After a quiet day at home on Tuesday, the house-sitting gig started Wednesday amid wild anticipation of spending the entire week on the computer or buried in my notebooks writing for hours on end. I knew damn well that I had much to process, and as always upon initially returning home, felt highly motivated to get it done immediately in supposed marathon sessions. But, as usual, it didn't quite happen that way. Rather than a narrative, the writing promptly displayed a tendency to create more questions; deeper layers than I had originally assumed were there. That's always a good sign for me personally, but not always pleasant. Especially when many of the hardest new questions revolve around... me.
As I started to get near the heart of Andre's story, I noticed an intense feeling of personal wariness, especially about that Sunday, 9/13. The apprehension's intensity was quite rare, but I understood that his was no ordinary story and I was forced by its content to take a microscopic look at both my own insights and, more painfully, who I have become over the last year and where I was going. I had expected the simple moral question about how much detail to share, but the demand for self-analysis was something that was unexpectedly bitch-slapping me at the same time! If I was going to offer acute criticism of others, I was going to be providing it to myself... like it or not. A handy, oft-inconvenient tool I've acquired somewhere.
As I started to puke into the computer and make connections to both past events and those that followed in Port Townsend, an interesting contrast developed; something that would ultimately lay the very foundation for the immediate future. Despite the persistent questions, the words flowed; again a good sign. Nothing was forced or contrived and after questioning, challenging, and examining my insights it was obvious that they were solid- if not pleasant. They themselves then began spawning other multi-layered ideas. Yet, the potentially toxic, uncomfortable nature of these observations set off warning signals through my entire psyche. Was this just my ego going nuts? I began seeking out other opinions and through conversations with Shalain, Chris and The Sage, my extensive vocabulary again went on display as I described these intense, nagging emotions as "feeling like a dick," even though I felt like I was dead-on, even after psychologically beating the Hell out of myself and beginning the process of asking myself "who the hell I thought I was" writing these things. It was then that I came to realize that I'd had the sense that "I" wasn't writing these things. It was Stream of Consciousness- despite of myself! More than once, I (again) thought back to Randleman, and Pastor Snake... which REALLY set off ego-alarms! Seeing this was encouraging of course, but created more turmoil than it relieved.
The Sage suggested something that I had considered a few times: keeping two journals. One: the run-of-the-mill, fluffy "travel journal" variety. Something easier to comprehend, accept, and escape within (my description). The Second: one presumably only written that would contain my actual thoughts... therefore not causing any immediate discomfort to the protagonist. I seriously considered it... but not for long, as I slowly came to realize that the self-doubt wasn't internally based. It was the "critic's" voice; the self- censor voicing the imagined criticism of others. Furthermore, as Shalain astutely and repeatedly pointed out, to "edit for comfort" would be selling out; doing the very thing that I swore not to do. Reading these passages is voluntary after all, and the notion of producing shallow "bathroom fodder," as Chris puts it, is repugnant. No, this is by its nature occasionally unpleasant and very difficult. It's the "hard" that makes it worthwhile, even though it's sometimes unflattering, even to myself. I knew coming in that it would periodically be difficult, but I HAVE made myself accountable by having the courage to present it for consumption. It seems cowardly (and suspicious) to consider yourself a man-of-purpose then hide in your journal; the foundation of critical thought is to test ideas by allowing them to stand up to scrutiny! To cower would be something I wouldn't be able to tolerate, and that I even considered it made me question my own motives and presented the entrance to yet another powerful investigation: the difference between being "clever" and being right, which can lead to the egoistic practice of protecting a point-of-view through rationalization. Later in October, this directly led to my humble, uncomfortable Don Quixote revelation (stay tuned... if you dare!). Good, organic stuff!
With the end of the house-sitting gig came the end of September. As October began and I returned home, my "internal motives" question persisted but I decided to push forward and allow people to react however they chose. Thinking back over the summer, I reflected on how I had likely severed the pathetic "relationship" with my own father and two of my sisters... through simple honesty. Considering that The Hens had chosen to "de-friended" me on Facebook, choosing their traditional method of conflict resolution, avoidance, it suddenly seemed absurd to offer this blatantly self-interest-driven courtesy to Andre; something I had denied much more significant people!
There was much more to come as I contemplated my time with Andre in Portland. As I finally wrote up The Vanity Plate, Now What?, and Navigating the Rubicon, more agitation and an accompanying flood of ideas that was the byproduct. Surprisingly, much if centered around, of all things, The Bible...
Showing posts with label Randleman NC. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Randleman NC. Show all posts
Friday, October 9, 2009
Thursday, July 9, 2009
7/9: Iowa 80- Jamboree
The decision to stay was a good one.
Thursday began as expected with coffee & breakfast. This time however, we were quite possibly treated to the b
est server the Iowa 80 has ever employed. Christi was a very pretty blonde, in her early 20’s and quite reserved at first, but as time went by became quite friendly and some would say… even playful. After Sally and her 45- minutes between half fill- ups the day before, Christi was stopping at our table at least every 5- minutes, and rarely let the cups get below half full. Slowly, we learned that she was a single mother of a young daughter, who has a pain- in- the- ass ex… and no life. Chris and I felt badly for her and, remembering Corbin City, only half- kidding suggested that the three of us get together at whatever bars 
Walcott offers. That went nowhere, of course, but our “first- shift” stay lasted the rest of the morning and all the way thru the rest of her shift, which ended at 3pm. We were quite happy and bordering on caffeine overload while Chris had actually taken up coloring- with crayons- by the time we packed up to see the Trucker Jamboree that was now in full swing.
Fun Fact: I believe this is the first time, in 150+ posts, 30+ states, and 14- months, I have EVER typed the word “crayon.” Thanks, Chris!
The Jamboree initially reminded me of a brand name circle- jerk. It was first and foremost a "Corporate Fair." There were logos and sales- generated displays everywhere, particularly beneath the massive tent. It was the type of setting where any of my old radio stations would surely have reserved a booth to pass out bumper stickers and free Styx/ REO Speedwagon tickets. This part was a bit too familiar for me, but I loved the truck displays. There was everything from Semi- Truck Hotrods, to 100- year old antiques, the latter of which I found fascinating. I have long loved old
cars & trucks, despite knowing nothing about them mechanically. It was nostalgic to think who had originally bought and used these relics, and more than once I pictured the jalopy the Tom Joad had ridden to California.
We did a couple of slow laps around the site and in that time I came to realize that the nostalgia had unexpectedly continued. I had begun to appreciate Iowa, while at the same time remembering how I had all but hated it when I had lived here. It's funny how you view the same scenes differently at alternate points in life. Everywhere I looked were families. Young, 20- something couples with toddlers, people my age with teenagers, and periodically multiple generations walking together. Kids were everywhere, many actually working as volunteers’ side- by- side with their parents. It struck me that there was an ACTUAL sense of community; one not manufactured or contrived for image out of a sense of “Nuevo Idealism.” This was their heritage and tradition. It was, pardon the phrase hippie, organic.
I quietly snickered when I realized that this might have been the most conservative crowd since North Carolina in 2008, and that they had achieved the very thing that the hippies in Portland and Santa Fe were seeking: Community. The irony being that these farm boys would ultimately pummel most of the “community forging” progressive- elitists I have met. It occurred to me that perhaps the answers the dreadlocked granola- eaters seek exist, but wrapped within the very thing they despise: traditional conservative ideals. The brand of Conservatism that has nothing to do with Mississippi Racism, Pat Robertson, or Dick Cheney. A Conservatism where people are self- sufficient, take an unforced genuine interest in their neighbors and, yes, their community, but not needing or wanting a "Daddy State" as their babysitter. To a man, I’ll bet if you asked they’d point out that with an abdication of personal responsibility comes the correlating abdication of personal freedom and choice. Depending of course on rather you consider “credit or debit” or “paper or plastic” choice. I’ll leave the rest of the Illusion of Choice rant to Carlin. No need to thank me... I hear the chorus of "Thank God's" loud and clear!
However, and unlike many of mine, this particular mini- rant serves a purpose. Beyond the inner social- dialogues, walking around in this atmosphere with these friendly down- to- earth people began a process of snapping my purpose into perspective; reminding me of what I had encountered in 2008 while seemingly doing nothing in places like McCammon; much as I was at this Jamboree. The majority of my best experiences had little to do with living in the woods, or walking down a fucking road trying to get to the next town just to do it or update my mental- map, while hoping to have Grand Adventures to use as anecdotal evidence to prove my badassitude. No, it was the direct (or even indirect), seemingly random, insignificant interaction with all sorts of ordinary people. Passively being the sidecar, rather than it's propagandist.
It was the group in Randleman, after sitting passively at a gas station for nearly a day.
It was Drunken Dennis driving across the Rockies and randomly dropping me at Leah’s door, after passively sitting in Ft. Morgan for 2- days.
It was rides that had resulted from passively sitting on the side of the road: “Z”, Jack, Corey, Jo, Doug, Florian, Ken.
It was sitting quietly at a picnic table at a truck stop in McCammon, Idaho passively watching people: Ciel, Rick, and others.
Sure, it was also train hopping, but it seems the best stories and biggest lessons have oftentimes come when I am not seeking anything; waiting for “chance” to carry me off; just being where I was. This is Eckart Tolle’s “Present”: not being obsessed on the past or the future; where you’re going or how far you’ve been. In this case, it was not a lightning bolt of realization, but the Seed of Recall sprouting in the fertile, metaphorical farmland of Walcott, Iowa.
Chris and I staked out a piece of damp ground shortly before Aaron Tippin. He struck up a conversation with a woman from Illinois while I wandered off on the phone. The concert was good, since I knew at least a few of his songs, and afterwards we witnessed what was, unequivocally, the WORST fireworks “display” ever. I have seen better fireworks on a cul-de-sac!
The crowd, sparse early, had exploded just before Tippin took the stage around 7. The traffic was so heavy coming in that it nearly backed up onto I-80. Chris and I made our way to the front of Iowa 80 after the mass exodus had begun, getting coffee and finally setting up shop hoping to take advantage of the insane volume of slow moving, happy drivers. Neither of us was comfortable hitching with the police directing traffic next to the exit, so we tried the well- lit driveway leaving Iowa 80 hoping to reel in a truck, to no avail.
When it began to lightly rain, we took our toys back to the front door where was witnessed one of our more intriguing incidents to date. As we were quietly sitting here, a nondescript couple passed in front of us followed by what seemed, initially, to be a replay of the “Fair Maiden of the Wood” incident in Maryland. Chris bolted off the bench, yet again mumbling something that sounded like Klingon while picking something up and sprinting after them. Considering the time of day, 
I half expected him to return with a fat lip, but all was well when he proudly came out of the store. The man had dropped a $50 bill out of his pocket and it had landed directly in front of us, which I had missed. Chris had chased him down to return it.
A brief discussion on rather we should have returned it ended in full agreement that we definitely should have because we had blatantly seen to whom it belonged. The thing that troubled me was that he initially (offhandedly) indicated that retuning it would "keep karma on his side.”
This thought took me back to Randleman and Pastor Snake’s sermon about “loaded charity”; attempting to make a “business deal with ‘God’” by performing acts of charity simply to move ahead of the Heathens at Heaven’s gate. Perhaps, that $50 falling in front of us, and not 20- feet to the left or right, WAS “...karma on his side?” Either way, returning it was the right thing to do, but these motivational questions tuned my antenna to see what kind of karma Chris would incur from this point on. Be careful when reaching into Bitch Karma’s rabbit hole… it runs deep!
As it turned out they were, as you can imagine, grateful for the honesty. Chris struck up a conversation after they came out thanking him and handing him his reward: $2. Apparently the woman was half of a husband/ wife team that took I-80 all the way to California almost on a weekly basis, but not THIS week. She said she'd be happy to give us a ride because we were "obviously honest people." We'll see how that works out in the end, we do have their cell numbers!
With that, quite an eventful day ended. We had discovered the hard way that we were sleeping almost directly on top of a large anthill for the past two nights, so we switched nests, moving down a few trees as we prepared for a full day of trying to leave the hospitality of Iowa 80 behind us on Friday.
Thursday began as expected with coffee & breakfast. This time however, we were quite possibly treated to the b
est server the Iowa 80 has ever employed. Christi was a very pretty blonde, in her early 20’s and quite reserved at first, but as time went by became quite friendly and some would say… even playful. After Sally and her 45- minutes between half fill- ups the day before, Christi was stopping at our table at least every 5- minutes, and rarely let the cups get below half full. Slowly, we learned that she was a single mother of a young daughter, who has a pain- in- the- ass ex… and no life. Chris and I felt badly for her and, remembering Corbin City, only half- kidding suggested that the three of us get together at whatever bars 
Walcott offers. That went nowhere, of course, but our “first- shift” stay lasted the rest of the morning and all the way thru the rest of her shift, which ended at 3pm. We were quite happy and bordering on caffeine overload while Chris had actually taken up coloring- with crayons- by the time we packed up to see the Trucker Jamboree that was now in full swing.Fun Fact: I believe this is the first time, in 150+ posts, 30+ states, and 14- months, I have EVER typed the word “crayon.” Thanks, Chris!
