The Beginning

I've heard it said there are only two important times in a man's life: when he leaves home, and when he returns.  I've also heard it said the most important possession, the very source of wealth, is friendship. 

The best part of my story is it started with no compunction of starting a story; no plan, no goal, not even a glimmer of knowledge there was a story about to start.  I merely left home, one foot in front of the other (probably the left foot) and off I walked, into the wild blue yonder, never to return for more than a day, for ten short years.  Ten years of the minutes taking hours to pass, the hours taking months, but the years taking mere seconds. 

Here we are, on the other end (hopefully!) at rest.  A rolling stone tends to continue rolling, until it collects so much moss it comes to a position of rest, propped up against weariness and a woman.  Sometimes when the wind blow the moss is ruffled.  Sometimes an animal adjusts its travel pattern to come and sniff the base of the stone, but the stone sits.  How it got here is no mystery if broken into little bits, but a complete mystery if one observes the larger canvas. 

At the end of all this wandering, covered inn moss, leaning up against the base of what I imagine is a white maple tree in the midst of a forest, partway up a hillside with a deer trail close by its side, is a very thoughtful, memoryful, contemplative stone.  Is its worldview different than the other stones around it?  Well perhaps.  The stones in the creek are smooth and clean on their topsides, and occasionally if they get rolled over, they get cleaned on their bottomside.  Some of the stones are underground.  No more need be said about them. So, there are a lot of stones, with a lot of worldviews.  Here is mine, and here is from whence it came.

You are probably apprised of the general timeline, the places I came to a position of rest, and the places I rolled right on by.  Some of them are forgotten, some remain but a dim memory, and some are exceedingly vivid.  The I-don't-want-to-talk-to-you version is as follows:

"Well, I went to one college, didn't like it, so I went to another one.  After I graduated, I went to Denver, worked several different jobs, ended up in the mountains, moved around some more, and then decided to move home."

The other version, the one I like a lot more, is this:  "Did I ever tell you about the time I got pulled out of the snow in the middle of nowhere by an oil field welder who then showed me back to civilization?" or "Did I ever tell you about the time in Apache Junction when I jumped a tweeker's concrete wall and got a cactus spine stuck under my fingernail?  No? What about the time I was on the rough side of Aurora, Colorado and was the only white guy at the quinciniera?"  Did I tell you about smoking cigarettes on the roof with two lesbians after a hard night of long island iced teas while two ferrets played grab-ass in the bedroom?  Did I tell you about telling the District Attorney I was majoring in women after his daughter brought me home for the weekend? HAAAAHAHAHAHAHA yea I bet I skipped that story!

Its all real.  It all happened.  I can't make it up.  Hours and hours of stories--it'd be even more if we got a couple guys around that could remember the parts I forgot.  I don't even know where to start.

We could start in the fall of the year.  I think it was 2007.  Early elk season was about to start in Colorado.  That typically wouldn't mean anything, since I don't hunt (but I do love elk meat). It DOES matter though, because where I was working, and at that point thereby living, was accessed by a private road through seven gates, each denoting the beginning or end of someone's property, and one of the someones made his money helping rich men who couldn't do it on their own kill elk.  So, I had to leave before it would spook the elk and disrupt the hunt.  I know right--not your typical rush hour on the 405.  So, I packed my gear and left about 2:30.  Sure wish I would have grabbed my Harley on the way out but you never know, that could have changed the course of history had I done so.  I was encouraged to leave for several reasons, let's just say for now it was good for a number of people, and we all thought it was a great idea; except for the guy I almost killed that morning, he was probably clueless. 

At any rate, a couple days later I was thousands of miles from any live elk, living in a FEMA trailer three blocks from a private beach on the Gulf of Mexico.  I was only there for about three weeks, living the high life with some hippies, until I drove 30 hours round trip to a memorable (in no good way) Thanksgiving getogether in Washington, D.C, after which I sallied-ho on toward Houston for two weeks before winging across the big ocean that swallowed a city to the desert oasis of Dubai-but only for a day or two.  Then it was Baghdad for a few days, Tikrit for two weeks, and then on up to Kirkuk, Iraq-home sweet home for 8 months.  Yea, that happened.  In fact, that's where this blog started!  Yup, Kirkuk.  At a computer in a metal box hidden behind 15-foot-tall concrete barriers, protected by two overworked air conditioners that ran 24/7 from March to October.  Of course, silly me, (this was before I learned about desert heat in Apache Junction) I arrived in the desert on New Years Eve, and froze my scrawny white ass off.  I had not heeded the kind words of the oil magnates in Houston who advised me to bring warm clothing. 

