purple throughout my moonlit jungle fowl scratch.
It’s peaceful here. Bugs has been passed out since we started walking over here, not much to say between us. The beach is comprised of a calm portion of shallow reef & rock, full of beautiful tiny things. That goes out a couple hundred yards, giving the illusion of a lake contained within an ocean. The salty liquid stretches humbly out to meet the crashing tides and striding surf, none of it heard unless the breeze carries it’s sound to your ear.
The best part of this place is the strange camper community. There are two brothers that were sent out here by their father for a “vacation”, and were subsequently cut off from their bank accounts and financial access. They spend most of their days playing Tony Hawk on a laptop under the pavilions at the park. They missed the lesson entirely, opting for indulgence in the famous Hawaiian Ice and other mind-numbing drugs.
Kenny and his son Leon live in a makeshift tent house, a big 20′ x 20′ army tent with a small 10′ x 20′ bedroom attached. Family and all. If you register your camping space ahead of time, it’s only $3/day, which is very affordable as rent. Leon is straight from the Little Rascals, street smart as the archetype of a con-man in the making.
All these people, gathered on a warm tropical Saturday evening; merry-making & good vibrations. Sweet sounds and melodies coming from the tent house sing-a-long, serenading the whole place with laughter and wide-eyed grins. There’s still a touch of sadness in the air, as we run towards our singular and group satisfactions, a lot of us are also running away from something else on the mainland (back THERE). We stand to gain everything here if we stay out of our own (and each others) way.
I blew a steel shank and some rubber out of my boot somewhere along the way. The salt water didn’t agree with it. But that’s alright just as long as I don’t have to go to bed with any centipedes tonight.
Strangers and tweakers saunter by the outlaw beach, we all make strange bedfellows up here in this stop-motion-chemical-evolution orgy of 3rd dimensional linear existence. The beautiful empire burns and collapses into itself while being resurrected simultaneously.
If I had a heart for each loveless barrel that I’ve stared down, the ails of the world would no longer exchange burdens with me. We would all bear the weight. So it should be.
All hail the glistening patch of rain on a cloudy day as I get pelted by some tropical tree berries, curious if they’re edible… I will pack another bowl and roll on out with the tide, as it were. Yo ho yo ho…
Not much precipitation at night, thankfully. The daytime showers are another matter.
We’ve gotten word that this rain is going to let up in a week. Fingers crossed. Bugs and I tucked our bags away in the brush, to hike a trail into town for groceries. We grazed the salad bar and bulk food section for a while, sampling anything and everything for breakfast.
Some angry tweaker kid tried to kick a flock of scavenger chickens (jungle fowl) outside the store. He grabbed a nearby box of “Chicken in a Biscuit” that someone had been snacking on, and tried to peg a chicken in the hindquarters. He missed. And the chickens ate a whole box of “Chicken in a Biscuit”. The irony was not missing. He looked over and called me a “fucking Mexican”. Bugs thinks that people just don’t like my face around here. I am starting to believe him.
My knees are still swollen like grapefruits, so I’m starting an ibuprophen regimen to get me through to the next place. The next place… the next place… well we can’t quite settle at the outlaw camp spot at Anini. Too sketchy. We may just go to that lettuce farm owned by Crazy Jane. 2 hours of labor per day in exchange for a tent/hammock space. This seems like the best option in our mix. She lives out in Kilauea, back in the direction we came from. In the opposite direction from the Kalaulau trail. All roads here lead there, they told me.
We just need a little time to compose and plan. Get these damn packs off our backs. I had some spirit crushing dreams. Ex-girlfriend tour of the mind. Familiar associations and attachment; instant reminders of how lonely this life can be. I’ve done away with any form of comfort and security; rightly so. This is where I need to be. This is what I’m supposed to be doing. But I find myself searching for something… something eros. I don’t need affirmation or acceptance, but I craving the love that molds consciousness. The love that shaped me with force. But I can see, feel, and absorb the daily love that I come in contact with.
I feel like a lost sailor, catching desperate glimpses of lighthouse beacons, confidently guiding this wreckage deeper into the fog; scanning listlessly for a sign of sunken riches, land, rum & a girl that makes it all worthless and worth everything all at once. Isn’t that what we all want? A true love that blinds yet guides; a dignified union, a bond of grace within acceptance & understanding. Tangle me together with the ones that I shall keep closest and send us off to that atrium of moons… the vein of stars that beckons and bellows my madness with unwinding, undying evolutionary presence and ethereal aesthetic; bless us with grounded contentment. Find me my old soul band of gypsies so we can set ourselves ablaze and dance together, burning with our tenacity and desire; love for the hell of it. I make mates with the universe, and I send my love to the heavens. The only real possible outcome, anyway. Love is fleeting, but it is universal. So together we lay, under rain, moon, stars. Sand in my sleeping bag. I give myself to you, Earth, compost my body and make good use of it. My soul is for the stars.
My rucksack is still pretty heavy; there is something I’m not doing right. One of the shoulder straps is coming off, a thread at a time. My boots are shot.
We’re gonna try to get to Crazy Jane’s Lettuce Farm today. Mile marker 21. It will be nice to have a place to settle for a few days at the least. Hopefully it will be mutually beneficial. I’ll have to find the means to mend my pack and boots somewhere along the way.
We plan to explore Kalalau Valley when the rainy season has decidedly ended, or when some magnetism pulls us there. Whichever comes first. I hope to find the lessons that I need along the way. I am humbled by (and for) love; grateful for the world. I don’t like to fight, yet I’m usually ready. I mourn the past at sunrise and I anticipate the future in the last moments of dusk. In between that is all precense. It’s a paradoxical love affair.
We hopped the Kaua’i Bus to get closer to Jane’s… it didn’t work. We overshot our mile marker by a decent length, leaving the warm sun and ending up along a dismal, rainy patch of highway. The wet highway is never too far away, whether in heart, spirit, or mind.
Fortunately for us, we got a ride down the road from a nice girl named Brandy. She was plain yet pretty; nice as coconut pie. She said we looked like “NorCal folk” which is why she stopped for Bugs’ thumb. She took us up a different road, across the highway from Jane’s. She pointed us to a rock quarry road that led down to a beach. She told us it was good for outlaw camping. We walk down.
So far, so good. It’s a mellow golden sand beach, with the wide, lazy mouth of a river peacefully vomiting brown water into the ocean tide. I guess we can pull water from the river when it’s clear. Top it all off with shady groves and mega-mansions on the hills.
It seems like the elite & priveledged own this island, up on the slopes and cliffs and canyons, looking down at the vagrant & free lives that lay beneath catacombs of wealth.
The quarry is barely maintained. Muddy rust-filled pits of bottles and cans, old cars and rusted chains. This is a good sign for us. Beautiful in an “old world mourning for a paint job” kind of way. Seaspray licks the debris, knotting it all into nappy strands; needs a hair tie.
We’re just down the street, so-to-speak, from our surf board and “Secret’ beach. And from Jane’s. When the time comes, we will march back up that hill and over to fresh oportunities of surf, sun, labor, maybe love. My EBT is at $200, hardly enough to feed us both for the month on anything other than grains & beans.
We may need to find a safe hideaway so we can make trips to multiple food pantries. Start some food caches. That’s how we will sustain if nothing else comes through; off the excess of the populations. Begging softly for a bowl of rice… I am above nothing in this world. I’ll dig into an ashtray for a cigarette, so why not panhandle for a meal? It’s a broke life of piracy for this here lanky land-roamer. This is the life I choose.