The Jamboree initially reminded me of a brand name circle- jerk. It was first and foremost a "Corporate Fair." There were logos and sales- generated displays everywhere, particularly beneath the massive tent. It was the type of setting where any of my old radio stations would surely have reserved a booth to pass out bumper stickers and free Styx/ REO Speedwagon tickets. This part was a bit too familiar for me, but I loved the truck displays. There was everything from Semi- Truck Hotrods, to 100- year old antiques, the latter of which I found fascinating. I have long loved old
cars & trucks, despite knowing nothing about them mechanically. It was nostalgic to think who had originally bought and used these relics, and more than once I pictured the jalopy the Tom Joad had ridden to California.We did a couple of slow laps around the site and in that time I came to realize that the nostalgia had unexpectedly continued. I had begun to appreciate Iowa, while at the same time remembering how I had all but hated it when I had lived here. It's funny how you view the same scenes differently at alternate points in life. Everywhere I looked were families. Young, 20- something couples with toddlers, people my age with teenagers, and periodically multiple generations walking together. Kids were everywhere, many actually working as volunteers’ side- by- side with their parents. It struck me that there was an ACTUAL sense of community; one not manufactured or contrived for image out of a sense of “Nuevo Idealism.” This was their heritage and tradition. It was, pardon the phrase hippie, organic.
I quietly snickered when I realized that this might have been the most conservative crowd since North Carolina in 2008, and that they had achieved the very thing that the hippies in Portland and Santa Fe were seeking: Community. The irony being that these farm boys would ultimately pummel most of the “community forging” progressive- elitists I have met. It occurred to me that perhaps the answers the dreadlocked granola- eaters seek exist, but wrapped within the very thing they despise: traditional conservative ideals. The brand of Conservatism that has nothing to do with Mississippi Racism, Pat Robertson, or Dick Cheney. A Conservatism where people are self- sufficient, take an unforced genuine interest in their neighbors and, yes, their community, but not needing or wanting a "Daddy State" as their babysitter. To a man, I’ll bet if you asked they’d point out that with an abdication of personal responsibility comes the correlating abdication of personal freedom and choice. Depending of course on rather you consider “credit or debit” or “paper or plastic” choice. I’ll leave the rest of the Illusion of Choice rant to Carlin. No need to thank me... I hear the chorus of "Thank God's" loud and clear!
However, and unlike many of mine, this particular mini- rant serves a purpose. Beyond the inner social- dialogues, walking around in this atmosphere with these friendly down- to- earth people began a process of snapping my purpose into perspective; reminding me of what I had encountered in 2008 while seemingly doing nothing in places like McCammon; much as I was at this Jamboree. The majority of my best experiences had little to do with living in the woods, or walking down a fucking road trying to get to the next town just to do it or update my mental- map, while hoping to have Grand Adventures to use as anecdotal evidence to prove my badassitude. No, it was the direct (or even indirect), seemingly random, insignificant interaction with all sorts of ordinary people. Passively being the sidecar, rather than it's propagandist.
It was the group in Randleman, after sitting passively at a gas station for nearly a day.
It was Drunken Dennis driving across the Rockies and randomly dropping me at Leah’s door, after passively sitting in Ft. Morgan for 2- days.
It was rides that had resulted from passively sitting on the side of the road: “Z”, Jack, Corey, Jo, Doug, Florian, Ken.
It was sitting quietly at a picnic table at a truck stop in McCammon, Idaho passively watching people: Ciel, Rick, and others.
Sure, it was also train hopping, but it seems the best stories and biggest lessons have oftentimes come when I am not seeking anything; waiting for “chance” to carry me off; just being where I was. This is Eckart Tolle’s “Present”: not being obsessed on the past or the future; where you’re going or how far you’ve been. In this case, it was not a lightning bolt of realization, but the Seed of Recall sprouting in the fertile, metaphorical farmland of Walcott, Iowa.
Chris and I staked out a piece of damp ground shortly before Aaron Tippin. He struck up a conversation with a woman from Illinois while I wandered off on the phone. The concert was good, since I knew at least a few of his songs, and afterwards we witnessed what was, unequivocally, the WORST fireworks “display” ever. I have seen better fireworks on a cul-de-sac!The crowd, sparse early, had exploded just before Tippin took the stage around 7. The traffic was so heavy coming in that it nearly backed up onto I-80. Chris and I made our way to the front of Iowa 80 after the mass exodus had begun, getting coffee and finally setting up shop hoping to take advantage of the insane volume of slow moving, happy drivers. Neither of us was comfortable hitching with the police directing traffic next to the exit, so we tried the well- lit driveway leaving Iowa 80 hoping to reel in a truck, to no avail.
When it began to lightly rain, we took our toys back to the front door where was witnessed one of our more intriguing incidents to date. As we were quietly sitting here, a nondescript couple passed in front of us followed by what seemed, initially, to be a replay of the “Fair Maiden of the Wood” incident in Maryland. Chris bolted off the bench, yet again mumbling something that sounded like Klingon while picking something up and sprinting after them. Considering the time of day, 
I half expected him to return with a fat lip, but all was well when he proudly came out of the store. The man had dropped a $50 bill out of his pocket and it had landed directly in front of us, which I had missed. Chris had chased him down to return it.A brief discussion on rather we should have returned it ended in full agreement that we definitely should have because we had blatantly seen to whom it belonged. The thing that troubled me was that he initially (offhandedly) indicated that retuning it would "keep karma on his side.”
This thought took me back to Randleman and Pastor Snake’s sermon about “loaded charity”; attempting to make a “business deal with ‘God’” by performing acts of charity simply to move ahead of the Heathens at Heaven’s gate. Perhaps, that $50 falling in front of us, and not 20- feet to the left or right, WAS “...karma on his side?” Either way, returning it was the right thing to do, but these motivational questions tuned my antenna to see what kind of karma Chris would incur from this point on. Be careful when reaching into Bitch Karma’s rabbit hole… it runs deep!As it turned out they were, as you can imagine, grateful for the honesty. Chris struck up a conversation after they came out thanking him and handing him his reward: $2. Apparently the woman was half of a husband/ wife team that took I-80 all the way to California almost on a weekly basis, but not THIS week. She said she'd be happy to give us a ride because we were "obviously honest people." We'll see how that works out in the end, we do have their cell numbers!
With that, quite an eventful day ended. We had discovered the hard way that we were sleeping almost directly on top of a large anthill for the past two nights, so we switched nests, moving down a few trees as we prepared for a full day of trying to leave the hospitality of Iowa 80 behind us on Friday.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
6/29- 7/2: Sit Down & Shut Up
Sunday night around the fire was profound. Chris and I had discussed several times how difficult it is to grasp the concept that we as individuals are NOT the center of the entire universe, despite the fact that our eyes make it seem we are! When serendipity or "fate" is discussed, it's often from the perspective that these events only involve or happen to us, or because of us. That's the ego at work, and oftentimes we forget the obvious fact that others also make decisions and live their lives, thereby affecting the paths presented to us. Their application of freewill sometimes requires us to simply sit still until they play things out. With my ever evolving mastery if the English language, I describe it as being put in a state of limbo and told to "Sit the fuck down, and shut the fuck up!" Ever the wordsmith am I.
If you're unable to let go of the ego's need for control, this limbo it will feel like confusion; you'll be unclear about which path to take. There's a simple explaination for that: It hasn't been decided yet, or you're waiting for someone else on the path to come to you. There have been several examples of this, both this year and last, with the most dramatic this year being with the Church Lady the day Chris's mom decided not to pick us up in New Jersey. Last year's preeminent examples were in McCammon, ID and Randleman, NC. Chris and I have talked at length about it, but it has been one of the most difficult lessons because it requires continuous neutering of the pesky ego: a practice in patience. Sunday, we remembered it and decided to put it to the test. We resolved to sit still and let things happen, while eagerly anticipating Wednesday to see if some dramatic event would unfold. That's exactly what we did.
Monday was spent playing softball one last time, and again sitting around a small campfire chatting.
Tuesday was even less eventful, except for yet another campfire. The conversations on these days, however, were quite enlightening. This was a time for us to both reflect back on the past 3- months, and begin to finally grasp exactly what we had experienced as a whole, AND to apply some lessons and ideas as we move forward. Ideas about the next phase became a bit more clear as we chatted about Denver, Santa Fe, Boise, Seattle, Portland, San Francisco, England, and even Mexico. Most significantly, we decided to tell someone about this revelation on Sunday. We told Bob we were going to sit tight until Wednesday, thinking something significant was going to happen. If nothing happened Wednesday, Bob would drop us off in Indiana either Wednesday night or Thursday morning. All that was left was to see if it did...
Did it ever.
My brother Mike responded to that 10- day old Facebook request. I immediately sent him an email telling him that I was planning on leaving VERY soon, but that if he was interested I'd love to meet him and would arrange my "schedule" around it. Shit, that's WHY I'm here, after all! He replied that night and said he was definitely interested in getting together before we left, but needed to find out if he was getting a three day weekend for July 4th. If so, we could get together Friday. He wouldn't know until the next day, but after chatting for an hour or so on Yahoo, it was clear that I was going nowhere just yet- even if I needed to wait thru the weekend.
I really liked Mike. Through our little online chat, he and I traded a few stories as we began the now- familiar process of comparing notes, and hitting it off quite well. His reminded me of the response I had gotten from my cousin, Dewey, when he first found out I was related to him. This was NOT the Mike I expected, although to be fair, he's also easily the sibling I knew the LEAST about. I got his number, and made arrangements to call him Thursday night to see about Friday. I immediately called Shelly to let her know what had happened, and of course she was thrilled.
Thursday was understandably a bit restless. I devised a scheme where we could possibly meet Mike in Coldwater rather than Hillsdale on Friday, and would ask if he could drop us off in Angola, IN where I-80/ 90 comes through. If Mike couldn't make it, perhaps Bob would get us there instead. Either way, we could get on the road Friday.
I finally drafted the email to my father, which I had mysteriously been putting off four four days. I laid out the time line of events, and exactly who I had been in contact with and for how long. In it, I could now also tell him that Mike and I were in touch, and possibly getting together. I hoped that this email didn't reverberate too much, but at least it was the truth. At least now people may be able to speak freely, if they choose to. That can't be a bad thing, and neither can the man knowing who stands where. I sent copies to Shelly and Lynn, and decided to let Mike know when he called. After this, all there was to do was prepare to leave and wait for 7pm to roll around.
Mike did indeed get the day off. Friday was a go. I was stoked. I've never had a brother and I was about to meet one... and apparently a very cool one at that. We had a nice chat on the phone, and he liked the Coldwater/ Angola idea. He asked if he could bring his daughter, Ally, and her mother with him so that they could all go fireworks shopping... since they were going to be in Angola. Another niece? Hell, yeah!
Thursday night was a going away party of sorts.
We had another fire in Bob's yard, and drank a whole lotta beer. Ian and Travis hung out for a bit, as did Bob's neighbors. No phones were sacrificed, so it was a good night, yet it was obvious that I was ready to go. Somewhere around midnight I mentally checked out of Hillsdale. Unfortunately, I didn't check into bed until 4:30!
If you're unable to let go of the ego's need for control, this limbo it will feel like confusion; you'll be unclear about which path to take. There's a simple explaination for that: It hasn't been decided yet, or you're waiting for someone else on the path to come to you. There have been several examples of this, both this year and last, with the most dramatic this year being with the Church Lady the day Chris's mom decided not to pick us up in New Jersey. Last year's preeminent examples were in McCammon, ID and Randleman, NC. Chris and I have talked at length about it, but it has been one of the most difficult lessons because it requires continuous neutering of the pesky ego: a practice in patience. Sunday, we remembered it and decided to put it to the test. We resolved to sit still and let things happen, while eagerly anticipating Wednesday to see if some dramatic event would unfold. That's exactly what we did.
Monday was spent playing softball one last time, and again sitting around a small campfire chatting.
Tuesday was even less eventful, except for yet another campfire. The conversations on these days, however, were quite enlightening. This was a time for us to both reflect back on the past 3- months, and begin to finally grasp exactly what we had experienced as a whole, AND to apply some lessons and ideas as we move forward. Ideas about the next phase became a bit more clear as we chatted about Denver, Santa Fe, Boise, Seattle, Portland, San Francisco, England, and even Mexico. Most significantly, we decided to tell someone about this revelation on Sunday. We told Bob we were going to sit tight until Wednesday, thinking something significant was going to happen. If nothing happened Wednesday, Bob would drop us off in Indiana either Wednesday night or Thursday morning. All that was left was to see if it did...Did it ever.
My brother Mike responded to that 10- day old Facebook request. I immediately sent him an email telling him that I was planning on leaving VERY soon, but that if he was interested I'd love to meet him and would arrange my "schedule" around it. Shit, that's WHY I'm here, after all! He replied that night and said he was definitely interested in getting together before we left, but needed to find out if he was getting a three day weekend for July 4th. If so, we could get together Friday. He wouldn't know until the next day, but after chatting for an hour or so on Yahoo, it was clear that I was going nowhere just yet- even if I needed to wait thru the weekend.
I really liked Mike. Through our little online chat, he and I traded a few stories as we began the now- familiar process of comparing notes, and hitting it off quite well. His reminded me of the response I had gotten from my cousin, Dewey, when he first found out I was related to him. This was NOT the Mike I expected, although to be fair, he's also easily the sibling I knew the LEAST about. I got his number, and made arrangements to call him Thursday night to see about Friday. I immediately called Shelly to let her know what had happened, and of course she was thrilled.
Thursday was understandably a bit restless. I devised a scheme where we could possibly meet Mike in Coldwater rather than Hillsdale on Friday, and would ask if he could drop us off in Angola, IN where I-80/ 90 comes through. If Mike couldn't make it, perhaps Bob would get us there instead. Either way, we could get on the road Friday.
