9/13: Portland- The Vanity Plate

I mentioned in the opening of my September 12th miniseries that periods of time seem to have their own life-cycle. Sunday the 13th was the first scene of the concluding sequence. In a matter of an hour, I would begin to see how this intense stay would likely end. Then later would come an intense introduction to a new, and powerful idea: Reductionism. (Introduced by Steve, henceforth referred to as The Sage) This contrast would also awaken a temporarily dormant distrust of affluence, and provide a classic example of dueling identities. Which would prevail? Good stuff!

Almost immediately, I noticed that intense energy of the previous night had vanished, been replaced by something far less appealing, and realized that my suggestion of acting as Andre's little personal assistant was unlikely, at best. The Andre I had seen on the couch just a few hours earlier was replaced by the business man. It was still a possibility, but there was no way at this point to know anything, and I was about to be personally introduced to Andre's duality, and his personal battle.

My first order of business was to make good on my pledge to reiterate a heartfelt apology to Cody, which I did, trying my best to make clear I felt responsible, and bad, about our little spat. He was gracious, and shortly after Andre was once again talking about my dental work, saying he would surely call the dentist at home later in the day and if he couldn't reach him, definitely first thing Monday. Monday?? Wait! Cody and I were under the impression that the Vancouver sailing trip would begin today! Andre was obviously plotting revisions in "plans" (HA!), and not sharing the changes with us. We were evidently the dinghy tied to Andre's metaphorical freighter: Where and when he went, we were unquestionably towed. This was to be expected and I am getting used to this sort of life, but it was frustrating Cody! He had begun arranging for his friend to meet us in Vancouver, since the sailboat slept seven. But, this uncertainty left this friend potentially hung out to dry. We each gently prodded Andre several times, and his response was an ambiguous suggestion that "first you create the 'miracle,' (teeth) then add the details later." It appeared that Andre was prepared to postpone the sailing trip temporarily to accommodate my as-yet confirmed dental appointment, and from that moment until the moment we left, the two of us would be left in a confusing state of limbo.

I could not have cared less. As far as I knew, my schedule was open at least thru at least 2012, but hearing Andre talk about the dental procedure again continued bothering me for several reasons. First:the logistics. He had done this for people before, and the procedure came with a seven day recovery process included standard and free of charge! Inserting Titanium sockets is major surgery, and involves drilling directly into the jawbone. Not something to take lightly! And, by the way Andre, where exactly was I going to convalesce? In my bivy in the middle of the Rose Garden? That I could answer myself: No. This was not a "detail" I would "fill in later." That was of course significant, but a much larger sliver was infecting my mind: while still grateful for the offer, I had finally identified the source of my hesitation.

If you'll recall, when Andre first suggested this I was thrilled. Yet his well-meaning explanation, that it would "increase my confidence" immensely and as a result "doors would fly open" never set well. Let me ask you a question, dear reader: Do I seem to suffer from Confidence Deficiency Syndrome? Hopefully you've not answered with an emphatic, "HELL NO! You're an arrogant ass!" but, I do have a healthy confidence where it's important: I believe in myself, my ideas, what I'm doing, and where I'm being taken. What Andre referred to was a restoration of "vanity." Let's call it by it's proper name. "Words ARE important" after all. Like my father (henceforth referred to as Ward... as in Cleaver), not being raised with him was a blessing in disguise, having to suddenly then constantly deal with my appearance (and how it got that way) ultimately reaped significant long-term benefits. It helped me to steer inward- by denting the exterior. Yes, it HAS sucked, and yes... I would love to have them fixed... but do I NEED that? Is replacing a constant reminder that "strength is internal" with an expensive, titanium vanity plate how he "could be of maximum benefit to me?" Of course not. If it were, I would be in more trouble than I care to admit: It would indicate an excessive concern for how people react to me. Sound like anyone we all know? Dennis, perhaps? No, this was most certainly NOT how Andre could be of "maximum benefit" to me. And, I decided to tell him so. Let's see where his heart really was. Was it really to be of "maximum benefit," or to languish in the role of a philanthropic "God" performing whichever arbitrary acts that made him feel the best, rather than being of the greatest benefit? That reeked of agenda-induced charity, Pastor Snake's "arrangement," in this case where the agenda was ego.

Andre had, unwittingly I believe, set an extremely high bar for himself with his own dear "words." Always ferreting out authenticity, it was time for me to cross reference his ego's account with his mouth's as-yet uncleared checks. As I had heard all weekend, words, are most definitely important. Yet, so are the actions behind words. However, for me- the intentions behind actions sit at the very top. People can be coerced or shamed into action, and acts executed under duress are utterly meaningless. You learn a person by offering a clear choice, then allowing them to act unimpeded as they see fit. It was time to parse Andre's words on the Plane of Reality, then reconcile them with his ensuing action, thereby giving him the opportunity to put some meat on the verbal bone. Would this skeleton too remain bare?

Focusing on these motives, it's important to note that I suddenly became acutely aware of the biblical verse that says it's easier for a camel to pass thru the head of a needle than for a rich man to get into Heaven, and also my repeatedly preached, "YOU are the easiest one for you to fool." I love my metaphors, so let's turn on the faucet, and push some water into that pipe. He liked the idea the night before, right?

"Debt is a State of Mind"

Our lengthy conversation of the early morning had ignited my mind. Even in my sleep I was connecting dots and exploring alternatives & possibilities. Shortly after Andre had woken up, and we had gone through his morning medication ritual, I decided to pounce. Let's see if he was really committed to being of maximum benefit, or if, as I was beginning to suspect, it was more accurate to change his question to a statement: "This is I how I wish to be of benefit to you." Words are impor... Hell, you get the point by now, right?

I had come up with a few alternatives to the new Vanity Plate; ones that would be infinitely more "beneficial" in the long run. The one I had settled on was bold, but Andre preached "going for it all" in business; Why not here? My suggestion was to get an estimate for the dental/ vanity procedure, then take that amount and secretly deposit it into Shalain's account. When she discovered it, then regained consciousness and picked herself off the floor, it would be made clear that it was there solely for her to eliminate debt. I elaborated to Andre that, despite sometimes great difficulty, she has stood behind me through this long odyssey, from radio to present day, and for the most part shown great faith in what I was doing. Without that support, I would not be here; she deserves as much credit as I. Unfortunately, she has only lived these incredible experiences and powerful moments of synchronicity/ serendipity like you: second-hand. I thought, rightfully so, that she deserved to have something unbelievable, and tangible, happen to HER. Something that was directly connected to my odyssey... and her support of it. And most importantly, Shalain has been struggling to begin a similar journey of her own. Albeit one that does NOT entail sleeping in the weeds! She too wants to begin expanding her realm and perspective of existence. Without what she perceives as shackles of debt, I explained, Shalain could focus fully on her "voice" thereby helping she and I to move closer to a similar playing field, rather than having the game played solely on my turf. I thought long and hard about this, and without question this would be of "maximum benefit" in perpetuity, and cost no more, if not less than a superficial Vanity Plate; a piece of titanium for me to smile with.

