A Reticents Dream...

- Part 2 -

I wanted desperately to be the ultimate budget traveler – to be one above any known realm of classic, stereotypical, student/hippie vacationer. I had dreams of showing up, touching lives and hearts, instilling a good message when and where needed, and then disappearing away into the lesser known – and all for minimal expenditures. An image of a prophet. A poet. I wanted to rule the world in order to save it. Still do.

I wanted to take the $.60 bus ride (that was brought to our attention through the Great Book – I mock thee.) to town, to touch a life for little or no cost, but it was late, I was feeling a tad pressured – still quite happy – and we just wanted to set ourselves up somewhere, at least just for the night; Create our command post for the adventures that awaited us.

Really! I was so damn excited about being embraced by the open arms of that great united ‘One;’ that combined essence of the World’s inhabitants - and to feel the heartbeat as I press my head to It’s breast. I felt I was somehow on the outside, and this would be my big hug; my total acceptance and welcoming from the outstretched, loving, arms of the world. It’s not as though - and I want this to be clear - I felt unwelcome, unwanted, or unloved back in Canada. This was not the case at all. It was a feeling of meeting up with a thousand old friends who have been out of the picture for… well, for this particular earthly existence. I felt, on many tiny occasions to this point, I was home after a long and dull absence.

Our paramedic-by-day/taxi-driver-by-night seemed plenty nice, but failed to ease the new insecurities I was experiencing about our unquestionably nerve-racking, sustained rate of speed as we dangled on the edge, weaving in and out of seemingly stationary speeders of the highway. I can assure you that these highway neighbours were, in fact, speeding along themselves. I felt, on a few instances, we began to slip, leaning over that ominous edge, teetering at times, being held by some higher power that could somehow be attributed with righting our chariot and helping us stay the shaky course. It’s only appropriate that a man of my generation would compare this ‘wild ride’ to the likes of amphibians?!?! I thought of Mr. Toad and his scary circuit.

The name of our multi-skilled, single speed driver eludes me at this time, causing me to wonder how Kyle and I ever managed to decipher his occupations – which I was starting to consider we had mistakenly supposed from the initial beginnings. At this point I was reconsidering him as a fugitive kidnapper, now on some insane quest for ransom; on the run, who just happened to be carrying two, green - not by admittance - young men. Was this one of those vigilante ‘red’ cabs that we were supposed to avoid at all costs? Well, no. This cab was neither red, nor the inviting (according to the book) orange colour that was suggested. This cab didn’t even have a relative colour. It was White.

“What does the book say about white cabs?” I ask Kyle.

“Nothing.”

“He seems nice enough,” I put out for thought. White is too pure for anything evil to happen to us. Of course, we would learn, later on down the road, that most things are the same. Our only differences are our defined idiosynchrasies.

And so, our first contribution to the local economy ($12) seemed easier to swallow because of the added excitement of this lead footed, horn hooting paramedic (swallowing at this point might have put my heart back in its prime operating location). His audio/visual genius was an under-priced act unto itself. With hi-beams resembling beat-driven discoteca strobes and musical horn interludes thrown in for extra measure, we managed – WE did nothing but giggle, but HE managed. Our chariot actually stayed in one lane for several minutes as the other cars would slide aside with tailpipe between tires, either seeing our light show or hearing our conspicuous melodies. I beamed. Myself, in glee. And then, my first thought of home: ‘this would be a definite loss of licence back home,’ specifically.

¡Excelenté!

I thought - no longer concerned with my home afar - as we slowed out of light speed and images became sharp again, that bursting into downtown San Jose (and that’s what it was, we actually flung ourselves, within the chariot, off a ramp and, instantly burst, right into downtown.) was completely lucid, but façade-like. There was evidence of people, but the resemblance had a stronger association with an image of a huge street party, complete with parade, that had run its course and then died out. All that was left was trash and litter, and, Oh! A few haggard stragglers taking shelter on littered porches. I felt as though I took a spill right through the tube screen, landing in this capital where our driver neglected to yield to any stop sign or traffic light, and where, aside from the not so typical creatures of the night (I will get to that), I saw nothing or no one; an unexpected, slightly scary, scene for these ‘newby’ eyes.

Heating bill taken care of thanks to generous offer.

We agreed on just five more minutes, but after ten she would not budge. I wondered, growing somewhat impatient and frustrated, for how long she could crawl through those disgusting tubes. I tried to stay calm, after all, I was the one with all the patience in the family, but I inevitably lost control of myself. That being said, I simply sat there and waited, defeated - she won.