I finally drafted the email to my father, which I had mysteriously been putting off four four days. I laid out the time line of events, and exactly who I had been in contact with and for how long. In it, I could now also tell him that Mike and I were in touch, and possibly getting together. I hoped that this email didn't reverberate too much, but at least it was the truth. At least now people may be able to speak freely, if they choose to. That can't be a bad thing, and neither can the man knowing who stands where. I sent copies to Shelly and Lynn, and decided to let Mike know when he called. After this, all there was to do was prepare to leave and wait for 7pm to roll around.
Mike did indeed get the day off. Friday was a go. I was stoked. I've never had a brother and I was about to meet one... and apparently a very cool one at that. We had a nice chat on the phone, and he liked the Coldwater/ Angola idea. He asked if he could bring his daughter, Ally, and her mother with him so that they could all go fireworks shopping... since they were going to be in Angola. Another niece? Hell, yeah!
Thursday night was a going away party of sorts.
We had another fire in Bob's yard, and drank a whole lotta beer. Ian and Travis hung out for a bit, as did Bob's neighbors. No phones were sacrificed, so it was a good night, yet it was obvious that I was ready to go. Somewhere around midnight I mentally checked out of Hillsdale. Unfortunately, I didn't check into bed until 4:30!
Labels:
Angola IN,
Bobby,
Egoism,
Facebook,
Hillsdale MI,
Limbo,
McCammon ID,
Michigan,
Mike,
Randleman NC
Sunday, August 24, 2008
8/24 N. Carolina- Stalked!
It was a long process finding a place to camp. After walking back to the main road I was trying to decide between three different spots when from the woods, I spied a car driving by-- very slowly. This woods was between the two ramps leading to 220, and the car proceeded to stop just before the entrance to the southbound lane. I was on the phone with Shalain, and slowly crept out of the woods to see what he was doing, thinking at first that he had somehow seen me. The car just sat there, lights on, for about 10 minutes. No activity that I could see or hear, so I figured he was lost or waiting for someone.
I hung up and continued to go about my business when another car drove slowly by; slow enough for me to see in the limited light that it was the Sheriff. I dove for cover then, when I realized that he was pulling in behind the mystery car, I crept closer to play the role of spectator thinking that I may see some high- drama from the woods. This was weird, not your typical stealth- camping experience!
I watched as the cop cautiously approached the driver’s side of the car, and spoke with the driver for what seemed like eternity. Odd. Cops are generally to- the- point and it went on so long that I re- entered the woods and decided where I was going to sleep for the night while periodically peering out to check in. Cars would drive past regularly, yet still no flashing lights.
Just as I was getting ready to set up, I heard voices. Even from the woods, it was obvious that the cop was giving him a sobriety test. It was Saturday night; “typical” I thought. Just as I went back into the woods, the lights came on- scaring the hell out of me. The cop was back standing at the driver’s side door indicating the operator was back inside. This, again, went on for what seemed like forever. I just wanted them to leave so I could stealth in peace!
By now, I had gotten used to the scenario, so I went a bit deeper into the woods to be certain of avoiding detection. Just as I removed the bivy from the backpack, I heard a car start and take off—fast. I assumed it was the cop, but as I hunched back toward the road, I saw the other car FLY past me, heading east toward Randleman. Then, I heard the cop-approaching, siren blaring. Hot Pursuit! The driver had gone loco, and was trying to escape! I had visions that I would see the drunk (I presumed) crash and burn, but no such luck. The chase went directly past the intersection and through the red light that led to Wal-Mart, and into downtown Randleman. I sat by the road and listened to the siren for quite awhile. First to the north of town; then south. This chase was obviously dramatic. I could still hear the siren fading off to the south as I climbed into the bivy at about 2am, laughing at this day! I never learned anything else about the chase, and thankfully saw no more of law enforcement.
I slept quite nicely after that, in what I thought was a very secluded area beneath some pines. When I awoke Sunday morning at about 10:00, I was shocked to see that I was actually in plain sight. Under the cover of darkness I was fine, but only 75 feet off the road, and the pines had less coverage than I thought. It was too late to stress it and I figured that everyone was either sleeping one off or in church.
I thought I had been prepared the night before, bringing extra water so I would not have to walk back toward Wal-Mart and restock first thing in the morning. Unfortunately, I had lost the Gatorade bottle searching for the spot, and since it was already hot… back to civilization I went, loading up on water and on- special Gatorade figuring that it was going to be a long day just sitting.
I began to contemplate the wisdom of continuing to hitchhike after the experiences of the past two- days, and the results I had seen from walking. I knew Old 220 went all the way to Greensboro or, with some creative navigating, could take me around it to I-40 skirting the city all together. Again, I could not bare the idea of walking back to where I had just come from, so I settled for another day of hitching hoping that with some luck I could get into Greensboro early, swing another ride OUT of the city, and get through Raleigh.
This ramp was much better than the others in North Carolina. It was long, wide, and had a
natural pull- out for people to use if they took pity on me sweating in the sun. Just as the last two days, I laid out on the pack, strapped on the headphones, and prepared to wait all day. I knew that I had NEVER gone a day without at least ONE ride, so I was relatively certain I would see Greensboro again by day’s end.
I sat on the ramp for 3-4 hours, only moving to heed Nature’s Call, or stand to awaken my sleeping--- posterior. As I was returning from a nature- break, a rickety old van pulled over and a woman who looked to be in her mid 50’s jumped out and asked if I needed a ride. “Hell yeah!” I said, trying to seem“Confederate”. It is rare for a single woman to stop, and I was glad that I did not look threatening enough to scare her away! As I recall, this was only the fourth woman to pick me up, and the first since the bus stop in Portland.
Jo opened up the rear doors, and warned me to be careful as I loaded the backpack because she was charging a car battery back there. Something I had never seen before. Jo seemed outgoing, and a bit odd. She resembled a few aging hippies I have met; the original ones that I respect. I immediately liked her, and we began a vigorous, mostly one- sided conversation immediately after I settled in the van. Stop me if this story- line seems familiar…
Jo was nearly 60, and a few years back had a stroke. And guess what. She had been fighting health insurance companies, the state, former employers… you have heard this before, right? I laughed aloud, shook my head, and told her that she would be amazed at the number of people I had run into with similar storylines. The insurance companies and the State had essentially thrown her away after the stroke, despite the fact that she had lost use of the left side of her body, the ability to speak, and much of her short- term memory. However,… Jo was different. Jo was old- school. Jo had lived through the 60’s, and on the right side of them. Jo had never sold- out. Jo was a fighter.
She told me about rehab, regaining use of her left- side, and re- learning how to talk. She told of how during all of this, the insurance companies were doing everything they could to avoid pay outs, and that North Carolina wanted no part of her disability claim, nor could she get assistance. Human… Kapital.
Apparently, Jo had been quite the little radical in her day, and still was. Sufficiently recovered, she began berating the health- care officials, local media outlets, and anyone else who would listen to her story—thereby creating quite a stir, and negative publicity for the state and her insurance providers. So much so, that the local officials had told her that if she did not ‘shut up or move’ they were going to ‘destroy’ her. She told them exactly where they could take their threats and publicized them. Eventually, and I believe it was with a change in administrations, the state issues were resolved. She got limited assistance.
I was now in love with Jo.
She apparently has spoken out against more than just the corrupt healthcare system. She has radical viewpoints that make me look like Reagan. She told of how before the stroke, she was involved in ‘Economics’, and that in 1997 she had seen indications that the country was on thin economic- ice, only to be rescued by the dot- coms. Then in 2000 the same thing was happening and that without a major influx of something, the country would go bankrupt. She pointed out that in 2000, PNAC had long since begun planning the Iraq invasion, and of course the next year: 9/11 and the ratcheting up of the famous Military Industrial Complex, conveniently generating untold billions in corporate revenues. She is convinced that the World Trade Center was the 21st Century Reichstag Fire, and has been outspoken enough for the CIA to add her to their “Dissenter List”. Quite an honor! She even told how she found out about that; losing her mail or having it delivered weeks late, then a friend working for the Postal Service informing her that it was due to the government snooping through her stuff. That’s our Patriot Act; keeping us safe from 60- year old stroke victims!
Amerika!!
Interestingly, she was also one of the few liberals I have met who have a strong religious
conviction…as the theme of religion continues. She spoke about that “Splinter”, the “Calling” (all unprovoked), and said she stopped because she sensed that I was on a "Mission from God." I left it there; I had had enough God for 24- hours! Nevertheless, the prevalence of southern religion, even amongst the heathenish- left, struck me. This ride lasted only thirty minutes, and I did not do a lot of talking. In Greensboro, she gave me her phone number and invited me, not just to call, but stay with her whenever I was in the area. What an interesting person, and seemingly as emphasis to her memory loss, she almost left before I could get my backpack out of her van!
Jo dropped me off on the south side of Greensboro, at what they call the “spider- web”, or “black hole”; I forget now, but something denoting that this is where all major highways converge. And, it was Randleman Rd.; Old 220— the same road I had considered walking.
I was not exactly pleased with this spot.
It was perhaps the most urbanized setting to date, and it was nearing 4:00. It reminded me of Boise, and I tried to encourage myself with a reminder that I had been out of Boise in 20 minutes. I sat down beneath a tree at the Shell station where Jo had left me, and looked at the Atlas. In the two- days, since Francesco had picked me up, I had progressed two- miles. Sobering.
I was directly across from the ramp leading to I-40 east, so I crossed the street and assumed the position: lying against the pack with headphones blaring. I was encouraged because the traffic
volume was extremely high and consistent. I was however in the ghetto; there were a portion of Greensboro’s projects directly next to me along the frontage road, and I was a point of curiosity. This made me a bit uneasy, not so much that I was there, but that I was attracting silent attention. Shortly after I arrived, a ragged woman joined me on the ramp, thumb in the air, shouting something to no one in particular. She kept rambling as she continued right past me, down the ramp, and on to the I-40 shoulder… her thumb still waving.
I was optimistic I would get out of there if I exercised some patience, so there I sat… and sat… and sat. I must have been quite the spectacle. A middle- aged man in a Geo Tracker gave me short- lived hope at about 7:30 by stopping, but rather than offering a ride, said that he “wanted to take my picture, because I was the most relaxed looking hitchhiker he had ever seen! Bwaaaahahahaha!” I let him; he left.
Dick.
At different times, I thought about following my crackheaded- contemporary and walking the grass that ran next to the highway, if only to get a change of locales. The projects next door were beginning to be abuzz with life as dusk approached, and although they never said anything, it was apparent I was attracting more attention still. On the verge of moving, I remembered the ill- advised attempt Friday, and decided against it. That… was a mistake.
Soon, the vibe turned VERY negative. As the sun fell, the looks from the almost exclusively black motorists went from curiosity and indifference, to something else. Then rather than ignoring me or just gawking, they began to get-- interactive. Cars actually began swerving toward me in an effort to spook me and force me to jump out of the way. I sat there like a stone, never flinching. I had seen this once or twice before and had come to half- expect it occasionally, but this was just different; ominous. It was not a time to sing Kumbaya, and mentally extol the merits of well- intentioned man… it was high time to get the hell out of there. There is a line between adventure, courage, faith, and naïve, foolish, idiocy—and everything in my being told me I had crossed it. So, it was back to the Shell station for water and directions to the next exit.
It was now about 8:45, and almost completely dark. When I got to Shell, I was surprised to discover the doors already locked, and the cashier closing out his register. The store had closed before 9:00, even though the sign on the door said they were open until 10. I wondered why a Shell, right off I-40 in Greensboro, would close AT ALL, let alone 10… or NOT EVEN 10. Not all was lost though, as I looked around, I did see what seemed to be promising places to camp close to the interstate. I sat down leaning against the wall facing Randleman Rd., plugged in the phone, dug out the Atlas, and prepared for the employee to shoo me away when he left. Then the plan was to explore the on- ramp for places to sleep.
After sitting there for about ten minutes, I looked up to see five people crossing Randleman Rd., coming from the projects toward the Shell. As they crossed the median, they went in slightly different directions, spreading out a bit going toward different parts of the parking lot. One of them kept shifting their eyes from me, to the side of the store, to his left, right, then back—directly—to me. The others actively searching, but looking everywhere but at me-- AVOIDING looking at me. They all looked to be relatively young, skinny, and hip- hopped out with the full, latest ensembles delivered directly from Stereotypical Ghetto Garb, LLC.
There was no conscious decision needed. I calmly, but quickly, unplugged the phone, shoved it in my pocket, and in the same motion, put the pack on and began walking toward the north end of the parking lot, directly in front of two of them, (neither of which were very large), and generally away from the others. That was the moment I knew I was not “just being paranoid.” Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the other three abruptly change course, toward me, while these two were sizing me up. They never said a word; didn’t need to. I had no idea what they were after, but I was relatively sure I had just strapped it to my back. My knife was right there on my shoulder- strap, but what would that do against five? Other than perhaps find its way into my own gut? With a split- second thought, I realized that this was the FIRST time I had been in any real danger.