His response? A simplistic, "Debt is a state of mind."

"Really, Andre?" I said to myself, steaming. "Yet, vanity driven self-consciousness isn't?"

Water, meet crack. Shit! That didn't take long. What the hell am I going to do with the rest of my day?

He didn't explicitly say so, but his face betrayed that he detested the idea, and actually appeared offended! Presumably at the perceived rejection of the "new smile." He then ditched discussion by claiming it would "mean more if we eliminated it ourselves," as if it were something for which we'd proudly receive The Economic Participation Achievement Award, complete with commemorative plaque! Again, Andre was either lost in rhetoric, or had sadly misinterpreted me. It had to be rhetoric. In comparative context to the dental work, I could NOT imagine he actually believed that! Not being obtuse, he had to see the glaring disconnect in, nearly in the same breath, claiming that it would be the "best thing in the world" to fix what drunken rage was responsible for?

No friends, this was not an issue of a simple disconnect at all. This was about ego. It later occurred to me that on some level he was practicing a curious "secondary" empathy, yet he had actually personalized the Vanity Plate; made it his own (identified with it) because he was projecting his own insecurities onto me. Recall, he had admitted he "fucking hated" that the medications had caused a significant weight gain. Fixing my teeth could be a way of treating in me what he couldn't in himself: an ego tormented by self-consciousness and vanity. This... was about him, and how helping me could be of maximum benefit to himself. When I countered with something (anything) different, of course his ego was "offended," I had exposed it, and left it standing in the corner alone.

With that, came a flurry of connections. I had been absolutely correct in deducing that his "maximum benefit" question was a gross semantic misrepresentation and rather than asking, he was in fact saying ("words are important!"), "I have decided that this is how helping you will be of maximum benefit to me." Again, the thoughts and intentions behind actions are much more important than the precluding chest pounding proclamations. At least they should be. Particularly to a person professing a commitment to truth and spiritual growth, all the while advertising intentions to do "the most good while he's here." Andre set this bar of expectation all by himself by dramatically touting his intentions. However, it now seemed a more authentic narrative would be one involving some elk, a Santa suit, and mercifully losing the pretension of espousing himself a "Worker of Magic." And, to finally quit asking his now exposed, egoistic, misleading question. The Sage's "Reductionist" idea would have been helpful here, but as of yet I had no idea what it was!

There were now fresh questions, but what bothered me most was what I now perceived to be possibly disingenuous claims indirectly mocking things I strongly believe in. I took into account that he probably had never considered ANY of these difficult concepts, due to an admitted inability to ask critical questions of himself. I also knew honesty was in order. Yet, I was in his home and challenging him in front of Cody, whom Andre assumed viewed him as his heroic benefactor, would unleash his colossal ego's vicious attack dogs! That, and several other red-flags were flying high. One of which needs some explanation.

Not often, but anger is on that rare occasion a gift. I even seem to remember a story about Jesus rampaging through a temple once upon a time! Picture me at the money changer's table for a moment as I express (rant? no! I prefer "expressively explain!") the root of a long-held, deep distrust for "The Moneyed." As mentioned before, I've seen its abuse and am quite sensitive to the use of wealth as power, and as a way to toy with people. But it's a useless battle. Wealth IS power- if you submit to it. And, make no mistake, that's at least partially what I am discussing here. Disguised, misleading charity is the act of asserting the ego through a manner of control: power. The source and explanation of the disguise is irrelevant, and the trick to combating it is a simple defiance; not allowing yourself to become submissive to that brand of subjugation, ever. Leave that ego in the corner, regardless of who it belongs to.

My mother's ex-husband served as my indoctrination into how money and lust for that control can rot people from within; their greed transforming them into little more than control-obsessive trolls, who in the end are left wondering why no one admires them the way they themselves do! Our story's protagonist is a particularly grotesque gargoyle who carries the last name many of you in Michigan remember, and is the founder of a very successful tool fabrication business in Litchfield. He's made boatloads of money, and he is the most miserable prick, in both senses of "miserable & prick" I've ever known. I mention him because, when my mother filed for divorce, he refused to pay child support despite his success, in an effort to "force her to come back." I have a vivid memory, as a boy of 6 or 7, of watching as he grabbed my mother by the throat and choked her in a blind rage; a rage borne from an inability to accept that his wealth could not "buy what he really wanted." That- will leave an impression.

He and my mother have a daughter who was partially handicapped in an auto accident as a child, my half-sister, whom I must reiterate, he NEVER helped to support or raise. Jane's neurological damage is degenerative, so she can now barely walk, has been stranded for hours in her own tub, just recently had eye surgery, and, due to a swindler of an ex-husband, had her accident settlement money "legally" stolen from her. Unable to afford legal assistance or even bankruptcy, she lives in Fresno with her two grown children, who themselves cannot find work due to the "economic crisis." The three of them inhabit a house they can't maintain, she's physically unable to work, pay the utilities, or even drive. Like my friend Kim, Jane was, unbelievably, denied disability so she was forced (yes, forced) to use credit cards just to survive- for a matter of years. She is now over $100,000 in debt. My mother, who draws minuscule social security, has been using HER OWN food assistance card in Michigan to mail food to Jane in California!

Allow me to switch gears for just a moment. Remember that, "Debt is a state of mind" comment? Forgive me, Andre, if nearly two weeks later I finally show my sensitivity and invite you, now that you're visiting MY home, to take that particular simplistic, arrogant, aristocratic comment and lodge it squarely, firmly and deeply up your ass. That remark could be construed to have been spoken by someone who, like my beloved Charity-Adventure Travelers, is on a Philanthropic Field Trip to the Ghetto: arbitrarily handing out $20 bills then returning to the gated community, singing their own praises of "life-changing charity" to the other bubble-buddies... and Master Craft passengers. (Yes, I heard all of that. How's that song go? Oh oh, ohhh... Voices Carry?) I've wondered, do any of you posses a legitimate concept of, or concern for, the Plebeian reality beyond anecdotes about your amusing, random encounters with those of us "down here" who are lucky enough to be randomly graced with your presence and influence? Because it was off the cuff and obviously the repeated, talking-point variety of cliche', that single comment possibly said more in a split second than the hours of rhetoric over the days before. MUCH more on this coming... Stay tuned.

