Take Me to the Laundromat

Laundromats. I adore them. …The persistent rhythmic sounds of tangled lumps of clothing, tumbling and spinning, tumbling and spinning — sometimes with an extra ‘click-ka-click click-ka-click’ of a jacket’s zipper or a shirt’s button.

I love sitting off to the side, watching people methodically shove, put, pull, wring, shake, and fold each in their own kind of way. At this moment, I’m watching someone’s shorts stuck in an eddy of swirling peers—the drawstring having gotten snagged, by some all too common coincidence, on the dryer door. (Much like the case of the disappearing sock…seemingly unlikely, but all too frequent.) Wedged firmly, the drawstring is slowly working its way out of the waistband of the shorts, like a snake tugging and wriggling in order to escape a too-tightly-knit sweater. Every time the weight and momentum of the rest of the load loops by, the drawstring in silent resistance, defies the mindless, accepted norm of the rest of the clothes.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the room, a washer seems to have lost its balance with a load - emitting that distinguishable ‘Kuuh-thunk! Kuuh-thunk! Kuuh-thunk!’ As if this heavy machine was giving its greatest effort -mind you, without any legs - to escape its ill-fated, but necessary destiny of forever half-drowning and undergoing immense and intense dizziness, to selflessly rinse, wash, and clean dirty, stinky socks, blankets, shirts, underwear, pants, pillowcases, and so forth over and over and over and over again! … after a time, it has made little progress as far as covering distance goes. Though it has made tremendous progress in being an audible annoyance. Realizing it is leashed; tethered by lines of electricity, resigned to do its dirty work, with no escape imminent, It collects itself and returns to a state of balance, reducing its vocal complaint to a more subtle, pulsing vibration of a grumbling whisper.

Indefatigable cycles carry on.

Another classic sound is the repetitive ‘clink’ of several silvery wafers of metal being pushed through small slots and dropping into a pool of fellow twenty-five cent pieces below. We shove our quarters in, one after another. As if we were all gambling on the surety of our clothes being made wet and clean and then dry and fresh. The odds of this not happening are of course pretty much only increased by an inadequate supply of quarters. I suppose like most of life, with enough money, the odds are always in our favor.

An older woman, and what I suspect is her daughter, gossip about friends and family and talk about life as they fold their respective piles of laundered wearables together. All in hushed tones, making me feel almost like I’m in a library- a library with many articles….of clothing. I suppose they speak quietly so as not to ‘air their dirt laundry in public.’ …This is apparently the paragraph of word plays and puns.

That said, there is a peacefulness within the laundromat. A meditative concoction of syncopated rhythms. It makes me feel so calm. Maybe it’s just the hum of white noise. Maybe it’s the cornucopia of fresh scents of detergent. Maybe it’s the feeling that this space is outside of time. Or simply that in increments of whatever pre-selected amount of service time a quarter is worth, makes it feel less chaotic than the outer world where little has order in regards of time. Whatever it is, it is nice. It is soothing, pleasant even, and relaxing.

I rouse from my mental ruse since my own warmed and dried laundry has come to a stop. Naturally, no matter how much I shield the dryer door opening and no matter how widely covered the space below is with my basket, a sock still falls on the floor. I might even say deliberately jumps to the floor. Clothing desires to be dirty. Always in revolt to cleanliness. I take no real issue with the clean sock leaping onto the ‘dirty’ floor. I carry on pulling out a jungle of tangled clothes. The self-prescribed OCD man next to me comments on the sock. He can’t handle it. I try to calm him. I appreciate his concern but know my foot will survive when I put that sock on. He’s apparently a regular at this laundromat—claiming to have spent millions here.

I love these curious and strange interactions.
I love this space perfect for pensiveness.

One of the long-standing bastions of communal space.

Take me to the laundromat.

The Devil’s Tower

Devils tower

Motorcycle north through Wyoming. Darting deer at dusk. Camping. Night of immense rain and weird lightning. Crazy murderous animal noises in the night! Wet. Damp. Crisp.

Up early. Morning ride to a morning hike. Flowers. Soggy mud, Quebec couple, campsite view. Wild turkeys gobbling below. Crows making a racket. Crickets and other birds. Great Rock is clouded in. Slowly emerges as fog burns off.

I philosophize. Question purpose. Remind myself to get that tattoo. Because maybe living in the present is the true religion. Or maybe nature is. Or maybe some combination of both. Hiking this beautiful stunning morning feels more like god than anything else. Save for human connection. Maybe.

There is no fomo when living in the moment. There can’t be. But what do we mean by living? …Existing? Breathing? I feel like there is a better word to capture what we mean. What we want. Or at least what we want it to mean. Or what we mean to want.

Humidity. Sweat. I had forgotten this.

The only reason to think about the past is to create a better future. The only reason to think about the future is to create a better present.

