A Monday off

Let me tell you about my Monday off work. 

I got up at 5:30 and worked out for an hour. Seeing as how it was still too cold out to ride, I showered, checked Ebay, and set my alarm to get up an hour later.  First nap-9 AM.  At 9, it still looked cold out, and I still felt sleepy, so I fell asleep again.  At 10:30, I woke up and it looked nice out.  After a quick trip to the Harley shop to assess the weather and get a new tool bag, I came home, attached and filled the bag, dressed in my leathers and took off.  At 2:something I was parked on the Ohio River, eating lunch at Mumbles BBQ.  I wandered around Madison, IN for an hour or so, taking pictures of old buildings and neat gardens and backyards.  Daydreaming about what the ideal backyard would be like, I walked at no faster than an amicable amble and soaked up on of the oldest towns in Indiana. 

Then, I jumped back on the scoot, hauled ass back to Carmel, and was chilling out in the garage, having a beer and a smoke while I talked to my dad about hanging out this weekend. Then my friend from elementary school through high school called, so I drove over to a local bar to watch the first half of the Colts game and have a pretty good breaded tenderloin and a 6 dollar pitcher of Bud.

On the way home, I thought to myself, "This is exactly the kind of day I left Iraq to enjoy."

What a great day off!

The Road

Pulling out of the gas station with a fresh cup of coffee, in the rain.  A familiar song comes on the shitty old AM/FM cassette radio with the missing tuner knob, and I'm overcome with a disassociated sense of loneliness.  I have a bit of a drive ahead of me, and the combined sensory inputs, triggered by the song, take me back to the many hours I've spent driving somewhere else, with nothing but music and memories to keep me company.

The drive home.  No longer raining, pretty tired.  I've learned the destination is the journey.  The reason for the journey is rarely as important as the journey itself.  I once drove 26 miles to the New Mexico border just because it was 26 miles away.  I have since lived even closer to state borders and not felt the urge to drive to them for no other reason than to go there, but that day it was important.  Once I got there, it was completely NOT exciting.  However, the cop that didn't turn around when I was going 100 on the Harley made the trip not only worthwhile, but memorable.  Tonight, I'm at home on the road.  I'm comfortable.  I try to remember every aspect of the cockpit of my previous roadeating machine, the blue bomber.  The glow of the dash lights.  The position of my arm on the console as I rest my hand on the shift lever.  The contour of the steering wheel.  The position I rested my foot in as I drove.  My current truck is completely different, but achieves the same goal.  I'm driving down the road, at night, listening to music, following the headlights.  I pretend I'm in western Texas and try to imagine the road is heading west instead of south.  Then I picture I40 through northern New Mexico.  I remember the late-night burn from Virginia Beach to Atlanta.  I think about all the states I've driven through at night-just me, the dotted line, and the dashboard lights.  West Virginia.  Pennsylvania.  Wyoming.  Iowa.  Colorado.  Alabama.  The list is long, as is the road.  As are the memories.  The time spent at my destination was not memorable.  The unshakable feeling of sadness at the beginning, coupled with the contentment on the way home, remind me that the road is always my friend.  Travelling; no, transitioning-especially at night, alone, will always be a place I like to be.  Home is a concept, and one of my homes is on the road.

Juxtaposition

Today's balance reminds me of another day, years ago-it was my last day spent with Jonathan Snyder.  The morning was connected to nature-a polite canoe paddle down the Eel River with Jonathan and his dad, spending time together, quietly, enjoying and interacting with nature.  In the afternoon, we went and saw the blockbuster movie Twister. The rest I'd rather not discuss.

This morning, I woke up, eased into awakeness, cut my hair, got my workout on, showered, dressed and, armed with a fresh cup of coffee, wandered down the street to peruse the art festival in downtown Carmel.  I spent the morning drinking coffee and chatting with artists specializing in various forms of expression.  This afternoon I plan to head over to Castleton Mall, an jarringly different sort of shopping experience, wander around, and then take in the new blockbuster movie Killer Elite.  I just hope this evening is entirely different that the one following the similar day.

I really need to spend some time combining these thoughts!

My hobbies include Not Planning Ahead, Riding Motorcycles, Flexing In The Mirror, and Daydreaming. I like long walks to the gas station when I run out of gas, drinking coffee in the morning, and discovering good music. My favorite season is Riding Season. I like art festivals, but only if I can walk through them fairly quickly. I understand art is an expression, but so is life itself. In my next life, I will either be a rock star or a farmer.