Then a stroke of luck. Two cars pulled in, both loaded with guys from Virginia. I needed friends at that moment, so I politely told them they might not be able to get gas because the station had closed early, hoping to start a conversation and open a window of escape. This temporarily stalled and apparently confused the Welcoming Committee. Apparently not able to improvise, they all began to congregate together on the far (south) side of the parking lot, leaving the north side open for me to get out of there. That is exactly what I did. I crossed over Randleman Rd. to the raised median and walked a short distance down the middle of this temporary divide. I then crossed the rest of the way over, to the east side of Randleman Rd. I looked back, and saw all five Committee Members following a measured, yet uncomfortably close distance behind me; maybe 75ft. I picked up the pace, thanking God that I had lightened the pack, and crossed over I-40. When I got to the other side and looked back, they were gone. I have no idea where, nor did I care. Just gone. Now what? I went in to a well- placed (for me!) BP station to catch my breath, grab a Coke, and process what had just happened.
Oddly enough, I would not define any of what I felt as “fear”. The decision to leave the Shell was instantaneous; instinct. The rest was adrenaline, a razor- sharpening of senses, a quickening of thought, and almost literally involuntary action.
The reality did not really set in until I got to the BP. I quickly began to realize the gravity of the situation, and realized that if I was not VERY smart about the next few moments I could have real problems. I needed to either find a place to get out of sight, or get the hell out of this area.
A quick survey showed that, on this side of I-40, there was nothing. There was nowhere suitable to hide for the night, and I had cut off my known- escape route by crossing I-40. I looked up Randleman Rd. and saw nothing appealing, but by now, my survival instincts were in overdrive. Not the paranoid ‘instincts’ from Wyoming mind you; real ones! I was estimating everything—buildings, cars, semi- trailers, houses, yards, trees—anything I could use as shelter. However, those survival instincts also told me that my young stalker- friends knew the area, and since I had no idea where they had gone, they could be watching me even then, waiting for me to make a move. Paranoia? Maybe. Justified in this case? You bet.
It was becoming painfully obvious as I was at this ghetto- BP that I was in a bind. If I left this sanctuary, I had no idea what I would find; knowing nothing of the area other than what street the bus station was on. Like quicksand I realized, desperate, unmeasured, and irrational action could make things much worse. It was now shortly after 9:00, and this BP closed at 10. Fortunately, I had a 45- 50 minute haven where I could think.
Conclusion?
I’d had enough of Greensboro. Enough of North Carolina. To hell with the Atlantic Ocean. It was reminding me of Ft. Morgan, where just getting to Nebraska was bordering on impossible. The difference being that, in Colorado, it was Mother Nature (tornadoes) seemingly blocking my path, rather than roving bands of Ghetto Kings. I already had the bus information, thanks to Friday’s drama, and knew I was relatively close to the terminal. I called Shalain again to tell her about this little adventure and to try to get some perspective.
Her assessment: “You need to get the fuck out of there!”
I agreed. We discussed the ticket, and since I still had the $20 Will had given me the night before (forgot to mention that, didn’t I?), I had cash for a Taxi if I needed one.
The attendant inside was very helpful. I asked him how far it was downtown, and when he told me it would take a couple hours to walk, I asked how much the taxis would charge to get me down there. He said he could not imagine it being more than $10, so I borrowed the phone book, wrote down the number, and thanked him. We then chatted for a few minutes about the trip, as he was intrigued by where I had been, and how far to this point. I left what had just happened of my list of preferred anecdotes. I am not sure why, other than it was the ONLY example of its kind, and it seemed like a shame to bring it up. When he asked me why I was taking the bus, I again ignored the obvious, in favor of “I’m just tired.” which was not exactly a lie.
The clerk had to get busy closing, so I went outside and on a whim decided to give calls to Ken & Cesar, on the off chances that they may be in the region. A slim chance, but it was a slim chance when I called Ken from Denver the last time. I had really hoped that I could get a hold of Ken.
He had made an offhanded comment on the way to Nashville that if I ever got a ticket to Tampa, I could hang out, and perhaps ride out with him. Not only would I get to see Tampa, but also the trip would continue, and the ticket would cost less than Albuquerque would! I got voice mails for both of them, so called the taxi and after 20 minutes, it came and took me downtown to Greyhound, costing me $10 even.
As I got to the desk, and began pricing different locations (Albuquerque, Santa Fe, Denver, etc.), Ken called back. Good timing! I quickly gave him the rundown, and said that if the offer was legit, I could come to Tampa and see what happened. Ken said that he was actually planning to leave the next (Monday) morning however, and would be
long gone by the time the bus got there. He suggested instead that I go to Atlanta, where he was almost certain he would be picking up his usual load, and then heading somewhere that he would learn early Monday morning. Perfect! I could get the same bus out of Greensboro tonight, get to Atlanta at 7am, meet up with Ken, and then ride off to Parts Unknown and perhaps continue this little adventure, with another neat little wrinkle in it! At the very least, I figured I could ride back toward Denver, and if that was were where I wound up, the ticket home would be a fraction of the cost. The only slight reservation I had was if something happened the next day, and he DID NOT pick up in Atlanta. Atlanta is not a good place to be stuck, although if I were stuck it would be at the terminal, or a truck stop. I was taking a slight risk, but the odds were heavily in my favor.
That was that. After getting some vague directions from Ken on where to meet him, I bought the $71 ticket from Greensboro to Atlanta and left at 11:40pm.
I was happy that I had gotten a hold of Ken and was not just heading to New Mexico, although a significant part of me just wanted to relax, and begin to process everything that has happened over the last three months, which was daunting! Nevertheless, with September fast approaching, and with it yet another 29th birthday, I concluded I had better keep going; make use of the time I have this summer. Again, I was astounded at the progression of the day: I had woken up in woods near Randleman, North Carolina hoping to get, finally, back to Greensboro then to Raleigh and toward the Outer Banks. 12 hours later? I would soon be in Atlanta, Georgia.
Whudathunkit?
The ride to Atlanta? Other than stopping in Charlotte, the driver being half- crazed, the bus being over packed, riding through Hurricane Fay’s remnants, and the door flying open in the middle of the night? Other than that? Uneventful. Typical “Dirty Dog”. I dozed off half- hoping Ken would not show up, so I could follow Sherman’s March to Savannah, and stick my smelly feet in that damn ocean just to spite it.
In the end, these events in Greensboro did not faze me much. Ultimately, they were my own fault. I have purposely avoided urban centers for exactly this reason. I never conferred with Jo when it could have mattered, and that is no one’s fault but mine. In Colorado, Wyoming, California, Oregon, and most of Idaho, I was VERY good about this, but after pulling off “urban- stealthing stunt” in Pocatello, then getting lucky with the location in Winston- Salem, I lost sight of things.
Secondly, I lingered there long after I realized the setting could get dicey; long enough to where it was too late. I relied, again, too much on getting a ride, and should have simply hiked out. There is a reason that this was the only significant danger I have ever found myself in on this journey, with the exception, some would say, of the freight train. It is telling that it was due to a failure of discipline and common sense.
I hung up and continued to go about my business when another car drove slowly by; slow enough for me to see in the limited light that it was the Sheriff. I dove for cover then, when I realized that he was pulling in behind the mystery car, I crept closer to play the role of spectator thinking that I may see some high- drama from the woods. This was weird, not your typical stealth- camping experience!
I watched as the cop cautiously approached the driver’s side of the car, and spoke with the driver for what seemed like eternity. Odd. Cops are generally to- the- point and it went on so long that I re- entered the woods and decided where I was going to sleep for the night while periodically peering out to check in. Cars would drive past regularly, yet still no flashing lights.
Just as I was getting ready to set up, I heard voices. Even from the woods, it was obvious that the cop was giving him a sobriety test. It was Saturday night; “typical” I thought. Just as I went back into the woods, the lights came on- scaring the hell out of me. The cop was back standing at the driver’s side door indicating the operator was back inside. This, again, went on for what seemed like forever. I just wanted them to leave so I could stealth in peace!
By now, I had gotten used to the scenario, so I went a bit deeper into the woods to be certain of avoiding detection. Just as I removed the bivy from the backpack, I heard a car start and take off—fast. I assumed it was the cop, but as I hunched back toward the road, I saw the other car FLY past me, heading east toward Randleman. Then, I heard the cop-approaching, siren blaring. Hot Pursuit! The driver had gone loco, and was trying to escape! I had visions that I would see the drunk (I presumed) crash and burn, but no such luck. The chase went directly past the intersection and through the red light that led to Wal-Mart, and into downtown Randleman. I sat by the road and listened to the siren for quite awhile. First to the north of town; then south. This chase was obviously dramatic. I could still hear the siren fading off to the south as I climbed into the bivy at about 2am, laughing at this day! I never learned anything else about the chase, and thankfully saw no more of law enforcement.
I slept quite nicely after that, in what I thought was a very secluded area beneath some pines. When I awoke Sunday morning at about 10:00, I was shocked to see that I was actually in plain sight. Under the cover of darkness I was fine, but only 75 feet off the road, and the pines had less coverage than I thought. It was too late to stress it and I figured that everyone was either sleeping one off or in church.
I thought I had been prepared the night before, bringing extra water so I would not have to walk back toward Wal-Mart and restock first thing in the morning. Unfortunately, I had lost the Gatorade bottle searching for the spot, and since it was already hot… back to civilization I went, loading up on water and on- special Gatorade figuring that it was going to be a long day just sitting.
I began to contemplate the wisdom of continuing to hitchhike after the experiences of the past two- days, and the results I had seen from walking. I knew Old 220 went all the way to Greensboro or, with some creative navigating, could take me around it to I-40 skirting the city all together. Again, I could not bare the idea of walking back to where I had just come from, so I settled for another day of hitching hoping that with some luck I could get into Greensboro early, swing another ride OUT of the city, and get through Raleigh.
This ramp was much better than the others in North Carolina. It was long, wide, and had a
natural pull- out for people to use if they took pity on me sweating in the sun. Just as the last two days, I laid out on the pack, strapped on the headphones, and prepared to wait all day. I knew that I had NEVER gone a day without at least ONE ride, so I was relatively certain I would see Greensboro again by day’s end.I sat on the ramp for 3-4 hours, only moving to heed Nature’s Call, or stand to awaken my sleeping--- posterior. As I was returning from a nature- break, a rickety old van pulled over and a woman who looked to be in her mid 50’s jumped out and asked if I needed a ride. “Hell yeah!” I said, trying to seem“Confederate”. It is rare for a single woman to stop, and I was glad that I did not look threatening enough to scare her away! As I recall, this was only the fourth woman to pick me up, and the first since the bus stop in Portland.
Jo opened up the rear doors, and warned me to be careful as I loaded the backpack because she was charging a car battery back there. Something I had never seen before. Jo seemed outgoing, and a bit odd. She resembled a few aging hippies I have met; the original ones that I respect. I immediately liked her, and we began a vigorous, mostly one- sided conversation immediately after I settled in the van. Stop me if this story- line seems familiar…
Jo was nearly 60, and a few years back had a stroke. And guess what. She had been fighting health insurance companies, the state, former employers… you have heard this before, right? I laughed aloud, shook my head, and told her that she would be amazed at the number of people I had run into with similar storylines. The insurance companies and the State had essentially thrown her away after the stroke, despite the fact that she had lost use of the left side of her body, the ability to speak, and much of her short- term memory. However,… Jo was different. Jo was old- school. Jo had lived through the 60’s, and on the right side of them. Jo had never sold- out. Jo was a fighter.
She told me about rehab, regaining use of her left- side, and re- learning how to talk. She told of how during all of this, the insurance companies were doing everything they could to avoid pay outs, and that North Carolina wanted no part of her disability claim, nor could she get assistance. Human… Kapital.
Apparently, Jo had been quite the little radical in her day, and still was. Sufficiently recovered, she began berating the health- care officials, local media outlets, and anyone else who would listen to her story—thereby creating quite a stir, and negative publicity for the state and her insurance providers. So much so, that the local officials had told her that if she did not ‘shut up or move’ they were going to ‘destroy’ her. She told them exactly where they could take their threats and publicized them. Eventually, and I believe it was with a change in administrations, the state issues were resolved. She got limited assistance.
I was now in love with Jo.
She apparently has spoken out against more than just the corrupt healthcare system. She has radical viewpoints that make me look like Reagan. She told of how before the stroke, she was involved in ‘Economics’, and that in 1997 she had seen indications that the country was on thin economic- ice, only to be rescued by the dot- coms. Then in 2000 the same thing was happening and that without a major influx of something, the country would go bankrupt. She pointed out that in 2000, PNAC had long since begun planning the Iraq invasion, and of course the next year: 9/11 and the ratcheting up of the famous Military Industrial Complex, conveniently generating untold billions in corporate revenues. She is convinced that the World Trade Center was the 21st Century Reichstag Fire, and has been outspoken enough for the CIA to add her to their “Dissenter List”. Quite an honor! She even told how she found out about that; losing her mail or having it delivered weeks late, then a friend working for the Postal Service informing her that it was due to the government snooping through her stuff. That’s our Patriot Act; keeping us safe from 60- year old stroke victims!
Amerika!!
Interestingly, she was also one of the few liberals I have met who have a strong religious
conviction…as the theme of religion continues. She spoke about that “Splinter”, the “Calling” (all unprovoked), and said she stopped because she sensed that I was on a "Mission from God." I left it there; I had had enough God for 24- hours! Nevertheless, the prevalence of southern religion, even amongst the heathenish- left, struck me. This ride lasted only thirty minutes, and I did not do a lot of talking. In Greensboro, she gave me her phone number and invited me, not just to call, but stay with her whenever I was in the area. What an interesting person, and seemingly as emphasis to her memory loss, she almost left before I could get my backpack out of her van!Jo dropped me off on the south side of Greensboro, at what they call the “spider- web”, or “black hole”; I forget now, but something denoting that this is where all major highways converge. And, it was Randleman Rd.; Old 220— the same road I had considered walking.