I have many swirling thoughts I can’t quite reign in. I guess I’d been walking in some mentally opaque, lucid, dream-like state, because I just now felt awake. For the first time today. Awake, not so much like when the eyes open at the start of a day. But like when you notice how some things are uncomfortable or that you’re tired. And hungry. Being awake TO something.

Hiking so early, I had the trail to myself, save for the earlier couple from Quebec. I complete the trail and return to the parking lot; and the people have arrived. You know them. Glazed-eyed tourists who got up early to be American. To achieve the new white picket fence: Travel. Exploration. Adventure. It’s a cult now.
All well and good. It’s good for people. For the soul. But while I look into their eyes as I walk by and smile and say hi. Not for all, but for many, something is missing. There’s an emptiness. A void. A fog.

I’m walking around the base of this fortress now. This ginormous string cheese crashing out of the ground and up into the wide Wyoming sky. I marvel at it. Listening to bird coos echo off the rocks and listening to the phweoup phweoup phweoup of their wings as they duck abruptly in flight, in and out of the pines. Meanwhile, a couple walks by and the fellow speculates how cool it’d be to see a piece of rock break off and come tumbling down. I’m with him. And then he implored how lucky and cool it’d be to be randomly taking a video and catch it on film. And how someone probably has and he bets you could YouTube it. After pondering present living all morning, This conversation has no place here for me. I am pro pictures. Capturing blessed moments. I’ve been doing that too. But there is something uncomfortable about the motive. It’s off. He doesn’t want to see that incredible event for the wild rush and real life exhilaration of seeing, hearing, smelling, and experiencing it. He wants to see it to capture it, like an exotic wild animal might be captured so as to be caged and exploited, for views and likes and ‘fame’. Captivity. Perhaps we could refer to this as ‘owning the moment’ instead of ‘living in the moment’. I don’t know this man and I could be wildly wrong. But I am an intuitive sort, often wildly right about people.

String Cheese, no?

A chipmunk darts across the path two feet in front of me. So immensely cute. Posts up on a rock and uses it’s tiny little front ‘hands’ to hold its loot and nibble voraciously and aggressively on it. Proud as anything I ever did see, of it’s chipmunk-sized accomplishment.

I read a sign about how the land below USED to be plentiful. Bountiful. Pictures of native Americans using the land appropriately. I remember passing by a sign from yesterday about how building a dam made it so the land didn’t flood and therefore didn’t create grazing areas for animals and didn’t carry cottonwood seeds anymore, and so on. It feels so impersonal and disconnected. Just a sign about how this all used to be right and good, rich and plentiful. Another sign somewhere else about how white man made it wrong. And that’s all. Just facts I guess.

“Dear sign reader, here’s some words about a sad and stark reality. We’ve added pictures for distraction, and just kind of peppered it in here within nature so it will be something palatable and something you will hopefully readily forget. Have a blessed day!”

I read another sign about how a guy built a ladder in a crack in the rock and first climbed to the top in 1893. I round a bend and sit on a rock. Leaning back on my hands, staring up, legs dangling off. Little bugs fly in my ear. Another couple walks by talking about pictures. Pictures. Pictures. Pictures. It’s so automatic:

See incredible nature, primarily through screen.
Take pictures.
Move along.
Take more pictures.
Take more pictures.
Take so many pictures!
Sort and find best pictures later.
Share with online world.
Be interesting. Be liked. Be validated.
Take on some cheapened, token form of worth.
Repeat throughout life.
Reach end of life not having actually lived and experienced a whole lot for yourself. (Optional alternate ending: have important realizations somewhere in life and start really living, for you!) Not having words to describe awe-inspiring moments of life. Instead resorting to endless scrolling or digging four subfolders deep on the hard drive to show what you sort of saw. Is it better to prove that you were there, than to actually BE while you are there? But hey, a picture is worth a thousand words. I adore photography. It is an exquisite and wonderful art. I also love 1,000 words! How rich and imaginative and beautiful to be able to use such a vast swath of vocabulary to tell a story. To describe beauty, a person, an animal, an idea, nature, and so on.

I don’t think a picture is worth that many words. Maybe like 12 words. Ah, but who has time for words in this society anyway. A quick pic will indeed be adequate. …. I think we could be so much more than adequate. We could be superb. Story-tellers. Oral traditions passed along through generations, are now electronic albums that mean little to nothing to the person who wasn’t there and doesn’t have context for that which led up to and came after the picture. …

I return to the trail I’ve been walking on, circumnavigating this ginormous, seemingly random rock. The trail’s surroundings are so lush and stunning. I take in this towering natural structure. I ponder towers. I ponder powers. How conquering towers is about powers. Mankind’s achievement. Getting to the tippy tops of things. The highest downtown offices host the richest companies. Penthouse suites are at the tops of skyscrapers. Ritzy rotating restaurants exist in the sky for the wealthy. Poor peons belong below. A tower is a representation for a position of power. I imagine the native Americans having so much respect for this ascending string cheese boulder. Using it as a waypoint. A guide. A sacred place. A holy site. Maybe they ‘conquered’ it too. I doubt it. But the white man sure did. And still does. Look at us now.