Hopefully later today I will make time to go through all these posts and find a common thread with which to bind them together. Common experiences is a good one. I have always enjoyed stream of consciousness writing-although hard to follow, its fun to discover the thought path of the author. I feel its the most natural way to write-just let the words and thoughts spill out, record them, and then if need be rearrange them into a more coherent thought. Perhaps the words aren't even the story-maybe they are the drawings on the caveman's wall, a rough sketch leading to the discovery of the real story-the caveman records the hunt of a mammoth, but why? How big was the mammoth, what was the temperature? (do cavemen have temperature, since the concept didn't have a name then? Or DID it have a name, it just wasn't recorded?) Why did he or she decided to record that hunt? Was it epic? How does one record, with charcoal and crushed rock (or whatever) the feel of the wet grass he crawled through to attack the mammoth, the smell of the dirty creature's hair, the sound of it chewing its grub? Or was he just high off some mushrooms he found growing in some mammoth poo?

new tattoo idea

"Don't question why she needs to be so free..."

A crescent moon, throwing moonbeams, above a dancing girl framed by palm trees, possibly with a motorbike leaning against one of the trees.

All black, as usual, and filled in using dots, instead of traditional solid black. I mean, parts of it will be solid black, but instead of fading from black to gray, I'm thinking fading from black to closely-spaced black dots, then gradually farther-apart dots.

I'm thinking this is a half-sleeve, wrapping completely around my right bicep, with the moon centered on my shoulder, and the moonbeams radiating over my shoulder onto my back and collarbone.

I'm not really sure it needs to have the Rolling Stones quote on it, but the Stones are one of my alltime favorite bands, and that's the feel of the tattoo...plus some other concepts. I like to have several meanings behind every bit of artwork I get on me.

Now, if any of you would like to finance this artwork, please don't hesitate to step forward and make yourself known!

UPDATE:  its 9/28, and tomorrow at noon I report to the tattoo shop to review the drawing and if its good to go, take a seat in the chair!

A tidbit to work on later...

And then a great cloud arose in the east like a wave, and upon it rode a mighty horseman, the sound of hoofbeats scaring the rabbits from their holes. Behind him rode six warriors, armed with axes and spears...it was the weekend, there to obliterate the workweek. Although still far in the distance, the pressure of its imminence could be felt all the way to Tuesday....

There was only one problem-- I'd never been in love!
[Typewriter dings.]
Luckily, right at that moment, an unconscious Argentinean fell through my roof.
[Argentinean falls through CHRISTIAN's roof. Man shouts.]
He was quickly joined by dwarf dressed as a nun.

(From Moulin Rouge) What a great visual!

"this conversation is missing your voice." -From the Vimeo website.


I've been having fun assigning/creating/modifying visual approaches to everyday concepts that didn't have visual accompaniment in my head previously. For instance-breakfast is a benevolent shock of wheat waiting in the corner of the kitchen to make sure I'm nourished and ready to kick ass today!  And there's a nap waiting to wrap  me in a blanket on the couch and softly sing me to sleep.

Do any of you do this?  Do you have concepts maybe not shared by other people about the visual or audible aspects of life?  I know Jimi Hendrix, and others, associated sounds and colors and shapes-blue is a circle, yellow is a triangle, a C flat looks like light brown, etc etc.     Can you paint with sound? 

I'm listening to Lotus right now, mostly because I'm impressed by two facts: 1, they're still a band, and 2, they have come a loooong way since their first cd!  Or maybe I have come a long way since then.  That was six years ago, so I'm sure my taste and appreciation has molded and vibrated into something different than when I lived in that house at 1835 South Quay St. I think that's the address...should have gotten a tattoo like Guy Pierce's character in Memento!

Should have gotten a tattoo last night so I'd remember exactly why my head hurts so badly.  I woke up with a dim memory of going to Alley Cats for a pack of smokes, and half a recipe for homemade fried ice cream lodged in my skull. 

(no name)

The Fear starts in the pit of my belly, as a little acorn-sized ball of hotness. Growing rapidly, expanding mostly upward, it gets much hotter very quickly. If not quenched, it will lead to the iron-y taste of acid burning your throat, or possibly vomiting. The key is to punch The Fear in its angry, self-centered face as hard as you can, smashing it into nothing so that it can never regroup and return to distract you again. Shove The Fear away, without a second though, banish it from you being.