I was not exactly pleased with this spot.
It was perhaps the most urbanized setting to date, and it was nearing 4:00. It reminded me of Boise, and I tried to encourage myself with a reminder that I had been out of Boise in 20 minutes. I sat down beneath a tree at the Shell station where Jo had left me, and looked at the Atlas. In the two- days, since Francesco had picked me up, I had progressed two- miles. Sobering.
I was directly across from the ramp leading to I-40 east, so I crossed the street and assumed the position: lying against the pack with headphones blaring. I was encouraged because the traffic
volume was extremely high and consistent. I was however in the ghetto; there were a portion of Greensboro’s projects directly next to me along the frontage road, and I was a point of curiosity. This made me a bit uneasy, not so much that I was there, but that I was attracting silent attention. Shortly after I arrived, a ragged woman joined me on the ramp, thumb in the air, shouting something to no one in particular. She kept rambling as she continued right past me, down the ramp, and on to the I-40 shoulder… her thumb still waving.
I was optimistic I would get out of there if I exercised some patience, so there I sat… and sat… and sat. I must have been quite the spectacle. A middle- aged man in a Geo Tracker gave me short- lived hope at about 7:30 by stopping, but rather than offering a ride, said that he “wanted to take my picture, because I was the most relaxed looking hitchhiker he had ever seen! Bwaaaahahahaha!” I let him; he left.
Dick.
At different times, I thought about following my crackheaded- contemporary and walking the grass that ran next to the highway, if only to get a change of locales. The projects next door were beginning to be abuzz with life as dusk approached, and although they never said anything, it was apparent I was attracting more attention still. On the verge of moving, I remembered the ill- advised attempt Friday, and decided against it. That… was a mistake.
Soon, the vibe turned VERY negative. As the sun fell, the looks from the almost exclusively black motorists went from curiosity and indifference, to something else. Then rather than ignoring me or just gawking, they began to get-- interactive. Cars actually began swerving toward me in an effort to spook me and force me to jump out of the way. I sat there like a stone, never flinching. I had seen this once or twice before and had come to half- expect it occasionally, but this was just different; ominous. It was not a time to sing Kumbaya, and mentally extol the merits of well- intentioned man… it was high time to get the hell out of there. There is a line between adventure, courage, faith, and naïve, foolish, idiocy—and everything in my being told me I had crossed it. So, it was back to the Shell station for water and directions to the next exit.
It was now about 8:45, and almost completely dark. When I got to Shell, I was surprised to discover the doors already locked, and the cashier closing out his register. The store had closed before 9:00, even though the sign on the door said they were open until 10. I wondered why a Shell, right off I-40 in Greensboro, would close AT ALL, let alone 10… or NOT EVEN 10. Not all was lost though, as I looked around, I did see what seemed to be promising places to camp close to the interstate. I sat down leaning against the wall facing Randleman Rd., plugged in the phone, dug out the Atlas, and prepared for the employee to shoo me away when he left. Then the plan was to explore the on- ramp for places to sleep.
After sitting there for about ten minutes, I looked up to see five people crossing Randleman Rd., coming from the projects toward the Shell. As they crossed the median, they went in slightly different directions, spreading out a bit going toward different parts of the parking lot. One of them kept shifting their eyes from me, to the side of the store, to his left, right, then back—directly—to me. The others actively searching, but looking everywhere but at me-- AVOIDING looking at me. They all looked to be relatively young, skinny, and hip- hopped out with the full, latest ensembles delivered directly from Stereotypical Ghetto Garb, LLC.
There was no conscious decision needed. I calmly, but quickly, unplugged the phone, shoved it in my pocket, and in the same motion, put the pack on and began walking toward the north end of the parking lot, directly in front of two of them, (neither of which were very large), and generally away from the others. That was the moment I knew I was not “just being paranoid.” Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the other three abruptly change course, toward me, while these two were sizing me up. They never said a word; didn’t need to. I had no idea what they were after, but I was relatively sure I had just strapped it to my back. My knife was right there on my shoulder- strap, but what would that do against five? Other than perhaps find its way into my own gut? With a split- second thought, I realized that this was the FIRST time I had been in any real danger.
Then a stroke of luck. Two cars pulled in, both loaded with guys from Virginia. I needed friends at that moment, so I politely told them they might not be able to get gas because the station had closed early, hoping to start a conversation and open a window of escape. This temporarily stalled and apparently confused the Welcoming Committee. Apparently not able to improvise, they all began to congregate together on the far (south) side of the parking lot, leaving the north side open for me to get out of there. That is exactly what I did. I crossed over Randleman Rd. to the raised median and walked a short distance down the middle of this temporary divide. I then crossed the rest of the way over, to the east side of Randleman Rd. I looked back, and saw all five Committee Members following a measured, yet uncomfortably close distance behind me; maybe 75ft. I picked up the pace, thanking God that I had lightened the pack, and crossed over I-40. When I got to the other side and looked back, they were gone. I have no idea where, nor did I care. Just gone. Now what? I went in to a well- placed (for me!) BP station to catch my breath, grab a Coke, and process what had just happened.
Oddly enough, I would not define any of what I felt as “fear”. The decision to leave the Shell was instantaneous; instinct. The rest was adrenaline, a razor- sharpening of senses, a quickening of thought, and almost literally involuntary action.
The reality did not really set in until I got to the BP. I quickly began to realize the gravity of the situation, and realized that if I was not VERY smart about the next few moments I could have real problems. I needed to either find a place to get out of sight, or get the hell out of this area.
A quick survey showed that, on this side of I-40, there was nothing. There was nowhere suitable to hide for the night, and I had cut off my known- escape route by crossing I-40. I looked up Randleman Rd. and saw nothing appealing, but by now, my survival instincts were in overdrive. Not the paranoid ‘instincts’ from Wyoming mind you; real ones! I was estimating everything—buildings, cars, semi- trailers, houses, yards, trees—anything I could use as shelter. However, those survival instincts also told me that my young stalker- friends knew the area, and since I had no idea where they had gone, they could be watching me even then, waiting for me to make a move. Paranoia? Maybe. Justified in this case? You bet.
It was becoming painfully obvious as I was at this ghetto- BP that I was in a bind. If I left this sanctuary, I had no idea what I would find; knowing nothing of the area other than what street the bus station was on. Like quicksand I realized, desperate, unmeasured, and irrational action could make things much worse. It was now shortly after 9:00, and this BP closed at 10. Fortunately, I had a 45- 50 minute haven where I could think.
Conclusion?
I’d had enough of Greensboro. Enough of North Carolina. To hell with the Atlantic Ocean. It was reminding me of Ft. Morgan, where just getting to Nebraska was bordering on impossible. The difference being that, in Colorado, it was Mother Nature (tornadoes) seemingly blocking my path, rather than roving bands of Ghetto Kings. I already had the bus information, thanks to Friday’s drama, and knew I was relatively close to the terminal. I called Shalain again to tell her about this little adventure and to try to get some perspective.
Her assessment: “You need to get the fuck out of there!”
I agreed. We discussed the ticket, and since I still had the $20 Will had given me the night before (forgot to mention that, didn’t I?), I had cash for a Taxi if I needed one.
The attendant inside was very helpful. I asked him how far it was downtown, and when he told me it would take a couple hours to walk, I asked how much the taxis would charge to get me down there. He said he could not imagine it being more than $10, so I borrowed the phone book, wrote down the number, and thanked him. We then chatted for a few minutes about the trip, as he was intrigued by where I had been, and how far to this point. I left what had just happened of my list of preferred anecdotes. I am not sure why, other than it was the ONLY example of its kind, and it seemed like a shame to bring it up. When he asked me why I was taking the bus, I again ignored the obvious, in favor of “I’m just tired.” which was not exactly a lie.
The clerk had to get busy closing, so I went outside and on a whim decided to give calls to Ken & Cesar, on the off chances that they may be in the region. A slim chance, but it was a slim chance when I called Ken from Denver the last time. I had really hoped that I could get a hold of Ken.
He had made an offhanded comment on the way to Nashville that if I ever got a ticket to Tampa, I could hang out, and perhaps ride out with him. Not only would I get to see Tampa, but also the trip would continue, and the ticket would cost less than Albuquerque would! I got voice mails for both of them, so called the taxi and after 20 minutes, it came and took me downtown to Greyhound, costing me $10 even.As I got to the desk, and began pricing different locations (Albuquerque, Santa Fe, Denver, etc.), Ken called back. Good timing! I quickly gave him the rundown, and said that if the offer was legit, I could come to Tampa and see what happened. Ken said that he was actually planning to leave the next (Monday) morning however, and would be
long gone by the time the bus got there. He suggested instead that I go to Atlanta, where he was almost certain he would be picking up his usual load, and then heading somewhere that he would learn early Monday morning. Perfect! I could get the same bus out of Greensboro tonight, get to Atlanta at 7am, meet up with Ken, and then ride off to Parts Unknown and perhaps continue this little adventure, with another neat little wrinkle in it! At the very least, I figured I could ride back toward Denver, and if that was were where I wound up, the ticket home would be a fraction of the cost. The only slight reservation I had was if something happened the next day, and he DID NOT pick up in Atlanta. Atlanta is not a good place to be stuck, although if I were stuck it would be at the terminal, or a truck stop. I was taking a slight risk, but the odds were heavily in my favor.That was that. After getting some vague directions from Ken on where to meet him, I bought the $71 ticket from Greensboro to Atlanta and left at 11:40pm.
I was happy that I had gotten a hold of Ken and was not just heading to New Mexico, although a significant part of me just wanted to relax, and begin to process everything that has happened over the last three months, which was daunting! Nevertheless, with September fast approaching, and with it yet another 29th birthday, I concluded I had better keep going; make use of the time I have this summer. Again, I was astounded at the progression of the day: I had woken up in woods near Randleman, North Carolina hoping to get, finally, back to Greensboro then to Raleigh and toward the Outer Banks. 12 hours later? I would soon be in Atlanta, Georgia.Whudathunkit?
The ride to Atlanta? Other than stopping in Charlotte, the driver being half- crazed, the bus being over packed, riding through Hurricane Fay’s remnants, and the door flying open in the middle of the night? Other than that? Uneventful. Typical “Dirty Dog”. I dozed off half- hoping Ken would not show up, so I could follow Sherman’s March to Savannah, and stick my smelly feet in that damn ocean just to spite it.
In the end, these events in Greensboro did not faze me much. Ultimately, they were my own fault. I have purposely avoided urban centers for exactly this reason. I never conferred with Jo when it could have mattered, and that is no one’s fault but mine. In Colorado, Wyoming, California, Oregon, and most of Idaho, I was VERY good about this, but after pulling off “urban- stealthing stunt” in Pocatello, then getting lucky with the location in Winston- Salem, I lost sight of things.
Secondly, I lingered there long after I realized the setting could get dicey; long enough to where it was too late. I relied, again, too much on getting a ride, and should have simply hiked out. There is a reason that this was the only significant danger I have ever found myself in on this journey, with the exception, some would say, of the freight train. It is telling that it was due to a failure of discipline and common sense.
Labels:
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Randleman NC
Saturday, August 23, 2008
8/23 N. Carolina- Asheboro & Randleman with Jesus
The bivy performed like a champ. It kept was warm & spider- free, and allowed me to leave the
sleeping bag packed. I awoke Saturday morning at the usual time, 8:30, but decided I was going to take advantage of the perfect spot and catch up on some sleep. I attributed much of Friday’s ‘pissiness’ to fatigue, so I went back to sleep in peace until about 11:00. It was great, and I would need it.
It took awhile for me to mobilize after sleeping so long, but after some cold instant coffee… a disgusting Todd- staple… I packed up and mentally prepared myself for a day likely spent sitting on my butt at the same gas station unable to get out of Asheboro. The on- ramp was no good because of North Carolina’s aversion to shoulders.
I climbed out of the palmettos, or whatever they were, and walked up the
ramp toward the gas station, to the wonderment of Saturday’s traffic. I’ve never grown tired of the looks of amazement when people see me walking places usually reserved for cars. I bought some real coffee, sat down where the driveway and road met; but far enough back so as not to attract unwanted attention from Rosco, Cooter or the rest of Boss Hogg’s Band of Merry Morons.
I put on headphones; there I sat for most of the day. There was an occasional trip inside for coffee, water, and cigarettes, but the day was playing out as expected. It was a hot one too, low 90’s with the sun blazing, but
somewhere along the way I had come to enjoy sitting in the sun. Thankfully, I had brought my old (and stupid- looking) Army Surplus Desert Storm wide- brim hat, so my baldhead was not scorching.
The thought began to occur to me that I should consider alternate routes out of Asheboro toward the coast. I had time to study the atlas, and began to tinker with the idea of going SOUTH on US-220/ I-74. The Outer Banks had long- lost its charm, and honestly, I could have cared less about WHERE I stuck my damn foot in the damn Atlantic anymore. The problem with going south from Asheboro was that it was going to take me into one of the most rural parts of North Carolina, and since I was feeling like the “Happy Hitcher” that did not
appeal. It was then that I learned that there was ‘old’ US-220, which ran parallel to 220, back into Greensboro. This road would take me directly back into Randleman and toward I-40 if I wanted to walk. Had I sat there much longer, that is exactly what I would have done.