I had to finally flex my authoritative muscles and physically remove her from the property. I promised, honestly, that we would come back another day, but to no avail. Her face, particularly, her protruding bottom lip, still showed how dissappointed she was with me. We both needed to suck it up.

I decided to take her to the marina - as if I wanted to spend another minute in McDonalds Playhouse. We chased ducks and practiced our balance while walking on curbs. I tried to offer her some insight about the different types of birds that we chased (geese, ducks, and seagulls), but then thought what it must be like to just discover without the tainted words or ideas of others. I try to have her experience many new things in order that she have available a wide range of impressions, on which to draw future ideas, and use this same thinking to take her to places that she has never, or rarely, been.

I knew the day had finally caught up with her when she asked to be carried - usually she demands to walk. I loved to agree to something so warm and special and picked her up without hesitation. We made our way back to the car in full, and very tired, embrace. It was on my way out of the marina driveway that I was stopped by a man. I rolled down my window to see what he wanted. I never want to be one of those uncaring people that speed past a person in distress, hoping not to make their own lives anymore of a burden. I will probably pay for this one day when I get suckered and wind up being the nice guy that stopped to help for the last time.

His name was John. Really, he told me his name was John, perhaps wanting to remain anonymous, although I do not believe that. I introduced myself as the same (difference in spelling put aside). Who knows? Maybe he was a 'Jon' as well. Anyway, John asked me for $1.50 so he could get something to eat. Immediately I wrote him off as being a drunk bum and figured he would take whatever money I gave him straight to the Beer Store around the way. Although, I doubt any man in his situation would care to lie about who they were, he already lived in lonely anonimity. Contact with people, love and attention, was probably all he wanted. His name was probably the only innocent thing he had left, and he ashamedly soiled that some time ago. I couldn't be sure of his intent, but thought of my life thus far and gave him $4 and went on my way. I was held up waiting for traffic to subside when he approached me again.

"Can I tell you a story," he asked me.

"Sure," I hesitantly replied. Secretly I wanted to know this man's story, but I remained sceptical about the whole thing.

He proceeded to sum up his life through mumbled words, "I'm 47. I used to have a wife, a fuckin' beautiful wife. Now I'm addicted to booze. I'm a chronic alcoholic, I'm addicted to drugs, and I have no home." At this point I could feel my eyes glisten with sadness and noticed his had done the same (his with the added ingredient of despair), actually producing a tear. The polluted tear slid down his smooth cheeck towards his chin, where it would complete it's freedom fall towards the earth. This man, himself, was an ill-regarded tear falling down the cheek of the world - but where would he land?

"Well," I interjected. "You are still here. There must be something you want out of all this. You must want to help yourself, right yourself, start anew. Something, right?"

"Yeah," he sadly managed in his soft tone. "I hope to get better." A long pause followed, and then, "But you know what I'm gonna do? I asked you for $1.50 and you gave me $4. I'm gonna go up to that restaurant over there and have a good meal because you gave me $4."

My words were not around to be spoken; to grace his ear with the smallest sense of hope. The truth is I had no idea what to tell the man.

"I don't know what to tell you, man," was all I could muster. I couldn't handle it any longer. I had to end the conversation on account of the ugly hatred for the world that was gaining momentum, snowballing, in my mind.

With our best conversational skills completely exhausted we realized our meeting was coming to an end. And with that, John, kind and poor and homeless alcoholic sad John, took his leave, presumably headed for that hot meal. Of course, being the cynic that I am, I figured I had just bought him a tall boy, or two, of beer - helping in the short run, but creating a greater mess of pain and sadness in the long run. But it really didn't matter what he spent the money on, not to me. The pressing thought in my head was how to help this man.

How can I help this hurting man? How many others are there like him? I think I really sympathize for these people because of my experiences with this life. By no means can I understand fully the ill effects of alcoholicism or addiction. I have never been addicted to anything. One thing I do know, and can definitely attest to, is the feeling of being down and out in this world. The anxious fear of being dettached from the world; losing the feeling of being surrouded be earth. Like you are in the dark, lonely, middle and everything just keeps pulling away from you; leaving you. I could not imagine feeling this way on top of being in John's worn shoes. The worst part is John is to a point where he has access to the answer. He knows the answer, but remains on the outside looking in. Between he and the centre - his centre of freedom - lay great mountains, raging rivers, canyons without a visible 'otherside,' and a population of demons and bad memories. Perhaps this is what makes going back, starting the journey, so difficult.