I wish native Americans still owned it. And we had to ask permission or pay them to see it. No, that’s not even right. Ownership is a word of ours. A silly concept in the context of nature. What I wish is that no one owned it, but rather that all humans mutually respected and regarded it and chose to exercise personal responsibility to not exploit it for any reason or purpose, at least financially or for any form of notoriety. Instead to protect and love and cherish it, and to learn from it.

This walking trail has speed bumps and I find that strange. Like how fast are people walking here?!

Dead snake on road.
Supposedly, per a sign, Snakes exist on top of this tower? What?! That is neither reasonable nor logical. How on earth!?
This ongoing snake motif in my life for so many years is….well, ongoing. That’s the only thing of certainty I can say about it.

Dawn. Duck tape tent. Pack up. Write postcards.

567.6 miles on odometer at end of day two.

Beautiful rolling greens. MT (guys wrestling) trucker dodging me swerving quickly. Bella fourche fuel. BMW guy. Subway. Spearfish. Brewery. Adventure pants. Rain fire. Memories made. Cute Abbie. Trader dough — 1890s starter. Amazing. Rain soon as I start. Dumped on. Barely could see. Muddy dirt roads. Adventures. Following gut on roads I knew nothing about. Fire and logging roads. Worked out this time. Lake. Cows. . Decision making not good. Grass trail nuts and fishing line. ? $24. So much. But having a blast riding so scoped out all over. SD — this area is surprisingly exceptional. Whitetail at 6,000 ft. Roger. Ripe old fart. Coffee. Hammock. Smoke. Read. Eat. Try to get warm. Geese. Kids. Tired. Thoughts are harder tonight. Just want to be warm. Wish I had my sleeping bag.


——-

Brown cows black cows
Clouds. Red carpet
Sunset
Wind
Directional mistake. Pannier mistake
Harley guy. Sweeping gas station. Wants to trade his sportster for my bike

Some push you to see if you’ll fall down. Some push you to see if you’ll get up again

Ride like the wind. In the wind.







* When I get into nature and have solitude, I find my thoughts tend to bounce around different subjects. I will sometimes record my stream of conscious in long or short form on my phone while I wander, discover, explore, hike, etc. I usually think in the moment that I’m thinking some brilliant thoughts and it will be worth expounding upon later on. Most of the time they are mediocre thoughts, and they just feel significant because everything feels significant in nature. In this case, I for months thought I’d lost this note, and then finally found it and when I read it I liked it as is. So this is an unedited stream of conscious, from Bear Lodge, back in the spring—more long form on the front end during my hike circumnavigating the great rock, and very short on the tail end of the trip. I admit my narcissism in adoring some portions of my stream of conscious, including this above portion. And so here it is. Make of it what you will.

A Neutral Thanksgiving to You

I woke up this morning - and much like most mornings when I awaken - felt only the dense weight of sleep’s residue, that fog that clouds over my mind and body, besetting me upon my daily return from the unconsciousness to present moment awareness. This all fine and normal, well and good. I had no doubt the fog would lift in time.

None of this so far, was striking or unusual. What I did notice, however, that was particularly different about this late November Thursday — different from the last who knows how many annual recurrences of a well-known holiday — is that I didn’t wake up particularly thankful. Pretty much not even at all, to be quite frank. And not to say that I was unthankful, because I was’t. Rather I was sitting on a level, a perfectly balanced seesaw right in between the two. Suffice to say, I simply woke up. Nothing more. Nothing less.

It was noticeable because typically I am infected to a healthy degree by the spirit of the season and holiday. I am aware that practicing gratitude is good for the soul. I’m aware that my existence and present state of being is in large part due to other people - people who are worthy and deserving of my thanks. And because of these things, I have spent many years of Thanksgivings, scouring my contact list and excitedly sending thoughtfully-crafted messages throughout the day to everyone who has ever meant anything to me. It brings me great joy to do so. But not this year. This year I simply woke up.

Thanksgiving didn’t even feel real this year until today, when I was driving to Denver and walked into Bethany’s house for the annual friendsgiving she puts on. There was no build-up for me. No expectation. No excitement. Someone mentioned yesterday at work that we should be wishing customers a happy thanksgiving. It hadn’t even donned on me! In fact, this information almost shocked me. “That’s tomorrow?!” I exclaimed. It seemed so distant and …unreal. Unimportant.

I could spout speculations for the reasons for or meaning of this strange and different feeling around the Thanksgiving holiday to me this year, but I see no need. I don’t know why things are as they are. But today I’m choosing to accept them unconditionally. I don’t feel bad or wrong about any of it.

So with that, I wish a very neutral Thanksgiving from me and mine, to you and yours. May this day be whatever you need it to be. Ciao.

The Elbow of My Couch

The departure from the corner of my living room. …I do some form of living in all of my rooms - but I suppose the expectation is that this is the room where the real living gets done. Or at least the majority of it.