First, we’ll cruise the local farms and farmers markets to see what turns up. If that proves to be inefficient, we will head to Kapa’a in search of temporary employment. We still need some supplies and cash before we hit the trail.
I can feel Kalaulau calling, and when the time is right, we will immerse ourselves upon that which waits within the valley. We’ve heard tale of all kinds of activity out there, from beautiful naked women (sirens, nymphs, faeries, pixies? ha.), to decent sized community gardens, moonshine stills, goat-slaughtering and feasts, complete with a “mayor” of the community… I don’t want to arrive with expectations, but this all sounds too good to be true!
Lord willing, we’ll see ourselves out there, like sun-baked lizards scurrying along treacherous coastal cliffs. I will go there with an open head and open chest cavity, keeping an open book for plenty of notes. Explore, listen, understand, dissolve. Eat all the chips off my own shoulder. Embrace higher concepts of community, coexistence, nurture, nature, growth, decay… universal themes expanded & expounded upon through dilligence and disconnection. Fuck bitches get money? Watch bees, make honey.
Rock Quarry Beach
Last night was too wet. I found myself angry and near the point of breaking down as my hammock slowly saturated with fresh island rains… my lessons are usually learned the hard, wet way. Always secure your tarp completely, even if it doesn’t seem like the rain will last long. No shit.
Why must I do this to myself? Strange dreams of souls and days long past haunt me. What am I doing here again? Can someone remind me? I’m lost within my own momentum.
Get out of Cali. Done.
Now what? I’m tired of bein’ a bum. I want to get back to work. Today we will walk back up that monster hill to Jane’s Farm. I need to keep the hands and body busy because this idle time is ruining my headspace. I can feel my demons tugging at puppet strings, trying to reconnect severed lines. I never would’ve expected that my past lives would haunt me in this way, but I guess that’s something I have to make peace with. All those glassine bags, poisoning friends and friends poisoning me. All that bad blood, all those broken holes in the wall. All those shovel-made scars on the front lawn found me carving epitaphs with a needle upon grey flesh. Regurgitate your soul, taste the bile of your past. Savor the moments of your most depraved act, and understand that the bottom always has a trap door for you.
Is this nomad’s life really for me? Not just when it’s convenient, but overall. Do I even have a choice? Do I want to keep walking the path of the spirit in this way? Perhaps not forever, but for now it’s all that I’ve got. I didn’t want to die withut any scars in me.
I will find my hands to some work. That is my purpose & fulfillment, for now. I must be in optimum condition in order to recieve the lessons this path holds. This existential dread & despair isn’t cutting it. I wonder what I’m willing to let life make out of me. For now, just restless and doubtful. I have no choice but to press onward on words in this junkie zen dialogue.
My mind is retreating towards familiarity and comfort. It’s not such a bad thing to want; to miss. I miss my family. I miss my friends. Could I truly commit to a life as an ex-pat? Do I owe this country a heartfelt attempt at putting my two cents into the melting change cup? I’m unsure of anything at this point, and it’s starting to wear at me. This is good. This is when the real work gets done.
It’s scary enough to watch ourselves become the very monster that haunted us in the first place, while we were young and serenading against slumber. That’s what kills me most. I became something else, watched myself become the villain… while I was with Alice. Lost love is tearing at the deepest mossy caverns of my mind; stopping the flow in it’s tracks. I’m just a scoundrel to a siren; looking for something or someone to blame. Maybe I did it. Maybe she did it. Maybe we did it. Some careless motherfucker put the knife in.
Jane’s was full to capacity. We met her daughter and everything went well; we got our names and number on their waiting list. Phone numbers and good impressions all around! We even got some free juicy tangelo. It’s a natural tangerine/orange hybrid. Pretty good.
We hitched a ride from Kilauea to Kapa’a. Rumor has it, there is a free community computer spot there. The county libraries charge $10 for a three month pass unless you have a local ID. Fascism.
“Treck” picked us up. He was a broad, white haired Jimmy Buffet fan. Probably about 65 years old. Retirement division. Kind of a know-it-all type, he was nice enough, though. He tried to drop us off at the local Hostel when we told him we had nowhere to stay. We told him we didn’t have any money. He told us he would take us to an ATM. We revert back our previous statement. He couldn’t seem to understand that we were out here without money.
Our reluctant ride brought us to the farmers market, which we were told would accept EBT (like on the Big Island!). The rumors were false. They didn’t. More fascism.
We strolled leisurely through town, our lives bearing down upon our backs with the sun and blue skies (for a change). The Computer Hospital has some “beater” desktops they let the public use. We were extremely gracious for their technological philanthropy during these times of economic duress.
I emailed around ten different WWOOF farm hosts on the island that met our “specifications”. I hit up a few couchsurfing hosts as well. Very succesful day!
As the daylight started to run out, we had to make a decision where we should spend the night. Kapa’a is about 11 miles from Kilauea. Too far and dangerous to ruck march at night. Hitch hiking was a decent option. We scored some leftover donut holes next to a trash can and considered our options over a handful of derelict melted chocolate-things. Cheap energy, sugar.
Right around this time I got a call from Legga, one of the WWOOF correspondents. She sounded old and foreign, but nice. Her farm happened to be right in Kapa’a. We agreed to meet at the community swimming pool at 8:30 the next morning.
Bugs and I poached the outskirts of the beach for the night. We got licked, slobbered, and almost swallowed by the 2:30am tide change. Then the rain came after we moved. I got pretty wet.
In the morning, Legga got us some local coffee while we filled out our applications. She seemed to take a liking to us, jokes and easy smiles abound. She brought us up to the farm to have a short meeting with her associate/cohabitant/business partner, Gertrude.
It’s a large two-story building with lots of little cabins and “pods” all around the property. Typical of Hawaii construction. This place is more like a village. Good vibes.
For twenty hours of labor (each) per week, Bugs & I get a shack full of gecko shit, unlimited rice & hot showers, laundry, a comfortable matress (and place to hang hammock) inside shelter and warmth. What a change in circumstance. Shack life.
The common area/kitchen/great room is beautiful, complete with high ceilings and skylights, along with a large dining table that could seat a kingdom. This whole place is like a giant aggregate wooden ship grounded upon a 100sq foot concrete slab.
Now we can regroup, plan, train, and learn! Gertrude plans to plant moringa trees, which I am very interested in learning about. We’ll see how it all goes.
Today I had the first hot shower in a while, and I AM FUCKING GRATEFUL!
Ramblings/structure in progress
The dancing light behind each shadow’s eye
reveals not only truth,
it unveils the secrets between lies.
The place I belong eludes me not
so long as my home remains humbly,
where I currently reside.
It’s almost as if residual ripples
tucked deep between pocketed layers of mental flesh
reveal unto themselves
the true nature of past & present
in a balanced tone
of perceptive subconcious realization.
The page is ripped away
and taped between tomorrow’s yesterday.
It was ultimately unacknowledged by the prefrontal cortex.
No, this belongs to something more savage than I or You,
falling under the guise pf power
which the world passed by.
They left each other in opposing lanes.
With three words and a soliloquy
about some brown-eyed beauty with nothing
but answers and soul. Reactionary & instinctive.
Her heart works at the fibers of being,
where scar tissue runs deeper.
A refusal to let go of pain;
memories of lost love are too distractingly mesmerizing.
Like a siren haunting a scoundrel sailor
the other one guides me along.