I'm such a tease.

As for Jane's father? He is, not surprisingly, estranged from both of his daughters, and despite Jane's destitution he has willed his millions... all of it... to Hillsdale College. Yeah, they fucking need it! But, while his daughter suffers, maybe he'll get a building named after him. I clearly don't speak to him but as best I can gather, he himself has been significantly incapacitated by a stroke, and although he is explicitly aware of Jane's situation, rather than empathize he has chosen to sit on his hands and let her and his grandchildren teeter on the brink of homelessness and struggle for the most basic of necessities. Apparently, she had refused to "behave" the way he would have liked. But, who knows? Perhaps you can call and ask him then let me know. In fact, I encourage it. Once he's on the line simply say, "You owned JVDW, right? [Yes.] Then, why is your disabled daughter unable to pay her utility bills and having food MAILED to her in Fresno?" Then, in the unlikely event he hasn't hung up, smile with your voice and cheerfully tell him, "Todd says hi, you despicable fuck." Perhaps now you can understand why I want this repugnant, vile creature's putrid name amputated from the rest of mine.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

With that comment, my toggle immediately switched to the "off" position. I had allowed myself to be an active participant in his game for a day, but my water had reliably found its crack. Seeing my sister's face, as well as those of Kim, Pat, Ciel, Jo, Howard, Lonnie, both Wills, my out-of-work friends in Michigan, AND the multitudes of other folks I had talked to on the road, Andre had silently infuriated me with this clueless, blatantly-bourgeois remark. Rather than argue, however, it was just time to disengage, resume my happy role as The Quiet Observer, and just let Andre show who he was. I had laid it all out by making a genuine offer of mutual assistance and showing him the reality of how he could be of "maximum benefit"... if he truly wanted to. Now, it was up to him. I immediately relinquished my participatory membership card, and gleefully hopped back in the side car. There was nothing else to do but reflect, think about Vancouver and beyond... and enjoy myself!

Moving On... Right?

The rest of Sunday was tame, but fun. I had half-expected the reaction I had gotten from Andre, albeit without the snide remark. My reaction to his resembled way Chris and I had handled our recurring tensions out east, and surprised me a bit. After the initial, intense anger quickly dispersed, I just moved on. We all went to work preparing for the now-delayed trip to Vancouver; cleaning the boat, sleeping quarters, the kitchen etc.; whatever Andre wanted help with. Later, the three of us went out for groceries and pizza and Andre took us on a very cool sight-seeing trip around Portland as I laughed at the fact that this was the first I had actually seen of Portland's interior since floating into his place Thursday night! Included on the Andre Itinerary was Suicide Bridge which is located in the affluent "Hills" area. Andre told of how former tycoons had made good use of this bridge, "former" being the key word. It was here that they had messily relieved us of their presence after losing everything. Later came a swing through the famous Rose Garden, a visit to REI for Cody's gear cleaner, then back to the house to continue to prepare for Monday's supposed departure.

For his part, Cody was on a roller coaster and impatient to get moving. He asked repeatedly when Andre planned on leaving, receiving ambiguous replies... if any at all. It didn't seem to matter much to Andre, nor did the fact that it did matter to Cody matter to Andre. Why should it, right? I noticed the telltale signs of being ready to go myself. I was getting a bit more irritable, less tolerant of redundancy, and Andre's spell was beginning to wane on both Cody and I. Andre's "presence" reminders become annoying, especially being tired and spending most of the day pondering the events of earlier and the previous evening. I started to seriously rethink Vancouver all together after learning that our pacifist neighbors to the north are Draconian when it comes to admitting DUI offenders! It's an "excludable" offense, and if disclosed admission into Canada is completely at the discretion of the border agent. Andre contacted his lawyer Sunday evening, having similar concerns, and we would hope to hear more from him the next day. Andre and Cody got into a rather deep discussion about Cody's family so, being tired anyhow, I returned the favor Cody had done for me the night before and retired shortly before 1am giving them some privacy. At that point, the "plan" (HA!) for driving to Vancouver had been pushed back to Monday evening. We'll see...

8/16: That Uppity Ego

Dennis has become a major catalyst for a sobering perspective shift and a stunning transition. This has been a vicious personal process, considering I knew him for five short hours 15-months ago. I often talk high-minded about “lessons,” and if there is a small positive that I may be able to take from this sad story of Dennis, maybe it’s the long- overdue, deep seeded acceptance of “give & take” and a significant reinforcement of the Big Two of 2009: “The Side Car” and “The Center of the Universe.” The last two weeks has also made me view the next few months much differently.

I have been forced to re-evaluate how I view myself and the connections I’ve made while traveling. I long ago stopped believing in random “coincidence,” and while I will not invoke the Celestine Prophecy and claim that every interaction is of some importance, oftentimes people arrive in your life, or you arrive in theirs, at just that right time. What is hard for the ego to grasp is that it is not always for you. But, it is the height of arrogance to assume that every person is a bit player in each of our own personal dramas; that “fate” has only our particular interests in mind: Center of the Universe. Yet, each of us periodically falls into this bear trap, and it is difficult to observe while in its jaws.

People much more articulate than I have written it, but it seems that sometimes we need to resign ourselves to servitude; the Brush rather than the Artisan. I have concluded that was my role with Dennis, but while I wrote at the time that I knew I was of some potential use to him, my primary focus was on the egoistic thought that, “Hey! Maybe I’m fucking right about all of this!” Pathetic, yet understandable. On the other hand, I could have done nothing to “save” him. The ultimate responsibility to reclaim his life and identity WAS his. Conveyed words and ideas are useless to he who is blind and deaf. Staying with him that night was pointless, and considering the vibe and his ultimate fate, out of the question. My instincts were solid; what else could I have done? Nothing. You can extend a hand to the man lying in the gutter but what if he refuses to pull himself up? We are always given the black and white metaphorical choice: Fate v. Freewill. Maybe Forest Gump had it right and it’s both. I am also rapidly coming to believe Rush’s notion that blaming venomous fate is victimist thinking. Fate can influence and provide us opportunity, but our decisions define us. Or, perhaps fate is influenced by our decisions? I’ll let someone else crawl into that paradox. My regret resides not in my actions, but in my ignorance as to its significance.

Days of thinking about all of this and a couple other events have caused me to step back, relax and, to borrow A.A.’s term, take a bit of an inventory. I have asked questions that have resulted in frightening and intimidating answers. Ones that require relinquishing a degree of control. I am not entirely sure at this point that I want, or even know how to accept that entirely. Then again, it’s too late to have any choice in the matter, isn’t it? That time has long past. Fighting it only prolongs and complicates the inevitable.