Today was unusual, and pleasant. I was supposed to be up by 4:30 a.m. to help with a hot air balloon run. But it got canceled. And then Covid got into the house of the friend I had brunch scheduled with, so that plan got canceled too. I didn’t get to bed until 2 or 3 a.m. the night prior, so a clear morning schedule was most welcome for me. The day started like any late May day in Colorado might: warmish, with a clearing sky. I left my windows open overnight so the air is cool and fresh in my home. Perfect for a brew of coffee, and a tucking into the elbow of my couch, under my favorite blue and white Mexican blanket, right next to my favorite viewing window. Is this what they mean by living? If so, I think I’m nailing it on which room I chose to do this in.

Maximum living I suppose - the kind of thing one could only do in a living room. Can you even imagine if I attempted such a thing in any other kind of room? A kitchen? A bedroom? Absurdity! I guess I think it is a silly name for a room. And since I’m on it, how come kitchen has its own special word? Shouldn’t it be the food room? Like bathroom, bedroom, mudroom, laundry room, dining room, and so on? All the other rooms tell you what you are supposed to do there. Frankly, I wish all the rooms had their own more interesting specific names. It’d be more exciting, as far as vocabulary goes. I digress from the morning’s unfolding though…

I sit in foggy comfort, catching up on a few things, and trying to read through a philosophy book. It’s a bit heady—perfect for today. I didn’t actually know it was a philosophy book when I reserved it. The title is misleading, as it suggests motorcycles as a prominent topic — something I am supremely interested in — but the motorcycle portion is nominal at best in my opinion. That said, it’s still an enjoyable book. Philosophy and psychology are perhaps two of the most interesting fields of curiosity and study to me. I make up for it though. I put three motorcycle adventure books in my Thriftbook shopping cart. …I can’t reach my wallet from the couch though — so. I’ll buy those later!

The leaves in the trees are ruffling in the breeze now. The sun has disappeared. The sky has darkened. I hear distant thunder and the air smells damp and has thick texture. It’s a sheer delight. I can almost feel the air sit on my skin. My window is still open and I press my nose up against the screen and use my best deep inhales through my nose to experience the indulgent perfume of the humid atmosphere seating itself on the ground, taking up space, like an elephant sitting down at a dinner party.

Ah, this most pleasant inner couch elbow, where I nuzzle. It’s the kind of cozy corner I’d be perfectly happy spending the entirety of this day in. But as a sometimes, self-proclaimed adult (mostly by necessity —bills don’t pay themselves so I’ve learned), I must indeed go off to work. Fare thee well, my warm, comforting, friendly, supportive, kind, couch corner. Until next time, my love!

Awakening

I awaken. And by that I mean that I open my eyes. For I’d been awake nearly the whole night through. Did I sleep at all? I can’t really tell, but I’m doubtful of it. You know how it is on nights when you just lay in bed for eight hours straight. … laying. Not sleeping. And by bed I mean on the ground. In a tent. On an inflatable camping pad that does inflate, but has a slow leak requiring a roll-off and reinflate every hour or so. (I should get that fixed.) The sleeping bag I’m using is….at home.

I haven’t camped in a while. I haven’t camped off of a motorcycle in even longer. And it’s my first time packing for a camping trip on my new Yamaha. So in the process, I somehow missed that ever important item. The thing that keeps the cold out and the warmth in. The first night wasn’t all that bad. Cloud cover insulated the atmosphere, keeping the crisp cold at bay, and a thunderstorm with bright flashes and big rain drops pattering on my tent put me to sleep, like a sweet lullaby sung over me by my Mother Nature. (Granted, one of my rainfly portal windows dropped open in the night and let some water in. I had duck tape on both of them already for that reason, and had to borrow a little more from the campground host to mend it. I’ve been using the same camping gear for over a decade. Perhaps it’s time to upgrade….but I love my camping gear and hate to part with it.)

But last night….on the other hand, was clear as could be. And the cold air permeated the lower atmosphere and lent a kind of frigid sting to my skin surface. I’m camping at 6,000 ft. in the Black Hills of South Dakota, by Deerfield Lake. Campsite #12: a lovely spot with a parking spot, picnic table, and fire ring up top, then grassy steps that lead down to the tent platform, with direct access path straight down to the lake, which can be seen through the trees from the tent. I don’t have a thermometer but my best guess is low 40’s Fahrenheit. Not bad at all if you have a bag to insulate you from it.

My “warmth” situation was this: wool sock, with foot warmers that did nothing as best I could tell. A Mexican blanket wrapped around my feet and legs. Long underwear, jeans, and my Goretex motorcycle riding pants with hard armor in them. (Good for keeping the body protected and rain and wind out. Not at all good for providing comfort or warmth.) A t-shirt, flannel shirt, light jacket, motorcycle jacket liner — again good only for wind and rain — and my actual motorcycle jacket with its bulky textile armor-filled, zero-heat-producing nature, draped over my torso. Topped off with a neck warmer and a beanie. Still. So cold. Not shivering cold. But deeply cold. Being on a lake, the moisture in the air is thick and makes everything feel cooler and damp, and wet condensation has soaked the ground. My rainfly. Everything outside.