I practice imbalance in a balanced manner.
Survival for fun. They can use me as compost.
Sirens blaring by as the neighborhood dogs howl and wail for blocks. Quite a spectacle on an otherwise calm and cool Saturday night. The air is perfect, just magically adjusted to within the temperature of my nerve endings. Bio-therm optimal.
My heads congested so I’m up tight-er than usual. Bugs and I went out to downtown Kapa’a (the “historic village”). Good vibes… Bugs groundscored a soggy pouch of Top rollies. Somehow we pulled together enough change to buy two tall cans of that old 8% 211.
Who knows which critters live between the hairs on my head; they can’t be much worse than your local haoles reppin’ Kalapana (Big Island) way too hard. We met some kid that beat down his local friend for carving rock art into his girlfriends dashboard. He beat him because it was Valentine’s Day, and honor must be defended on VD at least.
Anywho, just one tall can to helo me forget some things I don’t want to remember… if only for a few hours. A wasteful indulgance, but a “moment’s rest is all you’ll get from what haunts you deep inside.” As I’ve heard.
I prefer to live within the orchestrated present, aggregate reality, symphony of the moment… eh… but the other ha;f I spend ambling around aimlessly in space. “Taking mystic swims in the same seas that the madman drowns in.” I ought to have gills like Kevin Costner in Waterworld by now. I admire beauty in unlikely places. Life captivates me. Although my professional accomplishments may be lacking in… abundance… my spiritual hurdles more than compensate. In the grand scheme of schemes…
Take me away,
remind me of a place that I’ve never been.
Creep between the tear ducts
like a silent pause before a first kiss.
I’m a fiend for the parted lips
of an unlikely goddess I haven’t known today.
Sing me an anthem to live by,
a few whispered words to take comfort in.
I’m talking towards you,
constantly unraveling mass of fabric and text-style textiles.
I’ve tasted the perfection of possibility.
Now I want to hurl myself headlong
through his barrier I’ve been blessed to percieve.
A rush of melatonin to resist.
The closed-eye mnemonics prelude a forfeiture of the day.
Tonight’s subconcious waters will carry me out
into the surf and back
onto the morning’s sandy-eyed shores.
This pillow, this book, these letters and words and ink and paper… are the truest comforts I have known in this world. When it all gets too heavy, I can just grab a comp. book and some pens, retreat to some cave and gently grind away the molars of my mind into comfortable dust. Beautiful unraveling dreadlocked beauties, spilling out of themselves with ferocity comparable to belches from Pele and her lava flows. Closer to the place where paper burns, I only hope I can keep my wits as sharp as my sword.
Here we are… comfortably biding our time, out of the rain. We’ve got some miscellaneous labor to do Sundays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. We work with Theo, the skinny local that ticks like a clock with Honolulu Ice residuals. He’s pretty easy-going, doesn’t bother anyone.
Now we just lay in wait for the universe to transpire for (or against) us. I’ve been eating a lot, purely out of abundance! It’s nice to eat some actual meals. These comforts may make us weaker in some sense, but as long as I practice discipline and maintain my work ethic, all should be well.
Above all else, this is a journey for a piece o’ that Mana. Personal power. Someday I’ll fall finally into the arms of time and gravity, but only as the universe wants. I shall not exceed my usefullness. Readapted, concrete maladjusted realigned yogi perfection… eh… tired.
I asked my body for a few favors, and I begged my mind for assistance with not forgetting important things. We’ll see who is running the show here. Mind or flesh. Flesh of the mind. All for one and one for all.
Send the body and the mind will follow. Send the feces and the garden will thrive! All this fried rice is really increasing the structural integrity of my morning bowel movements. What I wanna know is, what is my poop doin’ for the city? I put a lotta love into these in·fin·i·tes·i·mal intestinal vibrations.
A very informative old soul gypsy crossed my path today. She talked about all kinds of spaced-out jive with me. Apparently there are six handfuls of soil for every handful of food. She told me where to find this “special blue rock” that would nourish soil with magical efficiency. “Blue like your eyes” she said to me, “that will make the soil rich.” She told us about a Shaivite Temple nearby. They have a large piece of quartz, a “prophesized Hopi stone”. What the Shaivites are doing with it, I have no ideas. Incense and mirrors. She also told us how Kaua’i hasn’t seen war or bloodshed which I researched and confirmed. The other stuff will have to wait…
She told me all kinds of wonderful information about the health benefits of Noni (Hawaii’s Healing Fruit). (More info on this to come, I am making some batches of it’s fermented juice to guinea pig for a few weeks.) She told me Noni is space fruit. Aliens gave it to us. I said, “Yeah? That’s cool.” Gotta take the deep-space-gypsies with grains of salt, ‘cus like myself, they are taking mystic swims in the sea of madness. We all eventually get swept up in our own reality stew. But, when you can’t follow your own madness, follow the Dead! This lady probably needed some tour. She was kind.
It seems like I spend most of my ink trying to run it all down. Sharpening swords, depleting resources. A drink a day will keep the shrink away, so they say… but I believe that life will leave a man dull and empty long before last call. So instead, I’ll drain my pens and keep to myself on most days… spare the occasional rum and merry-making. As long as I depend on nothing; existing merely on what life offers me, I won’t get greedy about my chemical fixtures. I feel that I have a pretty good understanding of how my body processes mainstream chemicals.
I know what I want my head to be: clairvoyant! I want to experience and remember with maximum perception. Not out of a place of “control”. I want to lose myself in myself. Find me huffing ether vapors from my tattered mourning soul with a wide-eyed grin.
She sings with a voice that has seen it’s share of gospel, like fresh burns on my arm from kitchen grease. Pain stinging with resonance and reverb. Faint but subdued. What do you suppose the difference between altruism and philanthropy might be? One is a convenience, the other is a lifestyle choise. I’m never certain of much more than chili peppers, intoxication, death, taxes, love, perceptions of faith, concepts of Christ and the Holy Fire that rolls us up and smokes us all.
So I write with the fury of a dying candle… as if my muse were exploiting me… or perhaps it’s a sort of mutual exploitation.
The question remains: what truly divides and conquers us all?
As the paradoxical world turns, mutual exploitation gives way to mutual benefits. I snatch blank space from Bible paper to roll ashtray cigarettes and contemplate the massive skyline of hovering ghosts, shouting sweet nothingness up at the mountainous goliaths until precipitation brings along a curtain… call.
Who is to say what is right for a man, and to whom do I owe this basket of regrets? A surefire nature vs nurture developement blackens the potholders and my hands peel and my mind boils over; “pour another cup of tea you Mad Hatter” the Id sez to me, “it will all start over in the morning, and before long you’ll be mourning, you sad sappy shit. I love you.”
Prospecting for jobs in the works… we’ll see what turns up (and down). We finally get a sunny reprieve from the constant rain. That old magnificent ball of radiation, glowing and warming our fusion-powered bones. We’re getting on our food pantry hustle, rounding up loose ends from generous folks. The attitude of gratitude is overwhelming.
On another fine note, kava is available for EBT purchase at the natural food store. I can get my stumbly fuzzy zen shoes on for a change. This body weeps for excitement, a new adventure behind each fresh acquaintence. “Yearning for learning” and all that romantic shit.
My belly is full of kava, hot peppers, and canned ham nitrates/nirtites. I can’t quite think straight (or crooked). Corners are bent. We are almost out of hash & herb. I give it two more days. C’est la vie; the universe will provide. Tune in / tune out… static.