I have fought individual and collective battles with Uppity Egos over the months, and I believe I have begun to see where mine has been dragging me. It is also becoming clear where the good half of that duality has been not so gently nudging me with that oft-mentioned “irritation.” My purpose has little to do with developing technical schematics for the secrets of the universe. They are secret for a reason and it is laughable to think that I (or anyone) is that clever. Even if I were to come to conclusions and decided to share it, how would I then be any different from Mormon Missionaries? How would I be different from the Christians who trade charity only in exchange for the chance to impose their doctrine? I believe mine is a process of learning how to remain “awake,” or tuned- in while returning to 2008’s mindset of riding the wave; seeing what characters take the stage, but also with a keen focus on when I am playing the role of the bit player. Staying tapped into what Brian called Flow; the unseen but tangible energy of life that we can touch, feel, and use to guide us; the source of Joy. Those of you familiar with Joseph Campbell will probably recognize it as “Bliss.” For the record, I have yet to read or watch any of his material except for a few excerpts but here is one:

“But if a person has had the sense of the Call -- the feeling that there's an adventure for him -- and if he doesn't follow that, but remains in the society because it's safe and secure, then life dries up. And then he comes to that condition in late middle age: he's gotten to the top of the ladder, and found that it's against the wrong wall.

If you have the guts to follow the risk, however, life opens, opens, opens up all along the line. I'm not superstitious, but I do believe in spiritual magic, you might say. I feel that if one follows what I call one's "bliss" -- the thing that really gets you deep in your gut and that you feel is your life -- doors will open up. They do! They have in my life and they have in many lives that I know of.

…When you are at a certain age…and look back over your life, it seems to be almost as orderly as a composed novel. And just as in Dickens' novels, little accidental meetings and so forth turn out to be main features in the plot, so in your life. And what seem to have been mistakes at the time, turn out to be directive crises…

Life seems as though it were planned; and there is something in us that's causing what you hear of as being accident-prone: it's something in ourselves. There is a mystery here… Can anything happen to you for which you're not ready? I look back now on certain things that at the time seemed to be real disasters, but the results turned out to be the structuring of a really great aspect of my life and career. So what can you say?

And the other point is, if you follow your bliss, you'll have your bliss, whether you have money or not. If you follow money, you may lose money, and then you don't have even that. The secure way is really the insecure way and the way in which the richness of the quest accumulates is the right way.” –Joseph Campbell “An Open Life”

You will either sense a familiarity with that, or have no clue what the hell we’re talking about! It’s useless to attempt explaining it; you get it or you don’t, but it is the foundation of everything. It’s your “Voice.” The one that so many artists have tried to capture. Unfortunately, I don’t believe everyone is capable of acquiring that frequency or maybe they’re so lost in ego and corrupted identity that they simply can’t hear it. Many more can hear it, but have no idea what it is and are incapable of articulating it beyond a feeling. A “Splinter in the Mind.”

I am a Spiritual Anarchist. Each person’s beliefs are his or her own; to find on his or her own. That thing I term the Voice, Campbell calls Bliss, and some refer to as Consciousness, is not be dictated by, confused with, or confounded by any doctrine. I believe that was what I was trying to convey with the “Dragon Parable.” That basic, ancient concept of self-discovery IS the essence of spirituality and the Voice’s vocal cords. The “spirit” in spirituality refers to yours, and only you speak its language. It is tuning in to your sixth sense. The Voice, Frequency, Bliss, call it Broccoli if you want; terminology is meaningless. Snake and other Christians refer to it as a “calling.” Eastern religion describes it as God Within, using meditation (Sit Down & Shut Up?) to engage it and become that Sidecar. Of course, none of this philosophy is anything new. What are new is where it is taking me, and how the course has been altered.

It’s easy, when discovering something you think will help others, to become excited and want to give it away. Brian’s insight has resonated well: mirroring is the way to inspire people, by offering them the opportunity to quietly and privately inspire themselves thru introspection. In my opinion, “Peace Pilgrim” is a hypocritical nut job, and I do not buy her self-righteous claims about “finding total peace.” No one finds total peace, unless they’re named Buddha or Jesus, but there is one wonderful quote in her little pamphlet: “You cannot change anyone but yourself. After you have become an example, you can inspire others to change themselves.” I have noticed that at work several times from surprising sources when I have not spoken or written a word. It usually begins through a series of serious, heartfelt questions usually in an attempt to understand and fight fear. It’s remarkable and humbling, but I personally do not aspire to be The Great Sage of the West, nor some self- appointed Leader of Men. Beware of those assuming or preparing for that particular title. Our past is littered with these egomaniacs: Manson thought and convinced others that God put him on earth to lead following Helter Skelter. Hitler "knew the path" to domination for the Aryan Race. I am sure there are more than a couple “vacuum fillers” embedded in the various militias around the country waiting for the collapse. The best leaders do not have to campaign; they are just followed.

Looking Forward

Over the last week, I have decided to abandon the Seattle plan, and perhaps Oregon & California. Such is not my path. While Chris and I share many of the same beliefs, our focus now lie in significantly different directions. Over the past month, whenever I would discuss the plan to ride with Chris, Penney & Robert to Washington, I would notice that it was quickly followed by that same annoyance that’s been plaguing me in various degrees since New Jersey, and it had gotten more intense since Dennis. It became obvious that my path needs to be solo, and look more similar to 2008. The difference being that I have an acute awareness of the Ying & Yang of alternating roles, as well as taking the Big Two of 2009, and practicing them on a more consistent basis. It’s not hard to get back there. All I have to do is remember the people from the last 15-months: Snake, Will, Ciel, Pat, Nick, Ken, Cesar, Jo, Florian, Eric & Marine, Kim, Gus, Trent, Shelly, Steve, Brian, Dave, Inga, and more. These people and more have left significant traces.

Fear

Since Michigan, this is a topic I seem to be contemplating and discussing quite frequently. Fear is a never-ending fight and if we cower too often, it can cripple and make us a prisoner of our own mind.