No time soon will I forget John. In fact, I hope to meet him again someday.

As I was driving home after that mind-streching scene, I could not help but think of John. My thoughts of John gave way to other thoughts. I thought of how mad I was getting with the little one earlier that day. I turned my head to look at her sitting in the back seat. She had fallen asleep and was bent over like a careless drunk. I smiled a loving smile, feeling a little better about this life. I knew there was no point in getting angry as I had earlier, not with little sleeping beauties like her in this world, and not with the oft-ignored sadness of people like John in this world (yet worlds apart). What was it now? A moment of clarity, an epiphany, a new outlook. As I looked at that innocent bundle of sleep a new calm ran through me that put things into perspective. Nothing was better, the world still threw us some sinnister curve balls, still left us hurting, but at least now I recognized there was still balance.

This dirty, moldy, putrid Christmas present. This book, these words all run, these ghostly bloated words. The goddamn pages are stuck together, not to mention curved like the worn, stretched-open hands of an elderly man; particularly my late Grandfather who happened to pass while I was creating what will soon be thrust upon you…you can’t say unexpectedly.

The hard cover of the journal had long ago lost its last desperate grip of the pungent book’s spine and was now used as a conveniently sized and beautifully decorated file folder for the newly exposed and freshly tattooed outer skin. The journal now has a slight bowl shape to it instead of lying flat as was tradition with books. The neat thing about the meniscoid book was the rustled bang produced when the convex was reversed with a slight twist of both wrists. But hey! You can break a man but you cannot break his spirit. My words shall live on despite thei0r tired and worked host suffering from many many severe book ailments that go far beyond the inauspicious spine injury.

I’m not certain that it should be made known my obsession with the thin, flimsy, and fingertip-manueverable protrusion from what can only be described as the books underend, perhaps ousting certain paragraphs for the title of books private parts.

Not that it has any real importance to the story, I will point out that I left Canada with $1900 in travelers cheques, for what I hoped would be a modest good two months.

The early pages of this dear journal that Kali so generously presented to me at Christmas are filled with ideas of things to do and places to go; plans, essentially. My father and I had a little debate recently on the same subject. He, of course, was more in favour of the controlled and planned way of life - because life was what this boiled down to - whereas I was mostly impartial, but also mostly supportive of being the leave that has found its way into the flowing river, where things are ever changing for him, without having to plan a thing – because this is what happens in life – just going with the flow. Perhaps my close resemblance to the leaf in the river would have created my immediate impartiality, after all, it seems that impartiality would fit into the characteristics of someone giving up to control and flowing freely throughout life. The bottom line is that it does not come down to having a plan. The idea is to execute that plan. Certain leaves may not have been so lucky to just have dropped onto the river from a swift prevailing wind and would thus have to devise to sort of plan.

With the leaf now having a plan he is still physically nowhere closer to where he wants to be as if he were to continue to hope for a strong, uplifting gust to catch a lift with. The execution is what produces results. The results could be negative or positive in favour of the dry and shriveled leaf, but results nonetheless.

My point way back when was something along the lines of me having written all these wonderful ideas that I had previously researched and ending up completely ignoring them (I was treated to the ultimate planner for the remainder of the trip either way) altogether. In fact, the most inspiring thing to come out of those first few pages is the graffiti that Candice had scribbled sideways across one page, reminding me that she was at one point “here.”

Planning sucks. How about no plan and execute that. I’m am not saying that I am completely convinced that I would give all to be that leaf floating in the river. I would rather be myself floating in the river on an inner tube and having the luxury of being able to swim to shore or even place my feet on the bottom and stand right there in the river.

Balance.

The choices….whether choosing never to choose.

After the last page of my great planning delusional behaviour in which I have written down a list of places to see a sloth. The best part being that I paid $2 to see a sloth by chance at the zoo, without making a plan or even having “Zoo” written anywhere in the list of suggestions.

Minneapolis 15/02/05 11AM
Travel day today. Spent a nice, quick, two days with the True’s and their wonderful hospitality. Lynn is sickly looking and struggles to find any sort of comfort. She did muster a few laughs and even some smart ass retorts to similarly styled comments. The situation I’m sure is as terriable a thing as can happen to such a beautiful family. I do not understand her deteriorating condition enough to predict whether or not we will see her again on our way back.

Look ahead one step at a time I guess. I write and Kyle and I are hunkered down in the vicinity of gate 15 in the concourse labeled “E.”