I guess I’d rather live in a gecko shit palace than any other kind of shit palace. It’s a nice one bedroom / one hammock, two window shack. Sliding glass door; the works. We have a cactus on our from “patio”. Haven’t named him yet.
We are stocked up on food, multiple food bank runs with Theo. We all find ourselves precariously placed upon pedestles of our own design, only to withdraw at the first signs of structural failure. Me, I prefer to revel in my own destructed self, when it is upon me, I soak the sun-bleached sin between my scoundrel eyelids.
Williams (the journalist, ex-pastor initiate, poli-sci major with political / social infrastructure knowledge) has given me some valuable food for the pantries of my mind. He intends on writing a book here. I encourage and praise his plight for it is mine as well… just to start and complete something in this realm would put my soul at ease. The leaps of faith that make, break, reshape, and recreate that which makes up a man.
So go ahead and break me, old world, reshape me in your image for I am a product of my environment, and nothing would suit me more than to tell it like I feel it. In your honor. With your heritage.
Cruising at maximum velocity, crooked handlebars, one functioning brake (the front one)… rusted but serviant. Angry glares from cars returned by savage stares, my hair is jumping into the wind, trying to escape. Into Kapa’a, where to first? Lazy bike path cruising/crossing, I swipe through traffic like a stolen credit card, nowhere to be but right here, now. The Burger King has free rolls of toilet paper, I take a fat handful of shit tickets and respool it onto an empty tube of sunblock. I realize halfway through that I can just take the full roll out. Much easier.
I buy some misc. groceries next door. I grab 1/3 of a pound of irradiated tuna poke, happily gobbling it down… feeling tired and depleted afterwards… my body is craving sugar. I’ve been feasting on junkfood for no reason. The food bank doesn’t exactly feed you a healthy diet, they just sort of feed you.
Harsh vibes and hard looks today; some days you’re shakin’ the tree, other days you’re just ripe. I’m finding great satisfaction in riding this rusty suicide bicycle around town with headphones on. Cruise me around with a soundtrack all my own; uplifting & reassuring. I find comforts among spigots and spokes, newspaper-on-the-front-lawn neighborhoods, green grasses, oceanic skylings kissed by pious monoliths off in the mysterious foggy shadows.
Bugs went to the quarry to retrieve the surf board and catch some waves. I just had a run-in with some rag-tag, landlocked pirates. Dirty old men at their finest, somewhere between the perverse rooster jokes and the many euphemisms for vagina (including some old favorites such as sausage wallet and cum locker) I found myself wondering, “Where do the old men with the dirtiest jokes end up?”
We have Yamhish, a jolly red-eyed Irish pisshead from Zimbabwe. He gave me his sailors recipe for coconut rainwater rice raisin wine. His eyes were bleeding and his ankles swollen to grotesque proportions. You could see his alcohol-diluted blue blood pumping through his thick diabetic veins straight on into his green heart. Probably too much sailor wine. Definitely a terminal case. His smile reminded me of finding a 3/4 full cigarette in an ashtray.
There’s Harbor Moe, or was it Lost Harbor Moe? I don’t remember. From somewhere between Kentucky and Tennessee, calls himself a “ridgerunner”. He’s from a lineage of mooonshiners and mechanics. We had much to talk about. Don’t ever use non-organic raisins in the production of your homemade jailhouse hooch. Chem-agriculture raisins contain titanium dioxide. He claims to know how to fix anything, and for some reason I believed him. He was just an old fashioned good ol’ boy. He showed me pictures of his orchids and told me about gourmet meals he cooks at the beach park every morning around 9.
And lastly, Ike, a raspy-voiced smooth-talkin’ saggitarius (self-proclaimed). Very welcoming, in a dickhead kind of way. “You got any bud? Next time bring weed and beer.”
Some kid named Andy rolled through the park on his bike, he had just been bailed outta the county lockup. I congratulated him on posting bail, and he kicked me an old metal pin with two symmetrical greek faces which was weird ‘cus I’m a Gemini. The twins. Strange synchronicities for the meaning makers here on island.
I was inducted into the “Fam Damily” of Kapa’a… apparently they liked my bad jokes.
I give thanks for my family and friends, for they are often the cure for that which ails me. I only hope that I can provide similar relief for them when the time is right. Inject the infrastructure with positivity and light, however possible. I had to learn about death in order to understand and sustain life. A beautiful paradox… crystallize my mind, oh universe, shatter my mold, help me nurture and grow. Humbly and faithfully may I accept the weather as only you can deliver. A saint of circumstance. Find me somewhere, out in the rain, lost & found all at once. You never know…
Does the river flow? I suppose it just grows and receeds. Swollen with spring rain, depleted during summer drought. Wonderful, all on it’s own.
Spread me thin, on wheat or rye. Fill bread craters with oily bits of my psyche; my testosterone, my flatulence, my hunger, my unquenchable thirst. Negative space between two friends at lunch, going positively unnoticed. A sandwich is always a sandwich. Neutral and unobligated. Lay me out like sun dried tomatoes, bacon, lettuce, mayo; my brain is toasted. What’s the use? We can strive to eat ourselves, lest be eaten by something bigger and hungrier.
I’m not sure which is worse, so in the meantime just make me into the best sandwich that I can be…
The hungry universe waits, never a day too long. We all become food at the end of the 12th hour. High noon. Food for dreams. Food for love. Food for life. Food for compost. Food for death.
the well dried up?
if the ink wouldn’t run?
the beer wouldn’t pour?
and the women wouldn’t smile?
Laugh beneath the cold exterior.
Beyond every poker face lies mad laughter.
But who cares?
Count your ism’s and your on’t’s
D before E followed by ATH
Except before life.
Shoveling crystallized ginger into my senses, I’ve been having a mad tea party the whole time I’ve been here. All that damp rain weather really made me crave steam in my belly. It just doesn’t stop pouring, the rain or the tea. I have green: the palatte cleanser, oolong: the full bodied flavor, yerba mate: the “go” juice, english breakfast: pinkies out, raz-matazz clestial seasonings: why am I drinking seasonings? MMM… tea.
So here I lay, patiently, while the melatonin combo dissolves and racks my brain with dreams of: self-conception,
and everything in the lateral-veined fringes of a mind gone wrong;
bent out of shape by re-constituted political psychology;
developed dichotomy diuretics;
internal interpersonal inspired incarnations;
enterprising ethereal ethics & embalmed evolution of the eternal ether.
Stray punches to the gut of my psyche.
Keep ’em coming, boss.
Just REMEMBER TO BE PATIENT.
A moment at a time. Change has been a-comin’ and it always was… always will be. So don’t squander the soul, you bastard demon of a trap-door, basket-case brain. I submit to your almighty power only when the soul commands me to.
Gratefully deadicated to the one and only; music creates the flame for my literary still. My mash is past pain. My residual-residing home-in-head (AKA chem-fried noodles) is my serpentine coil. My notepad is my cooling flask. My ink is my water. The taste and smell of it all is just raw ethanol… the finished product. That fleeting burn of life hits like skidmarks on a runaway tongue. Coming in for a hot landing, or was it takeoff? Runaway runway.
Never arrive, always stay in transit if I want to keep expanding like the universe does… infinite potential and reckless abandonment. This is the way for me. Just play me a hauntingly orchestral Brokedown Palace so I can shed a tear for all you whom I miss so… in hopes that my life is worthy of your death.