I find it hilarious that people often tell me that they find me "courageous." Someone famous wrote, “None but a coward dares to boast that he has never known fear.” Well, I have known more than most! It has had a history of paralyzing me. I have made a mistake in not publishing the back-story from 2004- 2008, before Running with the Wind. I will correct that eventually, but it literally took me those 4- years to hit the road, primarily due to fear. The “what ifs” consumed me. I was never prepared enough, never had the right equipment, or the destination was not right because too much “might happen.” Much of that was due to a lack of confidence, a major source of fear. In the weeks leading up to my departure in May 2008 I repeatedly shredded myself in my journal about the fact that I KNEW I was an obvious coward with nothing but big talk and bigger ideas, and I was sick of feeling powerless to do anything about it. This is from April 20, 2008, exactly one month before I began this little adventure:

“Same old story. I thrive when it’s concept and planning but when it comes time to execute [and] put my ass on the line I hesitate, procrastinate, and try to avoid the hard fought experience I need to answer questions, identify weaknesses and conquer my pathetic fears. Fear doesn’t reside in the heart of the adversary or [in the] prospect of failure; it resides in the heart of the coward… In many ways, I am indeed a coward. How else can I identify or define it? That’s the hard truth, but I hold out hope that I’ll still be able to change that…. I’m obviously afraid to find and redefine these old boundaries and [create] new ones…. I can ‘pontificate’ to the end of the world, but it’s... simple. I’m a coward. I’m only dipping my little toe into the ocean of ideas I’ve created. It’s as though I’ve built a bridge and am afraid to cross it on my own., waiting for someone else to try it out because I’m not sure I trust my own craftsmanship… While it helps to explain the “whys” and the details of these fears, let’s not lose sight of what it really is. Call it by its real name: Cowardice… From here on, I won’t be delicate about that, and need to be conscious of attacking these things in whatever way I can... This phase is about attacking fears. Cowardice. I don’t like using that term: Coward. Yet I believe it’s an important admission… Admitting to fear, something common to all of us, is somehow gentle, and open to rationalization and easy acceptance of failings. Cowardice, however, is a character flaw. Unforgivable for a man who’s critical of the status quo and systemic life.”

Fear is a motherfucker because it is a terrifying, loud ghost. It’s usually not based on anything tangible in the moment; danger in the moment is confronted with action and instinct. Either fear is rooted in the future (what if) or on the past (what was). I decided to post this self-loathing little entry as an example because, with the benefit of hindsight and experience, I see how silly it was. I was in the business of creating my own worst- case scenarios. “What if” was the phrase most commonly running through my mind. Luckily, I was able to remember the effects of this toxic thinking after I left and this helped combat the nagging fears that remained present, but steadily and quickly faded as time went by. The “Vern Moment” in Wyoming was a watershed because, once through it, I was finally able to laugh at these previously terrifying fears.

“The ability to feel fear and keep moving forward distinguishes the living from the merely breathing.” is one of my favorite quotes. You will never completely eliminate fear, but you have a choice of how to handle it. Be crippled by irrational fears and be the equivalent of a brain in the vat, or confront them. In my experience, the more you confront them, the more confidence you gain from the realization that they usually are based on… nothing. A good starting point: Ask yourself, “What would I do if I were not afraid?”

An important distinction is the difference between irrational fear and hubris. If you put yourself in ridiculously dangerous situations, for which you are ill- prepared and do not know it, you deserve your fate. Find your boundaries and know your limitations. Chris McCandless of Into the Wild fame has attained cult status amongst many misguided hippie- youth because they believe he died “nobly” living his ideals. Horseshit. He starved to death, and stupidly. The kid thought that he could commune with nature, despite the fact that he had grossly inadequate skills to survive in Alaska.

There was a similar story just this past month in Colorado. He set off into the back-country, eventually mailed much of his gear home, and then quit receiving his supplies. They found his body near Lake City in July, after spending the winter buried beneath 20’ of snow. They found him next to a cabin that may have saved his life, but was unable to get inside because he was ill- equipped. Like McCandless, this person had noble ideals but was either arrogant, or "inadequately common sensed." This hiker was, by all accounts, highly intelligent, had well- developed ideas and kept a meticulous journal. However, he failed to protect it, so not only was HE lost… so was his essence. In the end, what did he die for? To become an anecdote?

Some fear is good; the kind that occasionally protects you from yourself and prevents you from stumbling into legitimately dangerous situations. A little courage coupled with a cup of common sense and a dash of realistic humility will take one a long way.

8/7: Dennis- Violent End to a Tragic Life

As you can probably tell by all the references and foreshadowing, I have been gnawing on this particular post. I have intended to write it each and every one of the past six days, but wanted to be sure that it did not turn into an angry, emotional, self-serving rant. It still may, but it is never going to be the perfect time to write it, so here goes. Comments as always are always welcome below, but keep them respectful.

Last Saturday afternoon (8/1), I went online to the Denver Post for baseball news when I noticed a link that mentioned a funeral the day before for a police officer in Montrose, Colorado who the previous week was killed in the line of duty. When I saw “Montrose,” I instantly thought of Dennis. He was my first “real” ride ever, and as I read the article, I discovered that the man who killed the police officer and wounded two others before killing himself on July 25th was the same man I had ridden with: Dennis Gurney.

There had been a domestic violence call, and by the time police had arrived, he had barricaded himself in his garage. From what I have gathered, he managed to gain access to the gun safe without his estranged wife’s knowledge, or had stashed guns in the garage prior to the call. Either way, the police were unaware that he was armed when they blindly entered the garage to arrest him. He ambushed them. Dennis shot the three officers with a hunting rifle, killing one, and then turned his .22 Ruger on himself, committing suicide with a single shot to the head.

I sat paralyzed in shocked disbelief for a bit, and then frantically scoured Google devouring any details I could find. I naturally then began to reflect back on the short time I spent with him going back to the original post I had written 15- months ago, and finding it grossly inadequate. In my defense, this was only my third or fourth post and I was then treating this evolving blog like a novelty item, not focused nearly enough on depth. I had not figured everything out yet and was focusing much more on my actual written journal. As you will notice, if you go back to May 2008 via the archives, the posts gradually get more detailed as time goes on. I have seriously considered rewriting them several times, but decided that leaving them relatively untouched would preserve the continuity of where my focus and attitude were at the time. With Dennis’ post, however, simply leaving that blurb to stand-alone is now unacceptable at best, and probably bordering on irresponsible.

The many people I have told about Dennis’ death have seemingly responded the same: “See! People are nuts!” or, “You’re lucky he didn’t kill YOU!”

Horseshit.

Dennis was no lunatic. In my experience, he was a good, generous, obviously tormented person. He was not a person deserving the simplistic label "just another sociopath." With the benefit of hindsight and online newspapers, here is a bit more of his story.

As mentioned in the original post, in 1980 while in his early 20’s an oil well fire severely disfigured him. I had known about the fire and obviously, his appearance, but he had omitted some things from his narrative. Before trying to extinguish the flames, he went BACK to seal the source of the fire, sparing some of his co- workers the same fate in the process, while no doubt making his own infinitely worse. While you may sit in judgment this man, I would invite you to ask yourself this: If YOU were on fire, would you first think of the safety of others first? Or, might you be focusing on the fact that you cooking alive? Does this sound like a man with no regard for life? Now, ask yourself this: How much Hell is a person expected to endure? Once you have your answer, read on.