Hurricane Fay was something to consider as well. The weather forecasts were all calling for a great deal of rain from ANOTHER system on Monday, and there was talk that Fay could make her slow- moving way into the Carolinas after she made landfall on the Gulf Coast. Insanely perhaps, this motivated me to get there! I still have an unnatural urge to ride out a hurricane and would definitely do a tropical storm in a good tent or a bivy. Just to DO IT! There was still too much uncertainty about the track of the storm, and besides it would be hard to ride out a tropical storm hitting the coast, while I was sitting in ASHEBORO!
As the day went on, I was content either waiting for a ride, or walking. It did not really matter to me and at about 3:30, as I was preparing to hoof it, a red pickup truck pulled up next to me and asked if I was hungry.
Hungry? Really?
Most of the time when people asked if I needed money or food, it depended on the situation as to rather I would accept or not. The ride from Winston- Salem to Greensboro had asked if I needed cash, and I politely turned it down because I really DID NOT need it, and hoped that would help to kill the stereotype in some small way. When Skeeter asked, (I’m not joking this time! That was his ‘name’! Cooter's cousin?) I was on the verge of saying no again, but when he said that there was a barbeque going on and that they would have no problem with me joining, I decided to accept. I needed some real human interaction, and this seemed like a possible gateway to adventure. Besides, it beat talking to the phone booth… that I had named Phil.
As we were leaving, Skeeter looked at me and asked if I was homeless. This took me slightly
aback, because NEVER had anyone asked up to this point. I answered “no” and began to wonder if I smelled like pee, indicating “hippie”. He then gave me a look I will never forget. He was either disappointed, or pissed! He had actually hoped I WAS homeless! It would all make perfect sense in about two minutes. He asked me where I was headed, and when I told him anywhere along the coast, he added that there were a lot of people who had come in from the coast for this ‘cookout’, and that I may be able to find a lift with one of them. I would later learn that to be fabrication, but now this looked promising.
Skeeter (I love that name) pulled into a parking lot filled with Harleys. There was also a
stage set up where there was a band playing different versions of “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door”, a dunk- tank, lots of tables, and quite a few people milling around. I had seen the bikes ride by the gas station earlier, and it immediately became very apparent why Skeeter had stopped & why he was so disappointed in the fact that I had a home: It was a church gathering.
He was hoping to bring a hungry stray into their flock so they could feed, and then SAVE HIM! That was my initial thought, and that was exactly Skeeter’s intention.
I dropped my pack beneath a tree, and oddly felt like I was doing a remote- broadcast for a radio
station. The moment the station arrives to set up, if there is a crowd gathered they all ogle whoever gets out of the vehicle. THIS was that feeling. Along the way, several of the parishioners went out of their way to introduce themselves and welcome me, asking where I was headed and where I’d come from. When I told them I was from New Mexico, and had gone up the Pacific Coast, hopped a freight train, then hitchhiked from Idaho… they to a man had the look of utter horror!
“Man, you’s gots ta be careful out there! There’s some crazies who will kills ya! Weren’t you worried ‘bout that?”
Literally… almost to a man. These were Christians. Obviously VERY devoted to their religion, the word of ‘God’, Jesus… peace on (white) Earth, all that. Yet they were utterly terrified of people. I was mildly surprised to the extent, but not completely. This fed into my views of religion up to this point: that it encourages fear of the unknown thereby instilling a system of control, and perpetuates its own existence by providing conditional charity. Yes kids, a church gathering was an odd place for me to find myself.
I took advantage of the food, and grabbed a few hot dogs, coleslaw, and cokes. It was nice to eat
warm food again as I mingled around trying to get a better gauge on this odd group of people. They seemed nice, polite, and very respectful, thankfully putting to rest my biggest fear: that each of them was going to try to give me their own personal testimony and bring me to Jesus. A few did mention their faith, but none tried to explore my spiritual leanings. Rest assured though, I was waiting for it, and plotting how to handle it if/ when it came up.
The characters at this gathering were the most interesting combination of people I have seen at any church. There were reformed bikers, recent parolees, recovering addicts, teenagers, young children, and ordinary people, "like any respectable cult", I said to myself, all interacting normally and talking about Jesus. There was an inordinate amount of “Amen’s” and “Praise God’s”, even for
the setting. Several of them invited me to come to the service Sunday morning, and I said that I just might if I was still (stuck) in town.
I also noticed something that astonished me considering the diversity: more blatant racism. Remember Titus & Stephen? Professing their belief in the word of God, but yelling “Take that nigger to jail!” the next moment? There was some of that, though not as extreme, and I immediately realized that EVERYONE here was white. There were no Hispanics, and no blacks despite the high numbers in the area. Several in the congregation had
little trouble and even fewer second thoughts about making their opinions of minorities known. The transparent hypocrisy was almost as staggering as the irony.
We had arrived toward the end, so helped them tear down and prepared to leave. I also learned that there was ANOTHER gathering that night, in Randleman, and they invited me to stop by if I got up that way. I had become very interested in this little group, and wanted to see more to learn how they reconciled racism, xenophobia…, with Jesus! In addition, the thought of more free food sounded good, and I still held hope that I would snag a ride somewhere significant.
As I was getting ready to hike off, Pat, the Asheboro pastor, offered me a ride a few miles up 220… on the way back to Greensboro and toward Randleman. I rode in the back of his pickup
, and he dropped me off on Old- 220, which was fine with me. I was probably 7-9 miles further north, closer to Randleman, and OUT of Asheboro. Here, I got the first sales- pitch. He asked me where I “stood with Jesus”. Not wanting Holy War waged in a gas station’s parking lot, yet feeling combative enough to express that I was not a ‘stray sheep’, I told him that we “define things much differently, have different views, but are on the same team.” I could see the wheels of intolerance turning in his eyes. He was not going to be content with anything but “I’ve accepted Jesus as my personal Savior!” I managed to short-circuit the discussion by simply telling him I did not want to discuss theological- philosophy with a pastor, and that I would try to get into Randleman later that evening where we could chat. That did not satisfy him, but what could he do? He gave me directions, offered me money, which I declined, and he was on his way.
“What an interesting afternoon!” I thought to myself as I went into the gas stations to ask for water (nope!), and get some cheapo cigarettes. I took a quick spicket/ hose shower to cool off, and get prepared to hike to Randleman. It was about five or 5:30 by now, and while the sun was dropping, it was still in the upper 80’s and the humidity high.
I began walking north on Old 220, thinking I was in another town that I had missed on the map. I was frustrated to learn that I was not even out of Asheboro! I was in NORTH Asheboro! This befuddled me because now I had no bearing as to how far Randleman was. It could be as close as 7 or 8 miles, or as far as 15- 20. It never occurred to me to stop to ask. The walk was exhilarating, although sweaty! I stopped regularly to rest, drink lots of water, and just watch the world around me. “This is SO much better than sitting by the highway!” I thought to myself. I saw a water tower far off in the distance after I had walked a couple of miles, but was not sure if it belonged to Randleman or “N. North Asheboro”! I held my hopes in check until I got close enough to read it an hour or two later. It was indeed Randleman.
There was a Dollar Store and Goodwill at the strip mall on the south end of town. I was getting pretty tired after walking probably close to 8 miles, plus my soft- again feet were blistering, so I stopped at Goodwill and occupied their bench contemplating the worthwhile- ness of continuing on to the church. Here I met a couple of very nice women, who took pity on me (and my piss- warm water) with ice water from their employee lounge. They also warned me NOT to drink the water in Randleman; “something about the pipes has been making people sick”. Thank God, they thought to mention that! They said Randleman’s ‘downtown’ was only another mile, so on I went keeping an eye out for places to camp on the way, in case Pat's directions were inaccurate: “Go to the fourth light, and, well… you’ll see where it is.” The fourth light came; I saw where it was. I was also glad to see that “HIS Place” was located near an intersection that took me toward US-220, where there was bound to be an on- ramp for camping.
It was still before 9:00 as I joyfully bounded inside knowing that there was food to be had. I saw several familiar, smiling faces that all warmly welcomed me and asked if I had walked from Asheboro. This group had a different feel than in Asheboro. More families, more couples, more cheerful. Maybe they had partaken in the wine before I had gotten there? Or perhaps it was the fact that I had been walking that put me in better spirits, but I was once again smitten with Randleman.
I chatted for a bit, and then helped myself to hamburgers and fries—inhaling them after walking off the hot dogs miles back. As I was eating, a gentleman who looked to be about 60 came over to chat. His name was Will, and I learned that he is originally from Michigan, had traveled all over the country, and done it the same ways I had. Will had walked and hitchhiked, but said he never had had the nerve to hop a train. He was one of the few people I had met here that were NOT convinced that everyone in the world was a murderer- in- waiting. He was also one of the few that had gotten out there to see it for himself. Coincidence? I suspect not. I wanted to chat more with him, but the pastor had interrupted the band to remind everyone that they were still in church, and that they should probably do some churchin’.
Shit.
I REALLY did not want to sit through this!
I settled in however, out of respect for the fact that they had welcomed me in and given me food… twice. The least I could do was listen to what he had to say; what it was that seemed to bond this unique and diverse group of people together.
I have long since forgotten his name, but the pastor is a rough looking leather- clad biker sort who obviously had not always ‘turned the other cheek’, and looks like he could still “open the can” if needed. A regret I have is that I cannot, for the life of me, remember his name. Therefore, for the sake of the story I hereby dub him “Snake”. Pastor Snake. Nice ring.
Snake has a gift for speaking, and it was immediately apparent that this was NOT going to be the typical snoozer- sermon. He began by criticizing “most Christians”. He chastised them for one of the things that irritate me most: loaded charity. Offering help only out of self- preservation & interest, either as part of the Crusade, or as it pertains to my long- standing annoyance, because it will increase their standing with God! He verbalized it perfectly, bluntly, and to my amazement, with anger! He pointed out that charity borne out of self-interest is NOT charity at all; it is closer to a business arrangement: “I will help you only if it helps me!” This, to me, has always been the height of religious arrogance, hypocrisy, and deceit. Yet, not it’s only example.
Snake’s sermon then went on to topics that astounded my sense of synchronicity. He began to talk about many things that I have been writing about since Ft. Morgan, and the things that Chris and I spent hours discussing in Denver. The “Splinter in the Mind”. Synchronicity. Self- doubt. And, amazingly enough, ignoring the institutionally implanted idea that your life is expected to follow the course laid out for you by society. All of this… in church? Are you kidding?
It occurred to me that the excuse I had given Pat in Asheboro, that “we define things differently”, may have been closer to truth than I had thought. Snake uses the term “Calling” for what I term, from the Bhagavad Gita (and The Moody Blues!) “The Voice”. He seems to believe, as do I, that everyone has this somewhere, but not everyone hears, or listens to it. I have termed that being “tuned in”. The catalyst that enables most of us to “tune in” is that “Splinter in the Mind” that just will not go away, forcing us to listen to that "Voice"; the tuning process.
He also dove into one of my themes: self- doubt. He took an angle on this that, while a bit dogmatic for me, I was able to fit in to my own experience. According to Snake, if you are following a “calling” and are experiencing crippling self- doubt, it is Satan trying to knock you off course. He went on to offer that it is a height of arrogance to believe that your own feelings of doubt in any way supersede God; that if you’re following God’s Calling there is NO way doubt should ever be a factor, because God would never put you on a path you cannot complete. Believing that intellect (logic) and emotion are more accurate or reliable is absurd-- arrogance.
He lost me a bit with the Satan reference. Nevertheless, is it a stretch to make the connection that usually, self- doubt is NOT something that originates within? Is not self- doubt, and by extension fear, usually the voice of society, 'education', indoctrination, a critical parent, teacher, or friends? In my experience? Absolutely. How often can you really trace the nexus of fear and self- doubt back to something that TRULY originates within? Not often if you have the courage to dig deep enough. Careful! That will bake your noodle if you let it.
One point where Snake and I have diverging views, as I do with most theologians and 12- steppers, is the view that people should NOT take responsibility for, and trust, themselves. Snake believes that having faith in yourself is folly, when all you have to trust in is God!
Horseshit.
This thinking blew me out of AA (back in the day) because it prevents people from taking responsibility and control of their own lives. “I’m powerless! Help me!” “If I’m bad it must be Satan! If I’m good it must be God!” Externalizing both the good and bad facets of humanity. Suggesting that people are a puppets, simply here to have our "strings pulled", is a convenient thought to instill if you wish to eliminate critical thought and individuality; collectively stunting intellectual (and spiritual) growth. It also eliminates the idea that each person is capable of not just critical, but original thought AND action; that we are capable of more than just having other people’s ideas & doctrine spray-painted on our mind’s wall. Usually when they mess up and come up with something successfully innovative, "God spoke to him!" If it fails? Must be that pesky Satan again!
I've said this before, but this is another of my major irritants: people assuming they are “educated” or “witty” because they can parrot someone else's material, but vapor locking when they are challenged to explain it or add something of their own... in their OWN words. (hearing me, hippie?)
Externalization forces people’s ideas be formed primarily by the status quo, rather than teaching us to formulate our own as we go. Original ideas that are developed primarily independent of the standard, failed intellectual fare, then seeking out the thinkers, philosophers--- religions--- that suit our developing, distinct appetites. Reading is great. Thinking is better. Combing both (and NOT in that order) to develop your own, original, philosophy is best. Blaze your own trail if you must; that is the essence of individualism.
Yet, in an odd way Snake also challenged each of these parishioners to challenge the status quo as it pertains to social expectations, saying that the Machine will indeed try to stop you from following your “calling”; silence the “voice”. Does this mean that The Institution is Satan? There are examples of this sabotage everywhere; some are institutional, and some a bit more subtle. I call it the “Ministry of Standards & Practices”; I will post that rant here... sometime!