First Day of Surfing
Didn’t catch any sets and got beat into the sand. It was fun. It’s mating season for whales right now, lucky fucks all around. I saw something ominous and grey protrude from the far off drag of the ocean tides, spewing ribbons of mist and water from a blowhole… Moby Dick!
I’ll get mine someday.
Even if I’m fat, old, wrinkly, and washed up, at least I have you, ink & paper. You give me direction and reasons to carry on during the bleakest solstices and dimmest minutes… darkening hours.
As it were… where and why does it all go? Why can it never stop? Gamble your faith on wagered flesh.
Girls girls girls. Oh little birdy, what do I owe you? I guess a letter will do; an experiment with the odds against itself. The future pushes on through. Did I get bitten? Am I a lovesick demon just looking for a new fix? Avian flu? This cat learned some new magic tricks. Watch me disappear.
I understand the potential significance of your presence, but I just doubt it as a whole.. Your “authenticity” relies upon faux-intellect bravado which occasionally gives way to deeper themes of meaning & understanding. But do you really understand? You say you do. Who am I to ask & judge? I suppose I’m just curious about what you’ve been dealt: pocket aces, or slop? Are you bluffing, birdy? No shame if you are, just don’t give me too many hints or we’ll have ourselves a game… ugh. Forced hands. Cards on the table.
15 14 oz of organic raisins
3 lbs of organic cane sugar
1/2 oz of nutritional yeast
3 gallons of water
3 pots of rice
3 young coconuts (milk/meat)
Let it ferment for about 11 days with a balloon with a tack hole over the opening (to let the pressure out slowly). When the balloon is deflated, your hooch is ready. He said it’d “sort me out”.
We’ll see how this turns out. I snagged a big old 5 gallon water jug carboy. It’s brewing under my bed. Drinking shed wine, Trailer Park Boys style. Gotta love it!
We got a bunch of work done on the farm today, started our hooch production, Theo got us baked, and we made a feast of a dinner, I learned how to make pancakes from scratch.
Fire of the universe,
Keep a smile upon my cheeks.
Sometimes you burn me
But you always make my teeth shine.
Can a lucky penny lose it’s luck?
How long would I walk to earn a buck?
I’d walk this whole highway just for an ounce of strong sativa… but this roach will have to do!
Bugs and I wanna see this Shaivite Temple we’ve been hearing about. We’ll go on Wednesday to get our spiritual contact fix perhaps. May the good lord shine a light…
Writing by candlelight is trippy, mane. An optical illusion on it’s own, the light swaying slowly to my regularly irregular breaths. Broken pieces of rhythm passed down from the book shelf… fire hazard.
Tomorrow I’ll write to the bird that got my tongue. Or was it cat?
I mustn’t forget to return some items to Bill Killspy… one water filtration pump, one drybag, one set of nylon straps.
We went to visit the Sleeping Giant today, based on a whim & a suggestion from Williams. It was certainly worthwhile. A day hike, 2 mile ascent of 1000 feet to the top of the highest accesible local ridge. From up there, one can peer off into the limitless blue void of infinitesmal curviture of this home-rock marble we call EARTH.
The flat coasts give way to veins and arteries of mountain ranges; steep veiny geriatric protrusions. The jungle whispers sweet-nothings in my ear at night while the high cool winds and mountain moonlit mango trees sing me their wise narratives. Loud as it ever was, that infernal machine gives itself away to a noise that we’ve always heard.
Bugs and I made friends with some fellow hikers, one of them had a VT > NY Lake Champlain Ferry t-shirt on. His name was Bruce. He blazed us down on some organic homegrown, and told me to apply at the Babylon Cafe. “Ask for Jarred if you want a job there.” It’s a huge cafe located downtown, a real tourist trap spot. Cash pay. Lots of cute waitresses. I was more than interested.
Bruce was a ref for women’s roller derby on Kauai. He got to watch 18-35 year old women take out their agressions on one-another. Fucking brilliant! This guy looked kind of like a wild-eyed stoner Bruce Willis. He may have come out of some military life, his mannerisms hinted at it and he was awfully young to be this “retired”. Strong handshake, but definitely burnt out. His jasper eyes had clearly seen their share of mushroom-induced spectacles. He was probably Navy. Those guys love their fungus.
I’ve lost an apetite for causeless destruction… every piece of litter and rubble has it’s origins. The beauty contained in fermentation & decay beholds me. The implications of life are exhillarating when viewed from narrow death-caverns. These heights could easily be swept away by an angry asterid, but I do my best to dodge space debris. Keep my feet down to the ground, my “other one” is with the stars.
My fucking heart is on a shock collar, don’t ask me why… just let me drink from my own jug and find my own angels. The blood of the son of fermented spirits, let us drink deeply from the womb of warmest nights under shaded moonlight; let us breathe and rejoice amongst female beauty highlighted by feminine Earth…
Peaceful… A haole Hindi is serenading the mosquitoes beneath some old soul of a banyan tree. Ancient wisdom, calmly collected from ancient times has got me wondering about my muses and the nature of karmic debt. As I’m walking a pilgrim’s path, I left a shell on the Ganesha alter. Every mission has it’s emblems, every pilgrim wears a patch, every pirate swears to their flag, and every body leaves their wings behind. Who knows what mutual offerings await beneath the jungle canopies of desire, temptation, misfortune, and humility.
Is it the spirit of knowledge of the knowledge of spirit in which I place my faith…?
Fires have been resurrected with less. I’m found writing this from behind the shadows of candlelight. Lonely and alone, we are together. I sleep less and dream more, standing myself up before commitment and confined spaces, all held between refined ideas. I have trust in the motion of the pen as it’s the tie that guides and binds me. Myself is myself. Juxtaposed against consensus reality, I shall psychobabble my way back to an embryonic state of mind. It all whispers to me… the music… the herbs… the wind… the dense jungle. It reminds me of faith in a higher HIGH. I find myself fumbling between words and distractions.
I long and yearn for a quiet day in my head. I often wish it would all just cease; I think I’ll phase my monologue out. I want to find the place where I have no words to say, out of quiet gracefully dignified contentment. But instead I feel like a sheared sheep at the food bank as a Phillipino woman wraps a pair od bue jeans around my neck to confirm that they will fit, remarking, “you a haole”. Where did my piss & vinegar run off to? Where is that Clint Eastwood laquer that I used to huff & puff? When did I begin caring so much, again? Please let me let it all go, and just live as I see fit (despite any and all consequences!). Foolish ego pursuits.
Theft… and Reconcilliation
What a seemingly mundane day transformed by thievery, deception, and misadventure. Bugs and I crossed paths with a local who asked if we had any bud. We didn’t. He was pure local extrovert. I told him to check back with us in a couple weeks, when we’d likely have some piff to pass. California lovin’ you, kehd.
This local boy followed us to the library. He saw where I left Theo’s bike that I borrowed. He eyeballed it for a minute. I thought nothing of it, this bike is small and rusty. The handlebars are bent. The brakes don’t work. The gear teeth look like they played hockey back before the NHL got soft. All of this was MINE for the day! This ozidizing bucket of malfunctions and serrated rust fucked me up on a regular basis. I got all my shots last time I went through a state sponsored spin-dry detox in VT (last spring).
The death machine roves on, like a rusted blue midget demon. I got my library card, finally! Spent an hour on the computer filling out medicaid forms and printing resumes. When I finished, I strolled outside to find that someone had taken the fucking bike. I cursed them; anal tetanus upon the grimey tweaker that stole my decrepit rental. Sitting alongside my vacant bike slot was Bugs rental 9also from Theo). Well-manicured & intact, it was a Shwinn. Neither of them had been locked, and the thief still went for the cheap Wal-Mart disposable.