The fire had burned Dennis’ nose and ears completely off. With 3rd degree burns over 75% of his body, he literally died several times in surgery. Then, his wife was not allowed to see him  for 6-weeks after the accident because she was pregnant, and the doctors were afraid the sight would cause a miscarriage.

His burns were so devastating that doctors were unable to get enough of his skin to complete the graphs and resorted to harvesting skin from human cadavers and pigs. His body periodically rejected these, and the transplanted skin would actually decompose ON his body.

Once the doctors realized he would survive, the reconstruction process began doctors predicted Dennis might live another 10-years. Certainly no more than 20. Remember, this was in 1980.

Dennis’ recovery process required countless reconstructive surgeries over the span of years. The legal process of gaining a settlement from the oil company also took years. Dennis had indicated to me that he was “well off” but I paid little attention figuring, wrongly, that it was bravado. He and his wife ultimately received a huge sum of money, enough so that neither of them ever had to work again. At some point, they moved to Montrose on the advice of doctors who said the dry climate would help a man who had lost his sweat glands.

It appears that things were, relatively speaking, fine for nearly 20- years after the accident. He was active in the community, made friends etc., and there are even anecdotes from friends who never knew him to drink- even a beer. Yet, it appears that in the end that, despite the money and affluence, somewhere around 2000 things began to take a turn. From what I can infer, he began to drink more, becoming increasingly mean, spiteful, depressed, and ultimately violent when he did. Clearly, something had happened or changed. Someone noted that 2000 was the 20- year mark he was never supposed to reach.

Fast forward now to 2008.

Dennis picked me up in May while I was in Ft. Morgan. He claimed that I was the only hitcher he had picked up "in 20,000 miles," and had done so because (as I would hear often from that day forward from various people) he just had a “feeling.” I believe he needed the nonjudgmental companionship that an anonymous backpacker might provide. We spent nearly 5- hours riding along I-70 toward Glenwood Springs and he was gulping his now- famous vodka the entire way. He had a few peculiar conversations with his wife that I could hear via the truck speakers (On- Star), and then became progressively more despondent as the night (and vodka) wore on. His wife had a strange tone to her voice, as though she sensed something familiar (drinking), and was not buying in to his repeated proclamations of sobriety. As the night progressed he became more introspective and reflective, and we forged an odd sort of bond as he began to open up. During that time, I saw first hand, at least superficially, many of the things written in various publications: Depression, self- destruction, self- pity, a quiet rage, and a complete lack of the fundamental tools needed to cope with his burden.

Dennis really was a good- hearted human being; but one relentlessly tormented by his appearance and by what had happened on that oil rig. Our conversation centered on how he hated his appearance and despised people for the way that they silently, but blatantly reacted to him. He knew his life was out of control because of it. The resulting over-sensitivity and self- consciousness turned vodka into his best (and indispensable) friend. Dennis knew his life was slipping through his fingers into that bottle, but was helpless to do anything about it because, for whatever reason, it was his only refuge. These were his own words, not just my vain attempt at street- corner psychiatry.

I tried to encourage him to treat the source, rather than simply the symptom. In other words, I thought Dennis needed to deal with his appearance and how he felt about himself before the alcoholism. The two walked hand- in- hand, and I knew what I was talking about. I spent most of my own teens, 20s and early 30s using alcohol as that same readily available anesthetic and social lubricant. I could clearly see my own reflected image in his anger- driven self- destructiveness. It is the kind of rage that has no outlet because it has no target. Whom could he blame for his condition? God? I shared my own experience with alcohol abuse, and that the “state” had also tried to force me into the blanket cure-all: AA. And, how it was a complete failure even though I went in with an open mind. In the end, the solution cannot be found externally because it’s not “out there.” It must come from within; otherwise, you are substituting one anesthetic for another. One that is less destructive to be sure, but one that also continues to hide or suppresses the “infection”, so to speak.

I told Dennis that, for me, nothing worked for any length of time until I began to take a long, painfully honest look inside and began to confront some of the darkest, frightening, suppressed, corners of my psyche. The very ones we desperately want to avoid out of fear. The fear that we may not like what we find. Nevertheless, I told him, in the end it is a dragon we must face and ultimately, we each have to face him alone. The good news is that while the dragon has a mighty growl, he has no teeth other than those we ourselves provide him through our own fear and cowardice. Rather than breathing fire, he has a nasty, chronic case of halitosis. Once you discover this closely guarded secret he begins to cower, then sit relatively quiet in the corner, snorting occasionally. But, a good metaphorical dirty look will silence him. Some say that he my eventually die of starvation once we quit feeding him our irrational fears. Perhaps we have the choice of either wallowing in our own mental feces feeling victimized, or taking control of our fears and embracing the responsibility for becoming the person we choose?

Again, I know I just said it but it bears repeating: This is not a job we can contract out, and no person can “give” you these things. You can receive guidance but ultimately, it is your battle to fight alone. The reward however is priceless. Along the way, it will redefine you and allow you to reclaim your identity and establish it from within. I shared all of this with Dennis and, a year later much of what happened with me personally in June was yet another step in this long process. I don’t believe it’s “coincidence” that I noticed that I was finally able to drink like a normal human being again without the familiar Random Acts of Stupidity.

Dennis took to this concept and desperately (not an exaggeration) wanted me to stay at the hotel to talk more, offering as bait to take me all the way to Grand Junction or Montrose the next day. However, by the time that he checked into Glenwood Suites he was unable to hold a sensible conversation due to fatigue and vodka. I also had begun to sense an odd vibe as his mood deteriorated. I'd had long since had enough and needed to move on. I told him, truthfully, that I liked him & would love to chat with him more but was simply sick of dealing with vodka. His truck conveniently had a laptop with nationwide broadband, so I had secretly sent out Couchsurfing requests from Idaho Springs all the way to Breckenridge before finally arranging to stay with Leah in Glenwood. I then hoped that I could keep him motivated to make it that far through our conversations, and the implications that there were ladies waiting to party with us!

I never talked to Dennis again, although he did have my cell number. I have since hitched and backpacked all over the country, and Dennis had been a favorite story and reference point about the interesting, and GOOD people I have encountered. He will continue to be. I believe he was a tormented soul who was seeking the friendship of a complete stranger and for a while, and found it. I had often wondered what had become of him and thought of him often. People seem to love to label Dennis as a “cop-killing monster” but he was no monster. The best and most accurate assessment I can give would be that, knowing what I know now, I would GLADLY still hop in and take that ride across the mountains with him again.

