Morning Rain & Sailor's Tales

1:11pm was the exact moment of departure.  It was dark gray and pissing rain, the tide high and far into the land of ghosts.  Cruising at a modest 73mph through the unreal while the light gives way to water and black that obscures everything but your bleak imagination, the next bend in the road promotes psychotic optimism; an odd conglomeration of self-produced wide emotion and stress, you know the ocean is near, can hear the break above the storm that flashes in the distance.  And there are voices, many by count, but they are your own and the first night confines your nerves in a room that feels institutionalized and hard and lonely.  Echoing the adventure that has thus far been an exorcise in denial, an itch, the scratch and the dry, uncomfortable bedding not withstanding, to wake up stale, but reinvigorated is pleasant and reassuring, like this, the day after a bad hangover, a new morning awash with possibility. 

And there is more gray.  More rain.  But I feel that I am dressed appropriately, residing in the guts of a large black beast of a vehicle that has essentially been my home for the last year.  It's appetite is veracious and in the next few days there will be many innocent miles sacrificed to appease its hunger.  And I will be the man wielding the knife.  Shamelessly, I am whistling early this morning, eager to get back on the road.  Whatever it may have been that unhinged my sense of ease the night before is gone, my thoughts and movements are once again fluid.  This is to be my final stateside hoorah.   




Thus, I move with a quickness, settled by the ebb and flow of the road and its curvaceous nature, I find that my pulse guides me.  Sustenance is consumed in tandem with the drive.  Coffee, orange juice, rain water are all part of the regiment.  And with a full belly I fine tune all of my worlds into one coherent movement, the earth rotating on its axis, propelling my creation southward.  And where at one time Paul Bunyan and Babe the Blue Ox cleared the path, they have been stumped by the Trees of Mystery where the inseparable companions now reside to contemplate the rain drenched coast line, past lost man creek, 8 miles from confusion hill, passing into Mendocino county, the night is exceptionally vibrant here in the rarefied air; a mountain hideout, loud and robust, amplified by the silence and then contained by the trees; a magnificently framed past life, which always needs to be adjusted for hazardous weather conditions.  And the contradiction of those human beings now present.  They are dirty and unaware, striving relentlessly to usher in a new age of unbridled idiocy.  Yes, focus on the music and take note that the fire place in the common hall is big enough to roast no less than three full grown men.  There is a sweetness in the air that mixes nicely with the antique dust and furniture and I imagine this place bustling with the proper clientele, a rustic sort, both ladies and gents, heavy into the whiskey, gin, and cards.  A crowd deep into the music.  And always composed.  Naturally, I find myself comfortable in the world apart, amid the history and the ghosts who direct me towards my room and extend an invitation to join them for a drink once I'm settled.


 
Following my navigation through a maze of hallways, I am relieved to unload my gear which carries a substantial weight in cold beer.  There is no television in my room, only the complimentary night cap and high quality correspondence stock, which I intend to put to good use.  Sitting for a moment, a luxury afforded by the reading chair lingering in the corner, I open the window overlooking the courtyard to breathe the air, high in this mountainous terrain.  With the weather and moisture, the magic brilliance, static electricity plays hell with unwelcome plastics, but not those things composed of harder stuff; stone, iron, bone.  The ice is mischievous.  All seems appropriate.  A little medicinal smoke?  Why not?  And then on to the bar.


 
The inhabitants of the hotel establishment are mostly industry types, the tourists being either in the dining room or in bed.  With the exception of one enormous shady plush toy at the far end of the bar, I am lit to the point of no concern.  And after a drink or two, I too feel inclined to retire.  But there is misguided testosterone in the halls, obnoxious and dirty and not far from my door.  I manage to slip inside undetected while the lunacy rages through the halls; somebody has been accused of being chicken shit.  And rightly so, judging by the sounds alone.  I am tempted to make witness of the spectacle, but only laugh aloud, thinking better of introducing my presence, reminded, of course, of my own misanthropic tendencies.  Instead, I focus on the complimentary brandy, once again finding my place next to the open window.  The air is frigid, a shock to the skin and lungs, but pairs well with the internal sweetness and warmth of the dark syrupy liquor.  And my trip once again weighs heavy on my mind, but not as a burden.  It has finally become an adventure, a tomorrow to look forward to, like the next big surprise to be pulled from the hat.