As I fumed and steamed, I lurked around on Bugs’ female-tailored cruiser, searching for the perpetrator. I ran some errands with my eyes open; sent a letter, dropped a couple resumes, and made my way back to the library. I sat inside reading, when Bugs came up to me with wide eyes.
Apparently, homeboy was outside with the bike. Alas! No more pointless meaning-making and karmic shuffling, I had a chance at retribution and revenge; a real-life confrontation, oh boy! I stashed my silver chain & wrap along with any other shit I deemed valuable, and confronted the fool. Utility blade in my pocket, knowing damn well how scared I was to even pull a blade on a thief. Sometimes, I have a penchant for the dramatics.
I come outside, and it’s exactly who I expected. Mr. Extrovert local. I squared up with him, non-threatening (as possible), and told him firm and calm that I borrowed the bike from Theo, who works at the Gyro stand down the block. Theo is what you’d call an “Uncle”. Respect due.
This punk said his “auntie” told him he could have the bike. He didn’t stick to that story for long though. I could tell he wanted to extort me for the bike. Luckily my wallet was fuckin’ empty. It never got violent because it didn’t have to. The block is not hot. Broad daylight library scraps sound like a huge hassle. He backed down, respectfully and we exchanged names followed by a formal hand clasp. I repeated what I said during our last exchange, “Let’s burn in a couple weeks if you see us around… california lovin’…” and all that bullshit. Awkward and amusing just the same, I expected something worse. I’m grateful it stayed passive.
He even oiled the chains/brakes. Maybe he stole it for parts but realized how useful it
wasn’t. I couldn’t make heads or tails of it all; I’d never seen a thief back down so damn easily. It had me wondering…
If you like something, lock it up. If you set it free, then you’re free to go get it back when someone else steals it. Same old morality spectrum analysis. Thanks for the oil change and tune-up. Aloha…?
I love my dusty, sweaty, salt-residued, crusty pirates hat. Pittsburgh would not be ashamed. Bleached by hundreds of South pacific summer daze, this strange sentiment comes up from the depths of my intestines, those writhing, emotional, fickle snakes that comprise my gut. They long for nostalgia… the old and traveled sun bucket brain umbrella. Wise rusty hat. Enlightened trusty cap.
Is it possible to long for a period of no desire?
I want to not want.
I wish to never wish.
These ants keep trying to save their souls in my bowl of cereal, like some cult of milk-drowning Southern baptists. I drain the last of the bodies into my stomach, aka the “cereal bowl express” gas chamber, as it were. I think of perspective. Hope. Paradox. Illusion. We could all drown in our pursuits. Like ants. Or we could liberate and dissolve into ether. Like evaporating moisture. Air & rain. Or we could all just shut the fuck and get on with it. Choose-your-own-adventure life.
Here I am, the dirty kid in class. Find me lifting up collection baskets, levitating and spewing out volumes of two cent bits; copper, candy, and ribbons kick outta my teeth like a Pinata that just got nut-checked.
I can’t remember the last shower I’ve had, and there’s no real excuse for all that.
I keep on trekking onward, writing down today so I can forget yesterday when tomorrow comes…
& a smoky fog of odors.
I miss Mary Jane.
The crock pot is slow-cooking the midnight oil while I linger in the breakdown lane. I’m compiling a playlist that’s good enough to chase death with, that is: challenging the effervescent life force with survival & natural selection. I shall not outlive my use to the great spinning ferris wheel solar-spun system that’s cooked my noodle so well; the radiant skyline won’t need my help rising 7 falling, blue and orange beams cruise fast like a Kamikaze. As it should be… bald sun bandana. Rising sun.
We all seek to prevent our own destruction, but when the odds are even and the goods are bad, fuel reaching “E”, what else is there left to do but sail that sucker like a torpedo into the only thing worth believing in: a just cause & a worthy death. Security will be the ruin of a warrior seeking… well, seeking what again? Retribution. Revenge… no.
Avenge, correct, repair, reduce, reuse, recycle…?! Security is the ruin of a seeker in transit. Comfort provides the destruction of a warriors inevitability. Stability prevents the Kamikaze from completing his duty. So what then, is my duty? To go out with a bang? When the bullets and fuel are gone, do I seek my final confrontation? Will I have the courage & steadfastness, drive & will, to approach the final horizon as it swallows me? Will I even know or care? Will I give my life for a duty, only as it relates to the love I’ve surrendered to?
Will I nourish my body and guard my mind, abandoning everything for a purifying fire that consumes all but my eternal soul? Faith becomes secondary to absolution. I’m dying for a unifying theory. Who is writing these words? Where are you, in my heart of hearts? Battery-charged pen, linked directly to the soul, channel-hopping frequencies with higher & lower “planes”. I would be foolish to take full credit on such thoughts and prayers. The hope and ispiration that guides me belittles no more than the Ego. The rage that kindles my mind, generously blazing like a lonely Iccarus. Fleeting and brief vertigo takes hold before the inevitable descent, the hands or the air wind and tear feathers from wax while a fatherly light shines between the holes until everything is consumed by a cleansing, somber burn.
“Does our rule benefit the Earth? Does it help the grass grow? Does it help the sun shine?”
Does anyone else feel this coming? It’s like my bum knee during weatherization & pressure changes, I can sense something aching and churning, much bigger than thunder and lightning. It’s in a place that’s healing from injury. I’m still not quite sure what it is, but I say to the Almighty: use my hands as your hands, my words as your words, and use my aim as your aim. I am yours and you are mine, whoever you are, up there. WHo knows… who cares? Consider me enlisted. I’m here to fuck shit up. We, as a nation, definitely want more “God’s Army” lunatics running around with guns and bibles. So… who’s fuckin’ with me?
Ha…ha… “I don’t need no country. I don’t need no flag. I cut no slack, for the Union, Jack. These stars and stripes have got me jetlagged, yeah.” I hope they hear our last words well before the hail of lead and brass comes a pourin’ down on our gypsy pirate heads.
New Month… First Saturday
Spinning controversial prose, “what is it like after we die?” Contrive my words and jam them upon a moonshine Saturday, Kapa’a evening market. It’s the Saturday night art walk in town… we just happened to come down here to dig in ash trays for snipes, and “look at this fuckin’ party!”. Bugs and I boosted a bottle of booze from Hellway, ‘cus we’re bored pirates I guess. Cultural sophistication is not demanded here because the supply is way too substantial.
I’d describe these lavender clouds and quarter rainbows over the east-facing shore; sun setting on our backs… but it wouldn’t do a damn bit of justice to Mama Natures nurturing gaze. My muse isn’t here; she wants me to pay attention to my surroundings and write from a distance. You can’t really create your own inspiration, or at least I can’t. All I can do is live as hard as possible, eat sand and kale, drink rum and blood. Who really cares? I love it. Nothing to really tell about for this Saturday. People gathered, sold some shit, got drunk, went home.