Finally, and most interestingly to me: his thoughts on Synchronicity. He described it as “God sending angels out ahead of you to prepare the path", as long as you are on the prescribed trail. That if you are following your calling, you will not starve. Snake and I – and many others— are in complete agreement on this, and as far as I can tell, the ‘nuts N bolts’, the ‘how’, are like hippies: irrelevant. He takes the same viewpoint on adversity met along this path as many others have: obstacles to be overcome, challenges which strengthen and teach us. For people on my end of the metaphysical spectrum: experiences. Life to be lived. Easy to talk about; hard to practice.
Now, I have no opinion as to the existence of angels! However, I have experienced these Synchronistic things repeatedly; so have Chris and innumerable others. Those who tell logic and the accepted “method” to go to Hell, and just… ‘do it’. We quickly discover that things just ‘happen’, at just the right times and in the just right way, even if we cannot see it immediately. This is Synchronicity. It exists, even if I cannot explain how or why! I can also tell you, and Chris and others will back this up, that you cannot simply lean and rely on it.
You will not become Synchronicity’s Welfare Mother.
You have to meet it half way. AT LEAST half way. If you believe that sitting in your house, waiting for Leonard Cohen’s "Miracle to Come" is going to trigger that enlightenment and put you on that path, take it from me: you will wake up one day wondering how Pink Floyd’s “ten years got behind you”, and asking why “no one told you when to run.” “You missed the starting gun” because YOU are the one who fires it. Or, you will find yourself stuck on the proverbial (or real!) exit ramp … Trust me!
This was a powerful 45-minute chat, and lest ye be worried, thy hast nay been… converted. The sermon left me; despite the volumes written above, MORE convinced and certain about my previous stance on religion. What disturbs me is that I had missed these ideas out of ignorance. Ignorance about the specifics in the Bible; which I have avoided like Herpes. The ideas appeal to me; made me realize that on some level, we ARE ALL speaking the same coded- language.
The final stroke of lightning came shortly after Snake’s sermon when Will and I resumed our conversation. I felt comfortable enough with him to divulge a bit more about my ideas and experience and, of course, he repeated Pat’s question about where I “stood with Jesus”. I told
him the same thing, that we are on the same team but define and view things much differently. To my astonishment, rather than try to argue, or SAVE me, I caught him slyly smiling and nodding his head. “What?!? Are you actually agreeing with me?”, I thought. He knew exactly what I was getting at, and rather than argue for me to ‘get on board’, he continued asking about the trip, and how I had gotten to be in Randleman. He asked about what triggered this in the first place, and when I used the “Splinter in the Mind” term, and quickly encapsulated the last four- years, he looked astounded. He was convinced that I was ‘called’, and if by “called” he meant that I couldn’t help what I was doing, and that I was simply following my own steps toward singularity; mind, body, and ‘soul’, then yes I agreed, I was called. I was NOT however acknowledging anything beyond that. I would offer that I had seen and experienced many things, had compared my experiences with those of others to be sure that I was not nuts (self- doubt), had challenged my own ideas whenever I could, and instead of coming out dejected and beaten, my ideas have only expanded. Found new avenues to travel toward and expand themselves. Like an appreciation for the ideas behind, but disgust for… religion.
Then Will pointed out something that stunned me in my ignorance. He just smiled and said, “Todd, do you realize Jesus Christ was NOT religious? He despised organized religion! He called them “fornicators” because they were *whispered* screwing the word of God!” Screwing, manipulating, and bastardizing truth for profit, control, and power. Of course, I did NOT know that. But, that made perfect sense. I would EXPECT Jesus to despise organized religion, or else discount everything he had to say! I am now rather interested in this aspect of Christ. HOW MUCH, and why exactly did he despise organized religion, and why is that so conveniently ignored? Or, should I get out more?! I then remembered my Muslim ride, “Z”, telling me that one of the four lines attributed to Mohammad in the Koran is something akin to “live your life as a traveler”, this piqued my interest: the fact that Christ, Mohammad, and Buddha all have ‘wandering’ as a theme.
Depite this experience, it is obvious that the hypocrisy remains deeply entrenched throughout organized religion. The fact that they use "God" as a weapon to control thought and action while instilling, and then manipulating fear is unavoidable fact. And so are the obscene, tax- free profits SOME of these evangelicals pull in.
“God’s watching you, keeping score!” “Do what we say, or you’re going to HELL! By the way my friends, God spoke to me and told me to provide bigger breasts for Tammey Faye. Pony Up, and let's get bigger boobs for JESUS!”
Further, take a gander at Focus on the Family… or any of these other douchbags that blame Katrina on "gays", or whatever group they hate this week… just so you will vote Republican! Many people are 'taking that 'gander'. Religion is experiencing a Viet Nam- like recruiting crisis, with more and more people choosing "Spiritual But Not Religious" as their denomination. When it comes to a ‘relationship with God’, I like Ramtha’s analogy at the end of “What the Bleep…” (paraphrase): "to think that one little speck in some remote corner, of a remote galaxy, in a remote corner of infinity, could do something that offends God? THAT is the height of human arrogance." I suspect that there are many more, and we probably make up the REAL "silent majority."
Will later offered to let me help him on a roofing job he had coming the next week, and when he discovered that I had radio experience, almost shrieked with joy. He is organizing a “Christian Woodstock” in North Carolina, and needs help getting the stream online. Ultimately, I turned down the job offer, but said I would definitely consider returning to help with the show… and meant it.
I took a picture of some of those still left at “HIS Place”, and as I rode out of town toward US-220 with Will, the intellectual enormity had yet to settle about what I had just experienced. There was intensity to be sure, but the thoughts and ideas were no more than implants that night and Sunday. It would take almost two weeks to get them processed properly, if only partially. (thus the delay!)
Will dropped me at the ramp to 220 again. No, I STILL was not motivated to walk, even after everything that had happened; simply reverting to habit! The night however was NOT quite over. However, since I am over 4,600 words now… you will have to wait for this little scene from “The Dukes of Hazard”. 4,600 is about the length of Obama’s acceptance speech, so kudos if you have made it all the way through; this was quite the intense 6-7 hours!
My hands hurt.
sleeping bag packed. I awoke Saturday morning at the usual time, 8:30, but decided I was going to take advantage of the perfect spot and catch up on some sleep. I attributed much of Friday’s ‘pissiness’ to fatigue, so I went back to sleep in peace until about 11:00. It was great, and I would need it.It took awhile for me to mobilize after sleeping so long, but after some cold instant coffee… a disgusting Todd- staple… I packed up and mentally prepared myself for a day likely spent sitting on my butt at the same gas station unable to get out of Asheboro. The on- ramp was no good because of North Carolina’s aversion to shoulders.
I climbed out of the palmettos, or whatever they were, and walked up the
ramp toward the gas station, to the wonderment of Saturday’s traffic. I’ve never grown tired of the looks of amazement when people see me walking places usually reserved for cars. I bought some real coffee, sat down where the driveway and road met; but far enough back so as not to attract unwanted attention from Rosco, Cooter or the rest of Boss Hogg’s Band of Merry Morons.
I put on headphones; there I sat for most of the day. There was an occasional trip inside for coffee, water, and cigarettes, but the day was playing out as expected. It was a hot one too, low 90’s with the sun blazing, but
somewhere along the way I had come to enjoy sitting in the sun. Thankfully, I had brought my old (and stupid- looking) Army Surplus Desert Storm wide- brim hat, so my baldhead was not scorching. The thought began to occur to me that I should consider alternate routes out of Asheboro toward the coast. I had time to study the atlas, and began to tinker with the idea of going SOUTH on US-220/ I-74. The Outer Banks had long- lost its charm, and honestly, I could have cared less about WHERE I stuck my damn foot in the damn Atlantic anymore. The problem with going south from Asheboro was that it was going to take me into one of the most rural parts of North Carolina, and since I was feeling like the “Happy Hitcher” that did not
appeal. It was then that I learned that there was ‘old’ US-220, which ran parallel to 220, back into Greensboro. This road would take me directly back into Randleman and toward I-40 if I wanted to walk. Had I sat there much longer, that is exactly what I would have done. Hurricane Fay was something to consider as well. The weather forecasts were all calling for a great deal of rain from ANOTHER system on Monday, and there was talk that Fay could make her slow- moving way into the Carolinas after she made landfall on the Gulf Coast. Insanely perhaps, this motivated me to get there! I still have an unnatural urge to ride out a hurricane and would definitely do a tropical storm in a good tent or a bivy. Just to DO IT! There was still too much uncertainty about the track of the storm, and besides it would be hard to ride out a tropical storm hitting the coast, while I was sitting in ASHEBORO!
As the day went on, I was content either waiting for a ride, or walking. It did not really matter to me and at about 3:30, as I was preparing to hoof it, a red pickup truck pulled up next to me and asked if I was hungry.
Hungry? Really?
Most of the time when people asked if I needed money or food, it depended on the situation as to rather I would accept or not. The ride from Winston- Salem to Greensboro had asked if I needed cash, and I politely turned it down because I really DID NOT need it, and hoped that would help to kill the stereotype in some small way. When Skeeter asked, (I’m not joking this time! That was his ‘name’! Cooter's cousin?) I was on the verge of saying no again, but when he said that there was a barbeque going on and that they would have no problem with me joining, I decided to accept. I needed some real human interaction, and this seemed like a possible gateway to adventure. Besides, it beat talking to the phone booth… that I had named Phil.
As we were leaving, Skeeter looked at me and asked if I was homeless. This took me slightly
aback, because NEVER had anyone asked up to this point. I answered “no” and began to wonder if I smelled like pee, indicating “hippie”. He then gave me a look I will never forget. He was either disappointed, or pissed! He had actually hoped I WAS homeless! It would all make perfect sense in about two minutes. He asked me where I was headed, and when I told him anywhere along the coast, he added that there were a lot of people who had come in from the coast for this ‘cookout’, and that I may be able to find a lift with one of them. I would later learn that to be fabrication, but now this looked promising.Skeeter (I love that name) pulled into a parking lot filled with Harleys. There was also a
stage set up where there was a band playing different versions of “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door”, a dunk- tank, lots of tables, and quite a few people milling around. I had seen the bikes ride by the gas station earlier, and it immediately became very apparent why Skeeter had stopped & why he was so disappointed in the fact that I had a home: It was a church gathering. He was hoping to bring a hungry stray into their flock so they could feed, and then SAVE HIM! That was my initial thought, and that was exactly Skeeter’s intention.
I dropped my pack beneath a tree, and oddly felt like I was doing a remote- broadcast for a radio
station. The moment the station arrives to set up, if there is a crowd gathered they all ogle whoever gets out of the vehicle. THIS was that feeling. Along the way, several of the parishioners went out of their way to introduce themselves and welcome me, asking where I was headed and where I’d come from. When I told them I was from New Mexico, and had gone up the Pacific Coast, hopped a freight train, then hitchhiked from Idaho… they to a man had the look of utter horror!“Man, you’s gots ta be careful out there! There’s some crazies who will kills ya! Weren’t you worried ‘bout that?”
Literally… almost to a man. These were Christians. Obviously VERY devoted to their religion, the word of ‘God’, Jesus… peace on (white) Earth, all that. Yet they were utterly terrified of people. I was mildly surprised to the extent, but not completely. This fed into my views of religion up to this point: that it encourages fear of the unknown thereby instilling a system of control, and perpetuates its own existence by providing conditional charity. Yes kids, a church gathering was an odd place for me to find myself.
I took advantage of the food, and grabbed a few hot dogs, coleslaw, and cokes. It was nice to eat
warm food again as I mingled around trying to get a better gauge on this odd group of people. They seemed nice, polite, and very respectful, thankfully putting to rest my biggest fear: that each of them was going to try to give me their own personal testimony and bring me to Jesus. A few did mention their faith, but none tried to explore my spiritual leanings. Rest assured though, I was waiting for it, and plotting how to handle it if/ when it came up. The characters at this gathering were the most interesting combination of people I have seen at any church. There were reformed bikers, recent parolees, recovering addicts, teenagers, young children, and ordinary people, "like any respectable cult", I said to myself, all interacting normally and talking about Jesus. There was an inordinate amount of “Amen’s” and “Praise God’s”, even for
the setting. Several of them invited me to come to the service Sunday morning, and I said that I just might if I was still (stuck) in town. I also noticed something that astonished me considering the diversity: more blatant racism. Remember Titus & Stephen? Professing their belief in the word of God, but yelling “Take that nigger to jail!” the next moment? There was some of that, though not as extreme, and I immediately realized that EVERYONE here was white. There were no Hispanics, and no blacks despite the high numbers in the area. Several in the congregation had
little trouble and even fewer second thoughts about making their opinions of minorities known. The transparent hypocrisy was almost as staggering as the irony.We had arrived toward the end, so helped them tear down and prepared to leave. I also learned that there was ANOTHER gathering that night, in Randleman, and they invited me to stop by if I got up that way. I had become very interested in this little group, and wanted to see more to learn how they reconciled racism, xenophobia…, with Jesus! In addition, the thought of more free food sounded good, and I still held hope that I would snag a ride somewhere significant.