AT THE SAME TIME!!: Watching the gaps in the cars ahead, I reach down with my left hand, push in the clutch with my left foot, slam the shifter into second, monitor my buddy's location on his bike, check for potholes and trash, re-evaluate the gap, and shoot between the cars with inches to spare on both sides. Realizing my buddy is now out of my impact bubble, I shift into third as quickly as possible, trying to keep my ass planted on the seat, my hands on the bars, and my front tire out of some idiot's bumper, and weave swiftly through the rest of traffic. This is WAR, and I am the Fucking Man With The Axe out front, waylaying all the little morons with sweeping arcs of death and bloodsplatter.

Don't forget to watch for cops.

All this happens in 5 seconds. One stop light, five cars, three gears, 80 mph, 11 pm.

Then, at the next light, I punch The Fear in the face again, but its smaller this time, and not so angry-looking.

Duality of Man

Sky-Air-Fire-Water-Earth.

Form-Sensation-Perception-Mental Formation-Consciousness.

Craving-Aversion-Ignorance.

Seeing things without any true or false impression about it-seeing it for what it is, with no definition.

"Knowing arose."

Luminosity.

Suffering's origin is craving for sensual pleasures, existence and extermination.
Suffering's end comes from the relinquishment of and freedom from this craving.

None of these concepts is mine. I'm trying to learn from what enlightened men shared with us long ago.

Walking through life with a bubble around you.  A light blue bubble, that doesn't shimmer, but it does wiggle and flow.  It reaches out to envelop other things, other people; plants, dogs and cats...its your "oohla."  Its not a word, "oohla," its a feeling, almost an emotion.  Its the knowledge, love and understanding you carry with you.  Bits of it can detach and stay behind as you travel through life; you always have more.  After a walk, you can look behind you and see oohla hanging around a leaf you watched float to the ground, or a squirrel running up a tree with a drop of oohla on his head, right between his ears.  

Not even this concept is mine.  All concepts belong to all people.  It came to me, today, just now, but it has been here forever, just like you and I and everything else.  You cannot create matter, you only modify or rearrange what already exists.  Thoughts are the same-they float around, idly, calmly looking for a brain to trickle into, and when they find one, they hang out in there for awhile, and then they leave, one way or another.  If enough people hook up on the same idea at the same time, great things can happen. 

Morning and evening

Morning.

My favorite roadtrip vacation is my favorite for two reasons. One, it was epic. Two, it was for the right reason.

I was working in Colorado. I loaded my brand new Harley in my brand new Toyota X-Runner and headed to Alabama, visiting friends on the way. From my friend Pat's house in Alabama, I drove up to Virginia Beach to visit more friends.

The last morning in Virginia, I got up at 9ish, took a nap by Morghan's pool in the afternoon, and was getting into bed around nine or thereabout when the phone rang. After the phone call, I packed the truck and drove through the night to Atlanta. I got there at 7 AM, if I remember right. I got to hang out with the girl I'd driven all that just to be on the East Coast at the same time she was for three hours, then she had to fly back to Moscow. I drove out of the city until I hit a traffic jam, at which point I got a hotel room and slept for a day. I skipped a lot of the story, and glossed over some really good time reconnecting with friends I hadn't seen in a long time. I just love that story. I wish I could have seen her when she was in Philadelphia, or San Antonio, but life throws curveballs. I have grown past thinking the future will hold what I used to think I wanted when it comes to her and I, but I still cherish our friendship and love talking to her. it begs the question, is love longed for but never had somehow better in imagination? What if it would have worked, some crazy way, but not forever? Say, I would have been too immature? Or we didn't mesh on a day-to-day basis? Having a long distance, very real, very honest relationship based on a very real connection long ago is very, very sweet, and at times equally painful. Some nights its the feather pillow I lay my head against, and others its the rocks in my bed. I wouldn't trade it for anything. Its more real than most of life, it makes me feel, it helped me learn a lot about myself, friendships, loss, gain, the irony of life, on and on.

Fast forward to tonight. I didn't act on this idea for a week and a half, to see if the desire persisted or subsided. It stuck around. Here's the scenario: I had to get new glasses last week after mine flew off my face while I rode the bike home on the 6-lane bypass around the city. There was a young, witty, very attractive girl about my age working at the glasses place, and we shared a few laughs and intelligent banter (more than normal chitchat crap.) So, today....