So I just lay there, cold, waiting for the first sign of light, so I would have a reason to get up and leave the cold ground and tent. I want to add hiking each day to keep my body — a little stiff from so much riding — loose and free. I saw last night there was a trail that went all the way around the lake. The campground host, Roger, said it was like 3-4 miles, which is perfect! Light comes and I pop up and get moving! Togo for a hike around the lake — but the trail is ?. It kind of disappears and reappears at random intervals. I take the road and find a sign that has more information. The trail, it would turn out, is 11 miles. Damn Roger! Had the trail been evident, I would have just went for it. You almost sent me on journey that I was not at all prepared for. I jog back to my campsite to try and warm my body up.

A cold, sleepless Benjamin

The sun rose around 5am. My hopes were high — LIGHT! WARMTH! — but my hopes rose higher than the sun — which disappeared behind clouds almost instantly. Every so often shining a little brighter through thinner clouds, teasing me. I pleaded and begged for it to shine — even if only for 10 minutes — long enough to dry my rainfly and warm my chilled body. To no avail. I’m so frigid!

I go down to the lake in order to hike hard back up and create friction and heat. But I get distracted by the calm, serene beauty and a gaggle of geese on a family field trip. The only thing I don’t like about Canada is their geese. But this family of them wading to another inlet’s shoreline is sweet. Babies in the wake of the parents. Even though minutes earlier they were making an awful, obnoxious echoing ruckus, and I hated them for it. I hike back up. It’s not enough. I sit on my pannier and brew another cup of coffee on the Jetboil. The only way I have to create and feel heat.

I again beg the sun to come out….verbally. Instead the wind picks up. And blows all the clouds right to the sun. I don’t know. Maybe the sun wakes up hungry and has to eat all these clouds for breakfast to get the nourishment it needs, and when the great orb has had its fill, it can then shine brightly for the day. Maybe clouds are the sun’s morning coffee.

My fingers are so cold. I can barely write this. And yet… aaah, those two little words, and yet. Two words that make a frequent appearance in an exes’ favorite book, ‘The History of Love’ by Nicole Krauss. These have always stuck with me since she lent me the book to read. That idea of ALL OF THIS #$%@ stuff!!! ….and yet! The contrast. The calm within storms, and the storms within the calm. The notion of beauty despite hardship. The possibility of perspective. I have a visually prompting piece of art at home in my bathroom by Scott Erickson that reads “Even the darkest journeys, are surrounded by wondrous things.”

And so yeah…I’m not mad. I’m not disappointed. I’m not upset. I’m simply sleepless and cold. Facts of life. This all rings my brain like a bell, and I sit and look around, listening to the birds, watching the serenity of the lake’s surface, tasting another sip of coffee. This is my present moment to live in. Mine alone. And it’s beautiful. And cold. And yet…it’s beautiful!

And in a moment of perfect poetry, as I finish my now cold coffee, the sun seems to finish its cloud breakfast, and begins to shine brightly for the day, just as I pack up and get going. And as I warm up the motorcycle and gently twist the throttle to ride away on the dirt road, onto another leg of an uncertain adventure, I ponder if the entire purpose of a cold, sleepless night was to lead me to a moment. A beautiful poetic moment where I reign in, realize, and live in the AND YET. …

The cold gets old.
Until the sun becomes bold.
Or my negative thoughts fold,
Into benevolent nuggets of gold.

Morrison

The general public
The people
Walk from left to right
Right to left
It’s robotic
Like working ants
with no peripherals
”Entry. Alcohol. Seat…Check!”
Turning around and posing
for the camera, for someone else
inauthentic smiles
curated at desirable angles
…that’s not my place to say
Who can judge the heart
behind the smile
All but a few carry
cans and bottles and cups
tall boys — for big boys and girls
not for tall boys exclusively
otherwise I reckon I’d have one
for everyone over 21 who wants
one, to have and to hold
I’m glad I don’t have one to hold
There’s a chill and a breeze
I rode the motorcycle here
To Red Rocks Amphitheatre
Morrison, Colorado
It was colder than I anticipated
So I’m already chilled
Using all my available layers
I didn’t bring enough
Traffic was a doozy
On Interstate 25, per usual
I love it, veering in and out
I only had one close call
Darting across two lanes
For a better position
At nearly 75 mph or so
Missing the right rear corner of a
Suddenly braking vehicle
By a couple feet at most
I maintained a calm
But was filled with thrill