I still feel the odd wave of nerves churn my stomach, but I relish the whole from start to finish, top to bottom. Not too bad of a predicament to be involved in, especially in comparison to the trouble of others.

Everything is relative.

Perhaps some of the nerves can be attributed to my first adventure away from foreign soil for such a time, but for the most part the rumble is my tummy is caused by my skepticism about this whole trip/experience. I am worried that it is not the answer that I have been looking for over the years and so desperately wanting. Time, as they say, will tell.

We crisscrossed the great Mississippi as it flowed as if it were slithering its way to freedom and refuge through the middle of the satanic spawning belly of the country everyone has come to be ashamed of; the United States of America.

The moon hangs to the left as a blemish in the otherwise perfect blue beyond, while the sun radiates brilliance as we fly high above any dreary cloud cover…unaffected.

A small plane, a jet of sorts, nearly clipped us…not nearly but as far as nearness goes…well it was as near as I have ever seen another plane in the air and I remember thinking this same thing once before but with much more conviction this time around. I am frozen sitting by this window so high up in nothingness, somethingness, the air. I left my boots and jacket back in Minneapolis in what seemed like not only a good omen to start the trip off with but it was just practical.
_____________

I remember freezing and suffering for taking that window seat during the flight from Minneapolis to Atlanta. I also remember how useless those little dinky blankets that were a clear violation of our human rights, could not keep a glow warm. Nevertheless, life is about balance and I decided to balance out the uselessness of those dinky delta dusters and put them to good for something. After examining the label sewn to the edge of the blue blunder I imagined that many a meals were put on someone’s table for…well, taking out the trash at the automated blanket manufacturing plant. I wondered how often they threw these handkerchiefs called blankets away or how many times they were washed and recycled. I wanted a clean one. I got one in an unsealed and unclosed plastic bag. Hmm?

San Jose, Costa Rica 16/02/05 9AM
We arrived after an interesting decent to the mountain valley airport that made for a slightly bumpy landing - the most exciting one I can recall – that raised a few eyebrows and most likely a few heartbeats. After all those unnatural indoor hours the great easterlies seemed all the more like the eye-opener splash of dry refreshment that is so ignorantly described at this moment to not even do the inner feelings instigated by the breeze any deserved justice. Stepping down onto solid ground, beautiful foreign ground was in its own right a breathe of fresh air, but was mostly just reassuring. All of this newfound adoration for the outdoors was cut short as we (my fellow passengers and I) were corralled onto a passenger bus (my dear sacred ground was once the proud holder of myself) and shipped over to the arrivals department at the newly renovated – no wait, that was Liberia last time! San Jose this time – at the far end of the terminal.

Of course I was cool with the fact that we had to walk, what would normally be a very frustrating thought, a very long distance to reach the patience testing lineups that greeted us at both customs and immigration. The only real problem was that I reeked like a hippie traveler, even though I think I am nothing of the sort, I just thought I smelled like one, and I was as tired as the Michelin Man…in maybe more ways than one. The whole process was indeed an easy task, even if it was a slow and tortuous one.

As if we had not spent enough time shoulder to shoulder with the odour accommodating when we were faced with the cesspool of taxi drivers, limo drivers (although not always real limos, nor were they always real cabs for that matter), bus drivers, van drivers, paramedics who drove ambulance in the day and were taxi drivers at night drivers, excited loquacious ticos with no regard for the laws of the road drivers, etc, etc.. A sickening and overwhelming display of an ultimate betrayal in the making. That’s right. The first thing that you do when you step out of the airport is to backstab at least one individual who may have been too aggressive or not aggressive enough.

It was dark, it was late, the moon was full and people, who were all around me, were acting with notable lunacy. I was tired and wanted to get somewhere eventually, but really wasn’t in the mood to put up with finding the red coloured cabs because they are safer or finding the best man for the job. I just wanted to clear my way through the people and plentiful offers and sit and take it all in. Try to let my brain catch up with what it had just been the cruel witness to. The only way out was directly through the people, through the fresh idiots spilt into the taxi zone like an open can of sardines – smelly – and through the ticos, who were there working clean up. Their job was to take the smelly, unleashed sardines away from the airport and dispense them randomly throughout the special areas that cabbies get payed a little extra for accidentally showing up at in order for them to shower and spend, spend, spend.
____________________