Still got one more page to write as the loud Bugs howls through his nasal passages beside me. He’s passed out in his hammock, swaying in the cabin next to my makeshift bed. We had a proper night on the town, I’d say. Plenty of sniped cigs and idle conversation. I made some brief friends and fell in love with kind eyes & long legs. Somehow, we both got separated and wound up back at the bicycle stash location within the same 2 minute interval. Psychic rendezvous. I had taken my time walking down the beach, observing glowing bits of sea matter, spitting alcoholic fruit into the murky shwills of the big blue liquid moon-magnet puddle, making peace with lost souls… Otey, you dirty piss stain on my board shorts. I found a box of leftover fajitas at a bus stop beach and helped myself to a pre-hill meal. All-in-all satisfactory. Thanks, Kaua’i!
The wine is starting to bubble and fizz, creating interesting smells and signs… I wonder how it will taste. Probably not very good. But with a little purple food dye and some imagination, I’m sure we’ll have a strong drink that will leave the bowels tender and the eyes bloodshot. Plenty of sugar; plenty of hangover. Boredom is something we know little of, here in the Gecko Shit Palace.
Strange bizarro dreamscapes have overtaken me lately, I do not know what my anxiety holds, but I hastily tread between suspicion & fear… gravity and lust.
Today is a day like any other… I can’t seem to think correctly. Too tired, perhaps? The chaga is brewing, and right on schedule; I could use some outside immunity and strength.
I remember an evening of Amtrak and fireball with Alice. Perhaps it was even this very same day, a year back. That’s why it came to mind, maybe. I’m not sure… but I do miss those things that entrance and encapsulate me. Love or smack. I want one. I miss it all. Fucking bitches. Toss me aside like an old fucking newspaper. Blah. So we all retreat within familiarity. It hurts still. I bear the weight of it all. Dignified… maybe. Graceful… perhaps not. “Cunt is cunt.” as George Hayduke would say. Cody would agree wholeheartedly. And we all fade away eventually…
Today, Theo had us take an unrealistically specific inventory of the tool shed. Fuckin tweakers. When I asked how long the extension cords were, he replied, “measure them.” So we got the 100ft tape mesaurer spool out, and did the deed dying with laughter.
Ode to the 3/4 inch nostril hair…
You touch me in ways I never wanted
Poking my brain like a tiny molester.
I slapped you with a tweezer restraining order
I burned you alive
And yet you still return
When I never even wanted you.
Coexist with such a fiend
A constant distraction
I’ll settle for it
Quite a hike we made today. Saul, Williams, Bugs, and I (myself). Bamboo forests and rock-hopping like mad elves, onward towards some typical kaua;i waterfall scenery, beautiful as fuck of course. I could write so much more about all this; the smell: oh the sweet smell of cool river water, undisturbed and unrelentingly calm. I could tell of the plentiful kukui nut grove, the tropical raspberry bushes, supple & inviting… I could ramble about the adrenaline triggered by awe & nature-inspired ejaculate matter that coated my eyes and soul like a dirty, sexy, purifying money shot… nature boners all around. But that’s just weird.
Instead I’ll rattle off a list of my annoyances and problems, in no particular order.
I’m sick of picking up after Bugs in the kitchen. His absent minded ways make me wonder if he just doesn’t give a fuck or if I am just uptight. He is rational and reasonable when approached, but doesn’t carry it through in action. I just need to play my end and speak my mind
after I judge myself accordingly. I want no dominion or responsibility over another being. I don’t want any fucking dependents. I get resentful because I feel taken advantage of, slightly. He is polite and respectful, but not exactly carrying the “attitude of gratitude”. I know that if I withdraw somewhat, create separation and delineation between food and my EBT (we split everything under pretenses of “Socialism”), he will humbly oblige and live off the garbage the food pantry hands out.
Let me clarify: I am grateful for most (and ultimately ALL) of their food, but Spam and Ramen are not food. For me, anyway. I want Bugs to want independence, clarity of body and mind through healthy living. But in no way is that my choice to make. He’ll piggyback on whichever health decisions I make, and I like to share, but I’d like to see him take initiation and start investing in his own beam of light. I guess I’m being selfish because I don’t want my time being wasted and squandered. He can be a force to be reckoned with, and I suppose that’s why I have faith in the kid in the first place. We really don’t know each other all that well, we just kind of traveled out here as a mere convenience. But we’re thick as thieves, now. He’s my brother for sure. It’s easier with a team. His soul can be freed, but is he willing to put the work in?
I guess I just need to let him see the potential benefits, feel the light and flow, and let him do with it what he will, through his own eyes and experience. I need to stay on my boat, and respect my (little?) brother. I ain’t his mother or his maid, damnit. It’s my duty as, as family, to tolerate and accept; to listen & learn from, not judge and direct. I just don’t want to be uptight. I want to be free, and solo.
I miss the herb… Mary-Jane keeps me in check with myself. She’s away for now, so it’s just me and you, here to hash this out with honesty and intent. Which leads me to the next thing…
I need to get laid. I want to want someone and I want her to want me. I feel so far away from all of that… I feel riddled with insecure confusion as to which way I’m supposed to be leaning. Hermitage or hippie free-love…? My time will come, but the weight of inexperience bears down upon my Eros. Who’s keeping score? Another notch on the bedpost… I only do it out of deference. So stop already! You’ve loved in many lifetimes; let it ride. Stop keeping track. Look each soul in it’s eyes and size them up. If it’s there, she’ll hear it.
I wish I didn’t exercise so much and empathy and self-suppression in social settings. I can see myself through many eyes, and I can play the introvert to a fault, the same as the extrovert archetype within me. That’s just who I fucking am: a big old sensitive sour sop spigot of tears, piss, dirt, and blood… and all smiles. Gums & teeth like Gary Busey. Go ahead and give me another lash, please. I seem to enjoy the bittersweet sting of it all. Human condition. Gluttons for punishment. ANd then… and then… I just. let. go.
I’m not stuck on her so much as I am stuck on you, love. I see you behind every weeping goddess’ frantic smiling eyes; gateway to oblivion, those thirsty bloodshot whites of your lies. I won’t say it, but we both know the serrated wisdom I speak of: it’s a jailhouse file of a truth she whispered beneath the sheets.
And the it is again, like the shadow beyond a moon’s crescent; a worthy dance partner… a siren bleeding inspiration all over the widows wedding gown. I touch upon it but I dare not say it, for I fear and respect that which guides and moves my hands in these lonely, toiling hours. The meaning I derive is the meaning I keep while softly weeping and smiling.
You old stick in the mud.
There’s a girl waiting with a bottle of rye,
her eyes lost faith, hollowed and pale.
Perhaps she’s in New Orleans.
Perhaps she’s on the road.
Perhaps she’s at the end of the trail.
Perhaps she’s already in Hell,
losing her mind, crawling like a gecko
across psych ward walls, without a tail.
The world is a filthy place, but we’ve already found beauty and solace beyond that sinister threshold. What next? What goes beyond “the age of reason”? The golden age of piracy makes a comeback… watch and wait. In a world where no man is free, a pirate is King.
The old soul band of gypsies travels onward, united by convictions, blood, & little else. No country, no flag, no hierarchy, no currency but ALL CURRENCY. Freedom exercised until the swift axe of death & false justice severs the final gushing artery. Some people just want something to die for. Some cause in which to donate some blood. Perhaps freedom isn’t something you live… maybe it’s something you bleed. ‘Murica.
Memories that haunt and steal me away for part of a day… ghosts sneaking in on snow shoes. Beautiful & cold on the Northern fronts, ala mainland. I remember that nervous breakdown I had. Post-detox. I had been deemed “medically stable” by the Brattleboro Retreat “specialists”. This time around, they had specialized in getting me loaded on Librium. I was kicking a two month love affair with barbituates, benzos, and opiates. More specifically, phenobarbital, clonazepam, & diacetylmorphine. I breezed through the detox protocol, refusing Suboxone the whole way. There’s only a few way to kick opiates, and maintenance programming certainly is not one of them. I was on a Suboxone program for eight wasted months.