All the spaces have filled in now
The people are buzzing - anticipation
Many of us have waited
three long, tenacious years for this
Lord Huron! Come out and play!
I read a book during the opener
and write these words between while
stage hands set up for the main event
I make friends with the gal
next to me - a fellow Virginian!
Liz - traveling through Colorado
her first time at the iconic Red Rocks
The city lights twinkle
in the distance - Denver!
Row 43, seat 76, smack in the middle
Creation Rock and Ship Rock glow red
to my north and south respectively
illuminated by subtle lights
orange ships jutting out of
the ground like half-sunken
boats might emerge from the sea
I think the stars might emerge
later if the clouds clear out

The lights have dimmed to dark
Eerie background music commences
It gives my body chills
It’s happening
A lone star I spot
In the lone sky above
I love looking up here
The band is out!
On stage, singing and strumming
I’m giddy. Giddy as can be
Going to concerts solo is fantastic
And I couldn’t be happier
Lit up l.e.d. cacti on stage
It’s a killer set
It’s a cool, beautiful night
It’s a handsome man, with
shoulder length hair wisping
in the wind, with shoes so white
black, front-pleated pants with
a good looking jacket, the guy
who created these wild songs
It’s the pianist’s red dress
with white shawl and shoes
Classy. Magical. It’s the lyrics
that burn my soul. It’s the feeling
and longing twang of the guitars
that gives me tingles. It’s perhaps
the ultimate adventure romance music

and I must now put these words away
and be present as I can manage to be

I’ll leave you with the last thing
Ben Scheider left that night’s crowd with,
before he played out with the final song…

“May you live until you die.”

“I took a little journey to the unknown,
and I come back changed I can feel it in my bones.”

Sitting on a Rock by an Eddy

Sitting on a rock by an eddy
Watching the water swirl slowly
Leaving and returning
Like I do with my thoughts
Frustrated by the heaping mass
Of ‘No Trespassing’ and ‘Private Properties’
In a terrain and land designed for exploring
Much like the heart’s potential
Just waiting to be found, unlocked
At least this Sleepy little Hollow is public
Much like skin and open eyes
The water is immensely clear here
Much like absolutely nothing
In a human’s life

I admire a spider, protective
Of its sneaky, well-placed web
…’Admire’ likely isn’t the right word
But I can say with accuracy that I watch it.
By my count, 17 once avionic snacks
await, fluttering softly in the breeze
But stuck, nonetheless. And quite dead
Much like an old, barely reminiscent
Version of myself. Discarded and
Decomposing in some natural sticky grave

The spider scurried out in a tizzy
Having looked at the web, looked at me
And my proximity to it’s trap
Along with the stockpile of meals
Voiced some obscenities toward me
Like an old man grumbling
More to himself than to anyone else
About kids these days and no respect!
Then scampered off beneath my leg
Trying to push me off its rock

My attention shifts beyond my shoes
Juvenile fish dart and scatter below
Almost faster than my eyes can follow
Almost. Such youthful energy and vigor!
Such naivety. And short-sightedness
Such purity. Such agility. Such fun.
Meanwhile, a singular grandfather fish
Barely moves, sitting on the bottom
Not four feet away from my dangling feet
I can see wisdom in the subtle movements
I imagine hearing - or do hear -
A gentle, scratchy, admonishing
Voice come bubbling up: “See
Let the river - the natural flow
Do most of the work, to get
You where you need to go. Move and
Strike of volition only when necessary”
So steady. Undeterred even by my
Flashy, unpredictable movements
A lesson here: Don’t fear
the environment. Observe it.
And act decisively and accordingly
Wise, gentle grandfather fish, Thank you.

A poor bug wallows restlessly
Fell in the drink - can’t escape
The surface tension. It’s amoebic
Shadow blubs and blurbs across
The streams’ shallow sandy floor —
Imprinted by the harsh sun’s penetration
I used to squirm unproductively like that
Completely unaware of how ridiculous
My shadow self made me

Speaking of the sun’s forceful rays
Why is applying sun block
Such a chore. I. HATE. IT.
I adore the sun. It helps plants
Grow. Why would it harm me
20 minutes and I succumb to logic
And recent conversations with a dermatologist
My skin is hot and I apply
90 proof cream to exposed skin
It’s not so bad and I don’t
Know why I make such a big deal of it

A mallard duck eyes me, approaches
Keeping its other wary eye upon
A large dog on the shore
I admire its webbed feet paddling
I glance at the dufus dog sniffing dirt
And wonder why a far less superior
’Water’ animal got to coin the term
…Kids should first learn to ‘Duckie Paddle’

Seemingly satisfied, acknowledging
My acknowledgment of the underrated
Water prowess of the Anas Platyrhynchos
With suddenness, the duck scoots away
To the middle of the stream it goes
Floating down a set of rapids, laughing
The entire way about K9s’ irrelevance
This mallard is obviously a comedian
By trade, and is having the time of its life

A fly fisherman exits the waters
Stands on a rock, elevated, at one
Of the streams edgy elbows
Surveying, internally asking, pleading
Almost begging one of the local fish
To jump out and say “We’re over here!”
With a fin beckoning in that direction
I wave and nod to him and think,
”Get in line bub. We’re all waiting
For the universe to tell us
Exactly where to go next”
No luck, he departs
Leaving the scene completely
...I feel that