Sometimes I get to hung up on thinking of the craft; of the technical writing. What I fell cannot be expressed through anything that is seen as being a technical anything. How is it that we must rely on words do us a service. No words will ever truly get to the bottom of it, to the root of the churning innerds...to the actual rootness, if you will. It's something like "what is the alphabet aside from a bunch of letters from which words are formed." Except what the heck are the letters. I mean even with the letters, what are they. What are our words and what are our letters. This does not make sense to you? It shouldn't. tell me one thing that makes sense to you when you get down to it. Just prior to this I sat clutching my guitar on the verge of tears. I'm actually doing fine and it may even be argued that I have never felt more alive and, trying to avoid any macabre connotations, this is how I imagine one to feel at the moments just prior to death: completely alive. I was sitting, clutching my guitar, in fact, hugging my guitar and just wailing along with Ben Folds Five, Brick. How can something so nothing do so something. A song. A sound. And, oh yes...words. The tears that still find habitat within the sheltyer of my eyelids are unknown in their origin, I mean why they are there. Am I sad? Incredibly happy? Overwhelmed by my life in Thunder Bay - if that makes any difference. What if I was raised in Miunneqapolis. Would I feel this things, these frustrations and these mixed optimisms. Is that a word. It doesn't matter. Bill this is nothing against the craft. I love the craft for the challenge and the hope of one day getting it right. This isn't any 'call for help' or anything that should worry anyone and the only reason for my professed frustrations would be - in my best guess from this separated soul - from the lack of any ability to understand anything when it comes down to.......no words......

You must have an idea of how hard it is to grow up having the answers in the back of the book, or at the very least in a book that your teacher can easily refer to and then one day be hit with the reality - I don't like that word... in any sense - that there are no answers in the back of any book. Kerouac, Thompson, Wolfe, Burroughs, Selby, Ben Folds Five, Neitzsche, Kant, Hume, Joyce, Robbins, Empringham, True...Wrenshall. They have given me so much and I still have what. I have love and a 'good' life, but saying that now poisons the very idea of this outpouring. of course I love them all, but they, in all reality (that word again) have nothing to do with what is happening here. At present time its just me, BFF and my guitar which I love. I love. I love. Why?

Repeat, repeat, repeat........ "6am, day after Christmas...." If someone were to walk into this room right now I would not be phased. I wail. I send forth emotion the likes of nothing ever felt before...by anyone, by anymeans. You cannot argue with that. You cannot argue with anything. Not when it comes to me. I hope you see past the normal understanding of what I am saying. Not because I am opinionated or feel the need to be heard, or because I am stubborn and insecure, but because the fact remains, if we have claim to facts at all (what are they) that you cannot say boo to me. then where does that leave us; me? "Driving back to her apartment. for the mom ent we're alone. Shes alone. Im alone. Now i Know it." I serve people dinner and make mistakes that send eyes rolling and hands straight up. I am a ham. She's a brick. this cannot possibly make sense to anything. No need though. I wish I was on some sort of mind blowing drug that would make sense of all of this....of ALL of THIS. Pink elephants. Why not?

"Or maybe I will justy wave my hands like this and all of a sudden I am a kangaroo." That would all be good if I even understood what that was. Space....Time....Spacetime. Light travels at 670 million m/ph relative to you....relative to me. If you had the ability to run half that speed nothing would change. Light would still ellude you at the same speed: 670 Million m/ph. I feel like I am chasing light. Why? I like being in the dark. Its much better here clutching my guitar and singing because that is what makes me feel....words.......

I am starting to hate the world that we have created and not a day goes by when I dont cry at the news that I see. I have seen good and it is out there for me to see again. I see little bits here and there, and I see huge amounts in little bits, but who are these people. Who started this. Adam Smith would be pleased with where we are taking all this mess? Creating a utilitarian state with the invisible hand that, for all I know, could actually be real. you call that utilitarian. I woulsd push my hand into his face at the speed opf light if I knew it would make a difference. But then what would a difference make. "they told me son its time to tell the truth and she broke down and i broke down because i was tired of lying"

This can't possibly...ahhh...this this this...get away from 'this' I hate seeing my words in this medium. I hate seeing my words. I hate words. They are the fault of everything bad and everything good and have little to do with nothing. how can ourselves be expressed in a truer fashion. Books, pictures, words, songs, guitar, without them I would feel small and alone... what would change? Life: the great ponderance.

everything you see here is deliberate. Judge. It's just you in the end. "She's a brick and I'm drowning slowly." How can we live our lives when we are mired by culture. How can anyone live truly. what am I missing. Maybe nothing. I just need to find how to translate it...at least within myself, to myself.

in order for the truth to not frighten I must sour this with a prologue........soon.

'save'