Well, after enough of the bullshit of living a life where every day is exactly the same for 8 months straight, I moved on back to the good ole USofA and went back to building luxury cabins for uber-rich folk.  Except, SURPRISE!  A couple of them got too greedy somewhere along the course of time, and the damn housing bubble floated alllll the way up to the crystal chandelier, pressed itself gently upon on of the green, eco-friendly, long-lasting, low-sodium, natural-light halogen lightbulbs and burst, sprinkling all those dancing and carousing under it with teeny tiny flakes of shimmering sadness, confusion and loss.  What that means is, I made a phone call, got a job, packed my truck AGAIN and headed off through the frozen Rockies AGAIN to a new job in a new town AGAIN.  This time on the other end so to speak of the oil business.  Where before I had been working as a contractor for the United States Government to protect our grandchildren's ability to get oil from the Iraqis (under the auspices of protecting the right to democracy for some shepherds from some mean asshole in the desert on the other side of the world) I now worked as the watchful eyes and ears of the man pulling the oil from Mother Earth right here in 'Merica.  The snake has its tail in its mouth.

To be continued.  I'm hungry.

Yellow

He stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame.

"Come here," he said quietly.  She got up, her eyes never leaving his, and walked over to him from behind the table, as if her feet were gliding, guided by angels. He reached out with one hand, his fingertip on the back of her earlobe, making her yellow earring catch the light and sparkle.  His fingertips brushed her neck and she shivered.

He smiled.

~~~~~

The sunlight crept up his body slowly.  The cool breeze off the ocean had stiffened his muscles overnight.  He awoke slowly, hitching himself over in the hammock so he could enjoy the view as he awoke.  The dream faded slowly from his mind, meshing with the view before him as he adapted to the world of the awake once again.

He could almost see her, walking slowly along the golden beach, the morning sun playing on her yellow hair, the breeze tugging her skirt like an eager laughing child.  The palm trees swayed gently as if her passing disturbed their slumber. The air smelled of salt, of the wet fishing nets, and if he breathed deeply enough, the smell of her hair wet from an early-morning swim.

~~~~~~~~~~~

He wasn't sure where the dream came from.  He was certain he'd had it before--it had that feeling of familiarity, like walking into a house you've been in years before; you feel as though you've been there before, but you're not sure where things are exactly.  You wander down the hallway confident the living room lies before you, but you know not whether its to the right or the left.  You find a set of stairs, and know that at the top, there is a hallway, with a bedroom to the right and the left, and another at the end, but you don't know how you know this.  That's what the dream felt like.  He knew the girl, she felt very familiar, but he never saw her face.  He knew the feeling of her eyes upon his, and sometimes the desire to feel her pressed against him woke him with a start.  Someday, someday.  She, this mystery woman; she was what kept him on the road all these years.  Ever searching, ever moving, ever curious to cross the next hill or round the next curve--maybe she was there, hitch-hiking for a gallon of gas or serving pie at a roadside restaurant.

He told himself he was a wanderer, that it was his nature, his duty.  The more the dream came to visit him however, he began to wonder.  Was there a certain amount of mileage to cover in order to finally see her face?  Did he have to walk into a set number of strange places before he got to see what she looked like, to feel her eyes upon him, to know it was her?

~~~~

Kicking his feet over the edge of the hammock, he shuffled into his flip flops and stood for the first time that day.  Taking a looong stretch, moaning aloud and scratching his sides, he looked around.  A path appeared to his left, turning behind him and heading away from the beach.  Seeing no one, he relieved himself on the side of a coconut tree and then ambled up the path toward town.  The bar was surely closed this early in the day, given the nature of its peak hours, but he remembered seeing a restaurant a few doors down.

The smell of frying fish and the noise of familiar conversation guided his feet.  The place was on his left, under a swinging yellow sign depicting a gull gliding over the waves with a sunrise in the background.  "Morning Glory," he muttered aloud--"sure hope the food lives up to the billing!" Ducking through the built-for-natives doorway, he paused to let his eyes adjust.  It was then he saw her.

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!