(man enters LensCrafters, walks swiftly and directly to front desk)
Jennifer: "Hi! What can we do for you?" (or something like this)
Luke: "Well my glasses are fine. Would you like to have dinner with me?"
Jennifer: (Immediately, with no expression change [still smiling, that is]) "I would, but I have a boyfriend."
Luke: (somewhat under his breath) "Lucky bastard!"
Jennifer: (laughs)
Luke: "Can I say that?"
Jennifer: "Well, you just did!" (still smiling)
Luke: "Yea, I just did, huh? Ok, see ya later."
Jennifer: "Come back anytime!"

You miss 100% of the shots you don't take. Even the shots you DO take aren't misses-they're practice.

The Toad and The Roach

Part 1 (not that its the chronological first part, it just showed up first)

"And then I looked to my left and saw a squirrel with rabbit ears. He looked at me, cocked his head to the side and said, 'Pardon me, kind boy, but would you happen to have the time?' But when I told him, 'I have all the time in the world!,' he laid his ears back in a very unkind fashion, swished his tail, and scurried off in the opposite direction of the moon."

Part Two

It was raining. I sat under a pine tree. The sky was mostly gray, with bits of dark blue here and there. The thunder had passed over and was off to the east. A few drops made it through my roof. There was no breeze.

I thought of nothing. I sat. There was no reason to think. I wasn't waiting either. I sat. I smelled the rain, the tree, the wet dirt. I became a rock.

The rain passed. Sunlight began to warm the boughs of my house. As it warmed up, the smells changed. Birds began to chirp.

(insert Part One)

Part Three

Walking home, watching the dust cloud up and fall down around my feet, I reflected on my day. Calm. Connected. Quiet. The flowers in front of the cabin greeted me with smiles, their faces washed clean by the rain. I picked some mint to hang in the open window. The door opened silently, the room offering a cavelike solidarity. I began to make dinner.

lyrics

I knew I'd reached yet another turning point in life when I caught myself, out of the blue, humming Bruce Springsteen:

"Well there's a girl that lives up the block
back in school she could turn all the boy's heads
Sometimes on a Friday I'll stop by
and have a few drinks after she put her kids to bed"

And then I heard some Tom Petty and connected with:

"You know , sometimes, I dont know why,
But this old town just seems so hopeless
I aint really sure, but it seems I remember the good times
Were just a little bit more in focus"

I feel on the cusp of something new, which is always a good feeling to have.

Drifting

Drifting off to sleep on a Friday afternoon....all the ambition I had to mow the lawn, grill chicken, cut my hair...its passed on. Leached out of my back and into the cushions of the couch, from where it flowed down through the floor, oozed through the foundation, and contributed to the patch of dead grass in the front yard. Its my Sunday night-tomorrow begins a whirlwind weekend of two 12-hour days of work, followed by starting a new job 7 AM Monday.

I bought The Rum Diary this afternoon, by Hunter S Thompson. I rode my deathtrap Harley home from the fashionable nationwide-chain bookstore with this anthemous salute to those who thumb their nose at regular people stuffed between my sweaty back and my Levi's. Falling asleep with it carefully pitching a tent of sweaty discontent on my chest certainly aided and abetted the fleeing of responsible thought from my body. And so here I sit, debating the various ways the evening could progress. I imagine, if I can muster the might to overcome the mental anguish certain to ensue afterward, I will commence with laborious adult duties at some point in the nearish future. However, I happen to know for certain there's a documentary on Lead Belly hidden inside Netflix, cold beer in the fridge, and both the marinating chicken and the growing grass will certainly still be waiting when I get to them.

The moral of the story? There's no moral! There's no story, when you investigate the skeleton of the thing. Its a jumble of words, organized to look like something at quick glance, but with adjusted lenses and red marking pen in hand, it crumbles like Jimi's castle made of sand. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. The invention of comfortable furniture was a turning point in the collective productivity of America. That, and junk food. Or television. One's the chicken, one's the egg.

Mr. America. Or, All-American.

One of those will be the title of my autobiography. I decided that today at work. I didn't really decide, actually. It came to me in a flash of inspiration, out of nowhere. I never see them coming, and they pass quickly, but these brief moments of mindgear meshing can be quite interesting. Often they lead to my feeling foolish about not realizing the obvious sooner (many friends can attest to that.) At any rate, that's the news from Lake Webegone.

Objects in mirror may appear less cool than remembered

I just deleted a four-paragraph blog because I decided I didn't want to share it with you. What it said, in a nutshell, was this: sometimes shit happens in a jacked-up order. Sometimes you realize something too late in the game, sometimes you get thrown a curve ball, and sometimes wild shit just pops up out of nowhere. And sometimes you regret not what you did, but what you DIDN'T do. Or say. Express. To someone. And sometimes, people put up a great advertisement, but the product is shit. Other times, you wander into a situation expecting nothing and find something really cool. That's what I was trying to share. The names have been deleted to protect the innocent.