Dennis had talked of alcohol related legal- troubles in Oregon and Eagle, CO and, from what I have read; the state had ordered rehab which, not surprisingly, failed miserably. Cart before the horse. According to the papers and court documents, things began to get more severe last September. There were at least two arrests since then for domestic violence and Dennis and his wife had separated. He was living in a hotel and spending most of his time writing reconciliation letters, drinking, and violating restraining orders until July 25th.

It would appear to me that Dennis simply did not have nearly enough fists to swing. Even if he had them, there would still be no target for the rage and depression that consumed him. Other than himself. Inevitably, when all you can blame is God, the lashings lands on those who are closest. In his case, this person appears to be the wife who had stood by him through everything. While I cannot imagine living his life and can sympathize, the raw truth is that, in the end, the responsibility for his life lay in his hands, as it does all of us. Tragically, his inability to regain control ultimately led to alcohol-induced bloodshed and devastated families.

I seriously considered making the 300- mile journey to Montrose for Dennis’ funeral this past Tuesday. Had the Saturn not broken down in March, I surely would have. I would liked to have made the humble gesture to his family, and let them know that there was one other person who was thinking of them. Someone else who had some level of compassion and at least a primitive understanding for what they have been through over the last 29- years. It also would have been a nice gesture to Dennis himself. Unfortunately, it did not work out.

One of the most disconcerting things I have seen over the last week is the barbaric treatment of Dennis and his family by the supposed “innocents” sitting unseen at computer terminals. The ability to anonymously “contribute” to news articles opened the door to Hell’s Kitchen, and out have slithered some of the most vile invertebrates imaginable. I have seen an odd mix of contrived busllshit. For example, obvious feelings that Dennis was “Burning in Hell” due to their personal religious beliefs, yet conveniently omitting those main tenets of Christianity; compassion and forgiveness as opposed to a blood thirsty vengeance. Some of the comments directed at his family are unconscionable. Anonymity removes accountability and breeds a curious regression back to the schoolyard. It has shown me once again the rotted underbelly of the vultures some show themselves to be when no one is looking. On a positive note, the nephews of the slain police officer recognized that there were two families decimated, and sent flowers to the Gurney family. I thought that showed extreme empathy and kindness. I hope it will serve as an example to the Christian Vultures eagerly pecking away at Dennis’ corpse.

That said, I have yet to come to terms with is this knightly treatment of the police officer who was killed “in the line of duty.” Colorado Governor Bill Ritter spoke at his funeral. It was a hero’s celebration complete with an antique fire truck taking the casket through Montrose. People lines the streets crying and holding hundreds of signs invoking the curious adjective “hero.” Admittedly, my opinions are slightly skewed having been involved in the “Justice for Money” system once or twice, and because of my own recent experiences; bringing the treatment of Leif in Tennessee, and the cop in Kalamazoo to mind. My respect for the law enforcement culture has been steadily waning for years, and I find the on-cue, contrived, advertised, on- your- knees- worship outright amusing. It is as though all the episodes of CSI have rotted brains, allowing some to believe the peddled propaganda. Perhaps this cop WAS a great human being and Father-of- the- Decade, but these story’s are always portrayed the same: “Saint Killed by Monster!” It is as though the media is following a pre- conceived playbook. My background has led me to suspect strongly that is indeed the case with most “journalists,” but Nancy Lofholm at the Denver Post opened herself up to criticism by writing a very fair article last Sunday. It was through her piece that I learned of Dennis’ actions on the rig, and much of his background. She took the time to gather and present a more complete picture, and I was impressed. She avoided the route of generic sensationalism, instead choosing to attempt to tell the full story. I personally emailed her, and she deserves acknowledgment here.

I do not see any of these cops as bonafide “heroes.” They were, I assume, entering Dennis’ garage while drawing a paycheck. I do not recall reading that they just happened by on their way to Baskin Robbins for sherbet and cake, spontaneously and selflessly choosing to get involved for the common good! Personal safety be damned! No, that was not the case. They were law enforcement professionals. It was… their fucking job. They chose their professions clearly knowing what the job may entail and, in my mind, are all too often little more than deified, marketed-mercenaries who are contracted to uphold “The Law.”

There are wonderful, stand- up policemen and, not knowing this person, I do not presume to know anything about his motives. However, let's just keep in mind that an act of true “heroism” is NOT knowingly compensated. It is NOT an act initiated by the orders of others. Many of the comments directed at Dennis obliquely reference his “personal responsibility,” and that is fine; I am all for it. However, let's apply it equally. There is an element of that same "personal responsibility" when choosing a dangerous profession; one that presumably pays well. Many have lamented as to how his daughter is now fatherless, and while that is sad, some of that responsibility lies with the cop himself. Using the litmus test applied to Dennis, one could ask whythe cop did not take a desk job once his daughter was born. In addition, there is a big difference between NYPD’s heroes running into the collapsing twin towers, and running into a garage under the assumption that that a disfigured 50- something may throw a hammer. What exactly is heroic about believing you are running into little more than a fistfight when you outnumber the guy at least 3:1 with backup outside?

Heroism is something that requires a decision made, and action done knowing your life is in jeopardy; not being shot because you were unaware that a person was armed when you were ordered, or gave the order, to rush him. I know these opinions are not popular is a society desperately clinging to every contrived example of heroism presented (and defined) by the propaganda machine in the media. A collection of people whose "reality" is interpreted while sitting on the couch seeing the world through electronic eyes. I no longer care. This is common sense, and I hope people are noticing this pattern. Right on cue, the media is blatantly enforcing the boundaries for the dialectic of “acceptable” thought.

That leads me to one aspect of this story that has not been addressed anywhere. Why were the police storming the garage in the first place? Obviously, they were acting on defective “intelligence” in assuming that Dennis was unarmed. Whose decision was it to run into this ambush? Where is the accountability here? Was that person not thinking of this cop’s daughter? It seems to me that using well- measured restraint; the situation could have ended much differently. Conceivably, Dennis could have sobered up and surrendered, or committed suicide alone. I do know that he had called his sons from the garage asking them to come to the scene. Possibly, they could have helped talk him out with an exercise in patience. I wonder if, with this patience, maybe a lengthy jail term would have provided an uninterrupted opportunity, and sobriety, needed to get a grip on his life. So many typical “maybes”; we will never know.

Finally, over the last week I have noticed a return of yet another of Morpheus’ Splinter in the Mind made evident by the re-manifestation of a well-known & gnawing negativity. Some of which are hovering directly above! I have decided to split this into two separate posts, to make this a bit easier to digest. The next one will focus more on the future, and how I’ve been managing the sometimes-confusing process of digesting and incorporating all of this into the next phase, not just of the travels, but also perhaps on a larger scale.