A lady emerges with rod and reel
Upstream, and she casts
And casts. And casts again
This time letting the lure troll
Downstream toward me
I watch it bob for what
Feels like minutes
Waiting with anticipation for a nibble
I’m genuinely excited, invested
To see it happen right in front of me
I see a nibble, and another
And then the eddy brings
That tiny lur…….stick
Back around in front of me
I look upstream and the lady has
Her line directly in front of her
…Nowhere close to my proximity

Life is like that. Like a tiny alluring
River stick getting imaginary bites
From imaginary fish, and then
I get close enough and realize
I had no idea what
I was looking at. Additionally
My focal point was all wrong.
I wasn’t even
Looking in the right direction


Fishing might not be for me
I decide to stick to sitting
On rocks, and writing words

I brought a beer. It’s illegal
Weighing in at 5%. Park rules
Have the weight class maximum at 3.2%
Sometimes rules seem arbitrary. Sometimes
The arbitrary is illegal. Sometimes,
Both of those things remind me of dreams

Well, a fish has flopped behind me by the shore
And is now upside down. Unmoving.
Seems fishy. I think it is unwell
Probably the sushi diet. Gets you sometimes
Maybe one of them ‘Possum Fishies
Playing dead.
More probable is that this fish is a narcissist
Attention hungry, just wanting to make the story
Earlier it was repeatedly tipping
Over on its right side. As if
Its dorsal fin was unevenly weighted
Such a Dramatic Haddock, am I right.
My, my. Look at the time.

My skin is safe

My beer is gone

Irregardless

Nature carries on

I think I’ll right-side this fish and ride my motorcycle back down the canyon and go to work.

The Wild West

I, some five miles into my hike, am taking the Power Line Trail to get down. I am hot, tired, sore, and hungry. Therefore, I am running. For I am ready to reach the end of the trail. Running with short, deliberate steps — calculated with rapid acuity — to avoid odd-shaped and loose rocks, and any otherwise slippery surfaces, of which there are many. Correct and precise foot placement is imperative at such speed to avoid falling or injury.

And so, focused intently on the immediate ground before me, I round a bend and all in a moment, I see movement ahead and skid to a frozen stop, arms out with alertness, eyes peeled, heart pounding. Finding myself to be both a surprisee and surprisor.

Up and into the emptiness of craggy rocks and burned stumps.

The herd of white butts just ahead is already bouncing and shuffling away. Yet shortly, in some magical unison they all stop at once — with the rear flank turning to reassess my location and potential threat level. I watch, as I am being watched. Apparently not feeling very assured, they again move as one, up higher onto the ridge, amid some tree cover — albeit is light as last year’s Cameron Peak Fire laid havoc to the area.

They again stop as a unit. Seemingly feeling slightly safer there, more than just the rear flank take notice of me this time, their long heads peering over their narrow shoulders, maintaining a jumpy and ready stance. I have continued walking, slowly and quietly. Regardless, they make one more dash just out of sight, just beyond the ridge’s crest; I guess still not satisfied that I am a non-threat. I don’t blame them though, as bad as I startled them.

I walk along, humoring dreams of moving about among them—the harmless elk whisperer—practically part of the herd…when I come around the next subtle bend and find the ridge they previously crested has kneeled down to kiss the trail I am on. They must have gotten a whiff of me in the wind just before I saw them because they are already in aggressive retreat. Taking no chances this time, they are hustling. I run along with them…well, parallel with them, for a minute, thinking things like “yeehaw!” and “raw hide!” …perhaps even saying them aloud to no one.

Elk are fast when they want to be. They create space and in what looks like a group of frazzled, rounded up cattle, did one last collective about face to triangulate my position. This, in their concert crowd frenzy, is when I notice one awkward set of antlers piercing toward the sky right in the middle of the pack. The bull and his harem. Then, in a snap, in one accord, they decide they have had quite enough of this punk human stalker. And they bolt!

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The sight of it is impressive. Dozens of large animals moving across the terrain with such ease and grace, leaving a trail of arid dust behind like a deterring smoke screen. All the while they remain so close together, navigating uneven ground, rocks, trees, and the rest of nature’s stumbling blocks. The sound of it is thrilling. A concerted symphony—the cooperative stomping and pounding of…maybe 200 heavy hooves…into the earth creates an exhilarating energy in the air—a percussion bomb. It is like a runaway drum circle orchestrated by 100 children hyped up on candy and caffeine.

Down into the valley below.

Minutes later I pass over a part of the trail the elk had trampled, tilled, and tamped in their unkempt departure—the madness of movement. The lingering scent of the disturbed and upturned earth amid the fear of flight is dank and damp and delightful. I take several deep, nosy inhales. I look down the steep empty gully in the direction I thought they had gone. But no sign of their path is evident. It’d be crazy and dangerous to gallop down that steep grade anyway, right? Well, I look beyond that and sure enough they have; they are ascending the next ridge two-by-two. Astonishing. I hope out loud that no one was hurt in the process, and nod my head in appreciation, respect, and admiration for these creatures and their wild ways in the still somewhat wild west.