I remember getting out in a week, and feeling okay until the last of the Librium wore off. Then the tremors started. Electricity flowed through my brain and veins, agitating the senses, destroying any perceptions of what “normal homeostasis” even is. My gut was shaking me straight to my fingers. There is no way to describe chemical-deprivation induced-fear, in vitro with an already chemically unstable nervous system, other than “going off the rails with nothing but a canyon cliff dead end in sight”. I popped an immediate handful of hydroxozine (an anxiolytic sedating anti-histamine) in order to calm and subdue the awful thoughts & gut-decaying anxiety. Low & behold, I ran into the dope man while at the grocery store with my dad. I had $80 leftover from before detox (very rare). I purchased two blue pills & works, and banged them fast in the grocery store bathroom before rushing out to an NA meeting.
I knew it was over before it even got started. What I’m wondering is… what day was that on? Am I living in an echo? I am experiencing strange bouts of memory/sensory recall, through subconscious layers. Pain recall; soul wounds glowing. Where do you come from, wandering ants of my mind?
Does an ant know that it will survive a ridiculous leap of faith? An ant just dropped onto my page and made it’s mission to get down the spine and onto the ground. Perhaps in a desperate attempt at bringing some food back to the colony? Do ants really go out on adventures like Pixar would have us believe? I don’t know… who cares? Maybe he was trying to commit suicide. Or he was high.
Christmas comes monthly in the land of the bums.
“Who knows, what if there isn’t a vein of stars calling out my name?”
Universal expansion; The conscious mind grows, as does the sub-collective of egos and spirits dissolve.
Developing the internal and external universes is quite a concept.
Pushing through space to make it grow and decay.
Just as entire cities seem to do.
The overwhelming sense of well being I get from safety meetings, kava, and green tea…
Marijuana: the ultimate herb-potentiate.
Who cares about nihilism when you can live with magic instead? Dark & light, respectively, makes life much more interesting.
Bugs and I met a feisty lookin’ hipster transient pushing around his frame pack & supplies in a Cost-U-Less shopping cart. We found out he’s from Long Island, and traveled to Kaua’i from Oakland. He was returning from Kalaulau Valley to purchase supplies in Kapa’a. He was with a no-collar workingman’s hippie who runs a boat drop service onto Kalaulau beach. Good stuff to know! Apparently, there is a pizza iron or dutch oven set out there, among other wood-fired apparatus.
Bugs and I hope to stash a surfboard and some sort of wine carboy near the trailhead to hike out separately. It would be nice to continue our fermentation adventures and share with the community. Ye olde communal wine… communion wine?
Herbs, herbs, herbs… it’s crazy to think that with this body of knowledge, a couple hundred years ago I could have easily been a doctor. Perhaps not a good doctor, but a doctor none & less.
Maybe it’s because I have security and comfort and a belly full of homemade wine, but I feel generally well & good. A sigh of humility, as in humble disgrace. That girl doesn’t love me. Thank God. I find myself on search & rescue missions for love. It’s all fitting together, the universe. Like broken cogs on a watch, reshaped and refurbished. The everlasting gut-punch of a love gone awry never felt so soothing. Toodle-loo Miss Baby Blues. Maybe it’s just the false hope agony of poppy seed tea hangovers in the morning… perhaps it’s the blissed out blues that encapsulates me. Or maybe the washed out rinse cooker rolling-boil-late-afternoons did it to me. Why don’t I let myself see what I try to hide?
Hiding love is sort of like wearing long sleeves
in the summer
to cover your track marks.
Tucking past joy beneath
some dirty sleeves.
I was waiting there,
pale-faced with no pretense.
Less interjections and more directions!
Hallelujah, “we got some more injections!”,
full of indigestion.
No leaps means no bounds.
We got to jump or else never get found.
Every stray dog knows the stench of a pound.
Just as every dark night knows morning dew
When it comes around.
Brown water makes my world sound
Like cups of tea and full syringes.
So here we were, candles and ashtray cigarettes rolled in notebook paper, drinking our homemade hooch listening to old-timey music onn the little speaker. Some cute Asian mama threw me off my train of thinking-thoughts. Just now. That happened. Stop!
I’d write about the sweet serene moments of broke living… I’d tell about the winning & losing glories that comes from our lifestyle. But would you be there to listen? Hit the bottom with a smile so you can break your teeth, have nothing left, so that light will just shine right through you.
It just is.
Memories be sweet
And memories be still
Memories still bombard me from the bottom of boot hill.
Drunk as can be. Rule #3 is that Sri Racha sauce goes well with everything. I could use a bloody mary and it’s not even tomorrow yet. I could also use a bowl to smoke or a cunt to poke. But that’s not me talking deliberately, it’s me expelling liberally. Don’t take my word for it, go to a judge and “He” would tell you just the same: the masterpiece behind indulgence is the conception of a lie that was heaven-sent in order to test the man-made mind. (Societal cognition.) If you were to beg a fellow wanderer to tell of his most envious, he would not say a word because of “heresy and blasphemy”.
I can only do so much, writing from the hip like this. I’m bored. Time to go something different. Maybe I’ll go hit on the mothers of America and their bourgeoisie daughters. Humanity is just a collection of haphazard monkeys with dicks in our hands and rigs in our necks. The world is my dope and I’m just trying to use up the supply so we can both stop demanding so much of one another.
I feel like puking up this 1/4 cup of bile I have left in my wretched digestive bag. I’ve been hoping that I haven’t been absorbing too much pollution in my pursuits of cognitive abolition… but that comes with the turf. Bob’s Red Mill is a fairly consumer-conscious company. Latex particles in poppy seeds sound bad. But I undoubtedly drank some with my hangover-knock-out juice. Getting high on a rainy day; warm patchwork fade.
Sometimes, when my blood is chugging along through meandering intersections & ports that make up my cardiovascular atlas, I can feel; the scar tissue beneath my old train tracks & honey holes, just stretching and resisting, cutting off circulation ever so gently. What will become of this leftover destruction?
Surely, all the external features reflect the quality of negligent craftsmanship I’ve arrogantly wielded against myself. I imagine my corroded capillaries, lined with gold at one time, now mined away and left to collapse with the will of nature and force.
I’m tired. Can’t keep a clean thought on the record today. It happens now and again. I find myself craving a glimpse of numb darkness once again, so I might take in the next beams of light with greater zeal; refreshed at last. It’s all essential fallacy… these are the things that I tell myself and allow myself. This is the shit I talk, about myself. These old enemies and allies are powerful and unlikely teachers. As long as they are treated with respect, and the user guards his health & clarity to some degree… all will stay on the ground.
I have not the energy for the things I used to live with. It’s a topsy-turvy kind of life, when you give it all up for the stethoscope at the bottom of a mine shaft. Everything loses it’s intrinsic value, fleeting and transient like life itself. The objectification of talisman objects becomes comparatively obsolete when measured up against clean water, bread crumbs, and guiding light. These are things of true value.
So here we are. Between voids. The knife casts a neutral shadow upon bare Earth, just as the moons reflection bears ghastly light on the weeping palms. “It all makes sense”, I think. But I don’t know, so instead I think. I pity the man that bears no marks of his own existence, for he will forget that he is alive.