5/24: And the Road Has Always Led West...

Ft. Morgan to Glenwood Springs, CO

"Into the Bush"? Not so much. When I got up to I-76 at 11:30, it was as if there were some imaginary boundary I wasn't meant to cross. I discovered there were MORE tornado watches issued for Morgan County, and the rest of NE Colorado so I re-found my familiar spot under the Conoco sign advertising gas for $3.92, and waited for a ride toward Sterling, Julesburg, or ANYTHING near I-80. The thought that the weather, and my seeming inability to get out of Ft. Morgan for my third day, was making me think that perhaps I should forget Nebraska, Iowa, S. Dakota etc. and head toward Oregon now. One way or another. I figured I'd see if a ride developed while I saw how the weather would play out. I could always walk up Hwy. 52 toward W road if things cleared up later in the day, and if severe weather came through, I could get inside. In reality the weather began to go to hell. Storms moved in, a public address system that they use to announce severe weather went off, and it got COLD! Plus, the wind was incredibly strong. I found out that a tornado had in fact tried to touch down nearby, but never quite got to the ground after 3 tries. Close enough for me. It's also Memorial Day weekend, so most of the cars I saw consisted of families who had no interest in picking up timid hitchhikers. At about 6:30, with a new storm warning issued, and it getting dark, I left the gas station to seek shelter, and before I had even gotten out of the parking lot... guess what... a pickup truck hauling a large John Deere stopped across the road and offered me a ride.

West.

I asked how far he was going, and he said "almost to Utah". That was enough for me after 3 days in Ft. Morgan, so I hopped in.

The drivers name was Dennis, and he had been seriously burned I later found out in a oil well accident back in 1980. He seemed nice enough, a guy who seemed like a big talker, but I didn't get a threatening vibe at all, so didn't feel too concerned. I was certain I could whoop him if need be! But about 2 blocks up the road be let's me know that he's had a 'couple of drinks', but "not to worry". I figured, since he was headed toward the business district I'd be able to see how worried I should be rather quickly, and he was driving well, so I just went with it.

The tractor was to be dropped off in Ft. Morgan, along with two HUGE tires (pics)and, of course, he asked me to help with that- which I did. Plus, if he fell off the trailer, I'd know he was in no shape to drive! No one was left at the business, so he just dumped these two massive tires wherever they fell, left the tractor by the chain- link fence and left. He was none to happy that they had left for the weekend, because he wasn't getting paid! He attributed it to the tornadoes. I figured it was 6:30 or 7:00 on Memorial Day weekend; I wouldn't have waited either. I kept that insight to myself.

We got on I-76, and headed west- back down the same road I had ridden w/ Chris a few days earlier, and I caught myself thinking 'what a waste!', but then realized that this was going to be a part of the complete mosaic; journey not the destination thing.

On the way toward Denver, I learned that the 'couple' of what I assumed were beers were in fact huge hits from the Vodka bottle in the console! I then learned that he had JUST gotten a DUI in Oregon, and been in a minor accident after falling asleep near Eagle, and would soon be losing his CDL. GREAT!!! I began to plot ways of getting out of that truck in Denver where the surroundings were familiar, but just couldn't stand the thought so I decided to ride it out, and see where it took me. Part of the journey... part of the story... blah... blah...I think I'm going to look back on that as a significant moment. We'll see.

I found out that he conveniently had a laptop and nationwide broadband- Internet via satellite in the truck, so I convinced him he needed an inverter (not hard to do!) and then began sending off Couchsurfing requests to places along I-70 west of Denver! Breckenridge... Glenwood Springs... Grand Junction... It was late, but for some reason felt pretty confident I'd find something and sure enough I got a call almost immediately from Leah in Glenwood Springs. The initial call was odd because Dennis was driving and I had to act like we had known each other and not let on that I was plotting an escape, lest I be dumped in the middle of nowhere at 9,000 feet with spring- snow falling! He was buzzed & eager to socialize with ANYTHING female, so to motivate him to get me there that night (he was talking about stopping in Eagle) I answered 'yes' when he asked "Does yer gerl have a friend?". It was like meth to his imagination- he was inspired!

From there it was a matter of keeping him on the road and talking so he wouldn't doze off. It was then that the serendipity kicked in. I figured out why he picked me up, and then had a pretty good idea why I was now heading west.

Dennis is a raging alcoholic who want to but has NO idea how to get it under control. He needed someone to talk to that had the courage to be honest with him, share ideas, and offer a clear perspective. Right up my alley! He said I was the first hitcher (even if I wasn't technically hitching- technically) that he'd picked up in "20,000 miles". Over the 5 hours or so he became almost dependent. DEFINITELY attached. I hit something he needed. Again, the conversation- as with the night before with Richard- centered on finding answers within yourself rather than Pink Floyd's "someone or something to show you the way"; or Leonard Cohen's "Waiting for the Miracle": "... and I waited half my life away..." The idea's getting clearer... He did everything he could to keep me in the truck; even in the room he rented in Glenwood. I however had had enough.

We got to Glenwood Springs about 12:30, he found a room at the Glenwood Suites, I called Leah to arrange a pickup, and leveled with him that I was a bit fed up with the Vodka and needed to move on- without him. I also burst the bubble that he was going to "hook up" with Leah's non- existent "friend". We parted ways with me giving him my cell- number, and him promising to take me to Grand Junction the next morning- which I knew would never happen and didn't.

I got to Leah's, and she has a house full! 5 other adults, and 4 kids between 3 mos. and 7. I LOVE it here! It's real... the dose of domestic reality I love. And taking me in at the last minute?? Gotta love that.

Today I began to consider hanging out in Glenwood long enough to work to get my kayak or canoe... and since the Colorado River is across the road... Bryce Canyon anyone?? Chris... Chris... Buehler...?

I need to process that and get over my ever present self- doubt and ego- watch, but there's a common theme developing even back to the pre- trip days and the conversations with Friar Chris. Now I'm trying to be receptive to see if there's a "why I'm here". I suspect I've found it, but need to think on this one. I need to be sure I'm right.

There's something weird that happens when you're out on the road like this, and it's NOT just me that gets it. Things happen at the right times, and for the right reasons. You have to be open to the possibilities and willing to act on them, fighting your fearful tendencies, culturally- indoctrinated wariness of the unknown, and taking your 'plans' & dogma and throwing them out the window. It's a challenge that's difficult to grasp at first, but the freedom is INTOXICATING! I was discussing this with my friend Amber today, who's headed to Italy to WWOOF next week, much to the chagrin of her family. Use common sense, listen to your instincts, and live. Me the arrogant philosopher after five days; get used to it I guess!