Here? Really?

I like lists. I feel they're a good place to start when considering writing your own history. Here's a list:

Dog farm
Sheep Farm
Dairy Farm

Race car team
Automotive Restoration shop
Home remodeling
groundskeeper
newspaper editor
writing tutor
Carpenter

log home builder
oil field worker
natural gas distribution system manager
warehouse crane builder
Administrative Specialist
generator mechanic

That's where I come from! Here's another list:

Indiana
Virginia
Pennsylvania
Mississippi
Kansas
Arizona
Colorado

That's states I've had an address in. Some of them several addresses.

States I have NOT been to:

Oregon
Everything in New England except Massachusetts. I think I was in Connecticut once on a roadtrip.

Motorcycles:

1982 Honda CM400E
Yamaha XS650 (x2)
1971 Kawasaki F7 (never ran)
1980-something Kawasaki KZ440 (never ran)
Some Yamaha dirtbike
1982 Yamaha Seca
1997 Suzuki TL1000S
1978 Suzuki GT550K-Indy (never ran)
2006 Harley Davidson XL1200C

I think that's a complete list.

Trucks:

1977 Ford F100
1982 Ford F250
1986 Ford Bronco
1985 Ford F150
1989 Ford F150
1977 Ford F250 Highboy
1995 Ford Ranger
1984 Ford F150
2006 Toyota Tacoma X-Runner
1962 Ford F150

Cars:

1989 Volkswagen Fox
1987 Toyota MR2
1970-something Toyota Corolla

I don't remember any more cars.

TV's I paid for, in my life: 1. I paid for it because it was my friend's and I threw it out my front door one night. Things happen.

See how many stories there are right there? A few quick lists, and I could tell you stories for hours.

FOUR YEARS LATER!

Hi kids! Well, that was a bit of a break! My last post came to you from good old Kirkuk, Iraq, home of a lot of things, but not ME anymore!

Recently over beers with a longtime friend that I hadn't seen since directly before my departure to the sandpit, I realized that what seems no big thing to me may be quite an adventure to others. You see, what you're experiencing has a tendency to appear normal when you're in the middle of it. However, although the eye of a tornado is calm, the view from a few miles away reveals quite a different story.

I left Indiana in 2001, and returned only once for a stay longer than a week. To those who graduated high school, moved out, got a job, and began working, what I did and learned seems like quite an adventure. What did I learn? I learned that every town is the same. I learned to not let fear be a negative reaction. I learned its not WHAT you know, but WHO you know-to a point. I learned a bachelor's degree is worth it, but not for the reasons you believe when you attend your first class. And a few other things.

So, there's a few stories. Sometimes I wonder if people believe me. It doesn't matter if they do or not. The stories are real, and the names are real-I've just forgotten most of them. It seems every experience I have reminds me of something else. I can't believe the stories I've forgotten that friends remind me of (that surely has something to do with a fond relationship with PBR and whiskey, but even saints are sinners).

For instance, today I drove past a sign for Haverstick Rd. Big deal right? Well, if you research the history of Arizona's wildfires, there's one named Haverstick. After T**** Haverstick. Terry's a good guy, I suppose, but the most prominent memories I have of him are negative. At any rate, it made me smile, because here I am in Indianapolis, Indiana, riding my motorcycle down the street, and the traffic surrounding me has no idea I'm remembering time spent in a little jerkwater eastern Arizona town that recently got evacuated because of wildfires.

You say "C.W. McCall," I think of that really long hill in Tennessee that he sings the song about, and how I drove down it in a torrential downpour with a window that wouldn't roll up.

You say "beach" and I remember getting caught in a rainstorm on a private beach with two dogs and a couple hippies. We warmed up in the hot tub-and then went to work. It was 10:30 AM.

You say "9/11" and I remember I only had one class on Tuesdays, and its one of the rare times O.C. ever talked to me of his on volition.

I never met anybody really famous, but I did meet a random lady in the Houston airport, noticed her carry-on bag, and asked her if she knew my uncle. She did.

So here's a shout out to my friends and family, the rock and foundation of life itself, from New Hampshire to Washington, from Michigan to Texas, and all points in between. I'll tell you some more stories soon.