Once again, everything has been marked by rain.  More rain this morning, but the air is not an unruly, biting creature.  There is a peace to its existence.  And it promotes breathing deeply, long and with passion so that the veins swell in your hands and heart.  The last three days I've spent underwater in the currents and the turbulent calm, in the sounds of the weathered pacific coast; it is a colossal northwest storm traversing three state lines and half the week.  I consider it a wishful send-off.  And now, further on down South to visit an old friend and take part in what will be my second fake thanksgiving in as many weeks.  Turkeys beware, I have a mighty hunger for your flesh.

My notes grow vague from this point, perhaps distracted by the hypnotic trembling fauna along a road fast and sanguine in spite of being dangerously rain soaked.  I travel hard, stopping only in odd places, a deserted medieval village, an ocean vista where I pick off a branch of windswept pine, bowing to the east in prayer, deferring to the sea, and then finally on to reach Santa Cruz.  I have dinner with a banana slug, sleep on a deflated air mattress and after much coffee, back on the road again.    
     

Today finds me exploring john wayne territory in the fading sun, from the coast now to the desert under a great numbers of stars.  I drive almost through the night, stop only to sleep and shave, before heading to Tucson.  This will be my final thanksgiving, time well spent with my brother.  Fuck, it is dusty in Tucson.  But the margaritas are delicious and dirt cheap and four days after my arrival I am to get on a plane to Los Angeles and then South once more.  When my flight ends I will be have been up for roughly 38 hours, drunk then sober, rinse and repeat, then land approximately 7,000 miles from home; a stranger in a strange land with only an abstract notion of what the hell I'm doing there ...    

---------

12/21/12

The rare summer rain, a downpour and the mix of petrol, scorched earth, water and the sky dropped form great heights.  The wind accentuates the nature of the fall, a meditative discord in great harmony with the soul unleashed.  And from the dark the sound resonates among the living, each liquid drop a memory that floods the concrete streets on their way to the sea.
Tomorrow I imagine the sun will return ending this all too brief exercise in aquatic meditation; a deep cleanse of this colorfully grungy city.  I have found that in this place one has no choice but to embrace the dirt.  Sitting in quiet reserve as one does, you can look up from your work and outside, caught in the turbulent sunlight, the dirt follows the currents of the ocean breeze and becomes Everywhere & Everything.  Without a sound of its own it will fill your eyes, your lungs, form an imperceptible layer over your food, and thicken your beer.  Here, you eat the dirt.  Drink the dirt.  Breath the dirt.  Here, you become the dirt.  And the path you take cannot be hidden until those days that it rains.  Plan your crimes accordingly.
--------------

12/22.12

I don't know why I've always failed to date my writing.  Today is the 22nd of Dec, 2012; the day after the End of the World.  I can still  hear the bells toll in near proximity ….

There is a ladybug that has been following me around, keeps slipping into my pockets for reasons that allude me.  Everybody else seems to want to cross the street when they draw near, while I sit on my front steps.  But I do not fault them.  I stand out here more than any place I've ever been.  And that makes people wary.  Or at the very least, annoyed that their neighborhood has been infected by the gringos.  But no matter.  After a long pull, I tuck my beer away in the shadow of my crooked knee, out of the sun to keep cold, take a lion's breath, extending the tongue on the exhale, confusing the dog.  But he, at the very least, is comfortable with my peculiar company.

Again with the bells ….  It would seem that the lunatics have taken control of the church overnight.  I wonder if this is cause for concern or simply a redundancy buried in the inevitability of things.