A Glimmering Trope

I was swimming around
Getting acquainted with the waters
Figuring out currents and tides
Learning the tricky differences
Between predators, friends, and prey
Making my home in a world ever-moving
When out of the corner of my little fish eye
A shiny, glimmering something I did spy
It dashed, and it darted, lingered then lunged
Ever-curious, I began my cautious pursuit
Could this very well be what I had long awaited?
I investigated — too close and then too far
Suddenly, before I knew what it was I was doing

I took a nibble

I did! It seemed so very magical
Like it would take me to the best scenario
Like my scaly-little water-bound life
Might explode into a world of possibility
But, boy isn’t that always the lure?
The shiny hook of hope snagged me again
The scheme that goes on and on, my friend
Now the hook of hope is in me
Dragging me, every which kind of way
I fight, because I have been here before
Hope hurts, and I am nearly helpless
That savage, little, barbed, curved piece of metal
I remember now — too late — the shine is a lie

I just HAD to nibble

Now I’m on the ride of my life. Again!
The light gets brighter. The water warmer
I think I can see the other side of everything!
This is the place, where worlds collide
Has anyone seen my comfort zone
How long has it been? That I’ve been hooked?
I’m frantic. Panicked. Did I just black out
I mean, maybe it really will be good this time
One terrible experience need not dictate the next
Logic falters. Numbness overcomes me
Is that barb in to deep? Am I in too deep?
Oh no! I hate this part! (I equally find it thrilling)
Risk and Anxiety! This is the moment I breach my universe

Flop. Splash. Flop. Splash.

I can’t breathe! What’s happening?! Where am I?
It’s blinding! Discombobulating! Exhilarating
This is not at all what I had in mind
Aaaah I’m so stupid. I HAVE been here before
Exactly this! Remember? Vividly now — I’ve danced this dance
Will I ever learn? No time for that now
I must fight with my all. Fight for safety
Flop. Splash. Flop. Splash. YANK
OOOOOOOOOOUUUUUUUUUUUUWWWWWWCHHHHH!!!
Hurts like the dickens! Every damn time
Laceration and blood now, tenderness and scars later
Oh, but I’m back in the water! I’ve got to hide
Home. Safety. Healing. I will NEVER do that again!

Hey! ….What’s that shiny thing over there?!

Wicked Game

I woke up this morning with the song Wicked Game in my head. I have a back injury and most movement is painful so I wasn’t going anywhere for a while, just doing my best to remain still. So I opened Spotify and found the song to satiate my thirst for it. I find my subconscious is expert at recommending songs on slow mornings to set the mood for the day for me.

I didn’t know who the artist was; I didn’t even know the name of the song at the time. I just started typing the lyrics I could remember and the name came up and I recognized it then. I hit play on the first result that I saw, I believe by Gemma Hayes. Then I backspaced and typed the actual song title in under the song tab and saw there were quite a few covers.

The song hit the spot and I figured I’d listen to a bunch of the covers. Then I had a “brilliant” idea and decided I’d listen to ALL of them to determine the best ones and to have a benchmark of what makes that song good. As I write this, around three hours after this wicked game of a journey began, I’ve only just reached the threshold of how many times I can listen to the same song in a row and have finally had to shift to some different music.

After those few hours, I had listened to nearly 30 versions of the song—several of which I really liked and listened to on repeat a number of times. I started to wonder about how long this venture would take me so I began to scroll…and scroll…and scroll…and scroll…and I realized that there have been endless covers of this song. Endless!

Needless to say, for sanity’s sake, I won’t be listening to every version of this song that is available. I did however enjoy the journey, and found country, rock, instrumental, and a more house version of the song mixed in, among many others. I learned that the original was by Chris Isaak, released in 1989. A few top personal favorites of mine are by Parra for Cuva (feat. Anna Naklab), Celine Dion, Y.V.E. 48, Boy & Bear, Bthelick / 9Ts / Seren & Chillion, Stone Sour, and Widowspeak.

With my all-time favorite to date being by Theory of a Deadman! Executed to perfection with all the feeling and suspense I believe the song requires.

Music is far-reaching. Songs are powerful. The nature of discovering music is so different today with immediate and infinite access. Like nearly everything in the world, pros and cons of that can be argued until earth is ended and the very last beat, note, or lyric is sounded. I will simply say that this little foray into the depths of one single song leads me to gratitude for the nature of music appreciation and how a song can be so regarded, meaningful, or catchy, to so wide a swath of people across time and borders, that there exists innumerable versions to satisfy every form of musical taste out there.

Write, Sing and Play on, artists and musicians—as songs continue to become the diaspora of genres that reach each and everyone in some meaningful way, and in what I hope is a continued mode of uniting humanity and cultivating community.