As I was getting ready to hike off, Pat, the Asheboro pastor, offered me a ride a few miles up 220… on the way back to Greensboro and toward Randleman. I rode in the back of his pickup
, and he dropped me off on Old- 220, which was fine with me. I was probably 7-9 miles further north, closer to Randleman, and OUT of Asheboro. Here, I got the first sales- pitch. He asked me where I “stood with Jesus”. Not wanting Holy War waged in a gas station’s parking lot, yet feeling combative enough to express that I was not a ‘stray sheep’, I told him that we “define things much differently, have different views, but are on the same team.” I could see the wheels of intolerance turning in his eyes. He was not going to be content with anything but “I’ve accepted Jesus as my personal Savior!” I managed to short-circuit the discussion by simply telling him I did not want to discuss theological- philosophy with a pastor, and that I would try to get into Randleman later that evening where we could chat. That did not satisfy him, but what could he do? He gave me directions, offered me money, which I declined, and he was on his way.“What an interesting afternoon!” I thought to myself as I went into the gas stations to ask for water (nope!), and get some cheapo cigarettes. I took a quick spicket/ hose shower to cool off, and get prepared to hike to Randleman. It was about five or 5:30 by now, and while the sun was dropping, it was still in the upper 80’s and the humidity high.
I began walking north on Old 220, thinking I was in another town that I had missed on the map. I was frustrated to learn that I was not even out of Asheboro! I was in NORTH Asheboro! This befuddled me because now I had no bearing as to how far Randleman was. It could be as close as 7 or 8 miles, or as far as 15- 20. It never occurred to me to stop to ask. The walk was exhilarating, although sweaty! I stopped regularly to rest, drink lots of water, and just watch the world around me. “This is SO much better than sitting by the highway!” I thought to myself. I saw a water tower far off in the distance after I had walked a couple of miles, but was not sure if it belonged to Randleman or “N. North Asheboro”! I held my hopes in check until I got close enough to read it an hour or two later. It was indeed Randleman.There was a Dollar Store and Goodwill at the strip mall on the south end of town. I was getting pretty tired after walking probably close to 8 miles, plus my soft- again feet were blistering, so I stopped at Goodwill and occupied their bench contemplating the worthwhile- ness of continuing on to the church. Here I met a couple of very nice women, who took pity on me (and my piss- warm water) with ice water from their employee lounge. They also warned me NOT to drink the water in Randleman; “something about the pipes has been making people sick”. Thank God, they thought to mention that! They said Randleman’s ‘downtown’ was only another mile, so on I went keeping an eye out for places to camp on the way, in case Pat's directions were inaccurate: “Go to the fourth light, and, well… you’ll see where it is.” The fourth light came; I saw where it was. I was also glad to see that “HIS Place” was located near an intersection that took me toward US-220, where there was bound to be an on- ramp for camping.
It was still before 9:00 as I joyfully bounded inside knowing that there was food to be had. I saw several familiar, smiling faces that all warmly welcomed me and asked if I had walked from Asheboro. This group had a different feel than in Asheboro. More families, more couples, more cheerful. Maybe they had partaken in the wine before I had gotten there? Or perhaps it was the fact that I had been walking that put me in better spirits, but I was once again smitten with Randleman.
I chatted for a bit, and then helped myself to hamburgers and fries—inhaling them after walking off the hot dogs miles back. As I was eating, a gentleman who looked to be about 60 came over to chat. His name was Will, and I learned that he is originally from Michigan, had traveled all over the country, and done it the same ways I had. Will had walked and hitchhiked, but said he never had had the nerve to hop a train. He was one of the few people I had met here that were NOT convinced that everyone in the world was a murderer- in- waiting. He was also one of the few that had gotten out there to see it for himself. Coincidence? I suspect not. I wanted to chat more with him, but the pastor had interrupted the band to remind everyone that they were still in church, and that they should probably do some churchin’.
Shit.
I REALLY did not want to sit through this!
I settled in however, out of respect for the fact that they had welcomed me in and given me food… twice. The least I could do was listen to what he had to say; what it was that seemed to bond this unique and diverse group of people together.
I have long since forgotten his name, but the pastor is a rough looking leather- clad biker sort who obviously had not always ‘turned the other cheek’, and looks like he could still “open the can” if needed. A regret I have is that I cannot, for the life of me, remember his name. Therefore, for the sake of the story I hereby dub him “Snake”. Pastor Snake. Nice ring.
Snake has a gift for speaking, and it was immediately apparent that this was NOT going to be the typical snoozer- sermon. He began by criticizing “most Christians”. He chastised them for one of the things that irritate me most: loaded charity. Offering help only out of self- preservation & interest, either as part of the Crusade, or as it pertains to my long- standing annoyance, because it will increase their standing with God! He verbalized it perfectly, bluntly, and to my amazement, with anger! He pointed out that charity borne out of self-interest is NOT charity at all; it is closer to a business arrangement: “I will help you only if it helps me!” This, to me, has always been the height of religious arrogance, hypocrisy, and deceit. Yet, not it’s only example.
Snake’s sermon then went on to topics that astounded my sense of synchronicity. He began to talk about many things that I have been writing about since Ft. Morgan, and the things that Chris and I spent hours discussing in Denver. The “Splinter in the Mind”. Synchronicity. Self- doubt. And, amazingly enough, ignoring the institutionally implanted idea that your life is expected to follow the course laid out for you by society. All of this… in church? Are you kidding?
It occurred to me that the excuse I had given Pat in Asheboro, that “we define things differently”, may have been closer to truth than I had thought. Snake uses the term “Calling” for what I term, from the Bhagavad Gita (and The Moody Blues!) “The Voice”. He seems to believe, as do I, that everyone has this somewhere, but not everyone hears, or listens to it. I have termed that being “tuned in”. The catalyst that enables most of us to “tune in” is that “Splinter in the Mind” that just will not go away, forcing us to listen to that "Voice"; the tuning process.
He also dove into one of my themes: self- doubt. He took an angle on this that, while a bit dogmatic for me, I was able to fit in to my own experience. According to Snake, if you are following a “calling” and are experiencing crippling self- doubt, it is Satan trying to knock you off course. He went on to offer that it is a height of arrogance to believe that your own feelings of doubt in any way supersede God; that if you’re following God’s Calling there is NO way doubt should ever be a factor, because God would never put you on a path you cannot complete. Believing that intellect (logic) and emotion are more accurate or reliable is absurd-- arrogance.
He lost me a bit with the Satan reference. Nevertheless, is it a stretch to make the connection that usually, self- doubt is NOT something that originates within? Is not self- doubt, and by extension fear, usually the voice of society, 'education', indoctrination, a critical parent, teacher, or friends? In my experience? Absolutely. How often can you really trace the nexus of fear and self- doubt back to something that TRULY originates within? Not often if you have the courage to dig deep enough. Careful! That will bake your noodle if you let it.
One point where Snake and I have diverging views, as I do with most theologians and 12- steppers, is the view that people should NOT take responsibility for, and trust, themselves. Snake believes that having faith in yourself is folly, when all you have to trust in is God!
Horseshit.
This thinking blew me out of AA (back in the day) because it prevents people from taking responsibility and control of their own lives. “I’m powerless! Help me!” “If I’m bad it must be Satan! If I’m good it must be God!” Externalizing both the good and bad facets of humanity. Suggesting that people are a puppets, simply here to have our "strings pulled", is a convenient thought to instill if you wish to eliminate critical thought and individuality; collectively stunting intellectual (and spiritual) growth. It also eliminates the idea that each person is capable of not just critical, but original thought AND action; that we are capable of more than just having other people’s ideas & doctrine spray-painted on our mind’s wall. Usually when they mess up and come up with something successfully innovative, "God spoke to him!" If it fails? Must be that pesky Satan again!
I've said this before, but this is another of my major irritants: people assuming they are “educated” or “witty” because they can parrot someone else's material, but vapor locking when they are challenged to explain it or add something of their own... in their OWN words. (hearing me, hippie?)
Externalization forces people’s ideas be formed primarily by the status quo, rather than teaching us to formulate our own as we go. Original ideas that are developed primarily independent of the standard, failed intellectual fare, then seeking out the thinkers, philosophers--- religions--- that suit our developing, distinct appetites. Reading is great. Thinking is better. Combing both (and NOT in that order) to develop your own, original, philosophy is best. Blaze your own trail if you must; that is the essence of individualism.
Yet, in an odd way Snake also challenged each of these parishioners to challenge the status quo as it pertains to social expectations, saying that the Machine will indeed try to stop you from following your “calling”; silence the “voice”. Does this mean that The Institution is Satan? There are examples of this sabotage everywhere; some are institutional, and some a bit more subtle. I call it the “Ministry of Standards & Practices”; I will post that rant here... sometime!
Finally, and most interestingly to me: his thoughts on Synchronicity. He described it as “God sending angels out ahead of you to prepare the path", as long as you are on the prescribed trail. That if you are following your calling, you will not starve. Snake and I – and many others— are in complete agreement on this, and as far as I can tell, the ‘nuts N bolts’, the ‘how’, are like hippies: irrelevant. He takes the same viewpoint on adversity met along this path as many others have: obstacles to be overcome, challenges which strengthen and teach us. For people on my end of the metaphysical spectrum: experiences. Life to be lived. Easy to talk about; hard to practice.
Now, I have no opinion as to the existence of angels! However, I have experienced these Synchronistic things repeatedly; so have Chris and innumerable others. Those who tell logic and the accepted “method” to go to Hell, and just… ‘do it’. We quickly discover that things just ‘happen’, at just the right times and in the just right way, even if we cannot see it immediately. This is Synchronicity. It exists, even if I cannot explain how or why! I can also tell you, and Chris and others will back this up, that you cannot simply lean and rely on it.
You will not become Synchronicity’s Welfare Mother.
You have to meet it half way. AT LEAST half way. If you believe that sitting in your house, waiting for Leonard Cohen’s "Miracle to Come" is going to trigger that enlightenment and put you on that path, take it from me: you will wake up one day wondering how Pink Floyd’s “ten years got behind you”, and asking why “no one told you when to run.” “You missed the starting gun” because YOU are the one who fires it. Or, you will find yourself stuck on the proverbial (or real!) exit ramp … Trust me!
This was a powerful 45-minute chat, and lest ye be worried, thy hast nay been… converted. The sermon left me; despite the volumes written above, MORE convinced and certain about my previous stance on religion. What disturbs me is that I had missed these ideas out of ignorance. Ignorance about the specifics in the Bible; which I have avoided like Herpes. The ideas appeal to me; made me realize that on some level, we ARE ALL speaking the same coded- language.
The final stroke of lightning came shortly after Snake’s sermon when Will and I resumed our conversation. I felt comfortable enough with him to divulge a bit more about my ideas and experience and, of course, he repeated Pat’s question about where I “stood with Jesus”. I told
him the same thing, that we are on the same team but define and view things much differently. To my astonishment, rather than try to argue, or SAVE me, I caught him slyly smiling and nodding his head. “What?!? Are you actually agreeing with me?”, I thought. He knew exactly what I was getting at, and rather than argue for me to ‘get on board’, he continued asking about the trip, and how I had gotten to be in Randleman. He asked about what triggered this in the first place, and when I used the “Splinter in the Mind” term, and quickly encapsulated the last four- years, he looked astounded. He was convinced that I was ‘called’, and if by “called” he meant that I couldn’t help what I was doing, and that I was simply following my own steps toward singularity; mind, body, and ‘soul’, then yes I agreed, I was called. I was NOT however acknowledging anything beyond that. I would offer that I had seen and experienced many things, had compared my experiences with those of others to be sure that I was not nuts (self- doubt), had challenged my own ideas whenever I could, and instead of coming out dejected and beaten, my ideas have only expanded. Found new avenues to travel toward and expand themselves. Like an appreciation for the ideas behind, but disgust for… religion. Then Will pointed out something that stunned me in my ignorance. He just smiled and said, “Todd, do you realize Jesus Christ was NOT religious? He despised organized religion! He called them “fornicators” because they were *whispered* screwing the word of God!” Screwing, manipulating, and bastardizing truth for profit, control, and power. Of course, I did NOT know that. But, that made perfect sense. I would EXPECT Jesus to despise organized religion, or else discount everything he had to say! I am now rather interested in this aspect of Christ. HOW MUCH, and why exactly did he despise organized religion, and why is that so conveniently ignored? Or, should I get out more?! I then remembered my Muslim ride, “Z”, telling me that one of the four lines attributed to Mohammad in the Koran is something akin to “live your life as a traveler”, this piqued my interest: the fact that Christ, Mohammad, and Buddha all have ‘wandering’ as a theme.
Depite this experience, it is obvious that the hypocrisy remains deeply entrenched throughout organized religion. The fact that they use "God" as a weapon to control thought and action while instilling, and then manipulating fear is unavoidable fact. And so are the obscene, tax- free profits SOME of these evangelicals pull in.
“God’s watching you, keeping score!” “Do what we say, or you’re going to HELL! By the way my friends, God spoke to me and told me to provide bigger breasts for Tammey Faye. Pony Up, and let's get bigger boobs for JESUS!”
Further, take a gander at Focus on the Family… or any of these other douchbags that blame Katrina on "gays", or whatever group they hate this week… just so you will vote Republican! Many people are 'taking that 'gander'. Religion is experiencing a Viet Nam- like recruiting crisis, with more and more people choosing "Spiritual But Not Religious" as their denomination. When it comes to a ‘relationship with God’, I like Ramtha’s analogy at the end of “What the Bleep…” (paraphrase): "to think that one little speck in some remote corner, of a remote galaxy, in a remote corner of infinity, could do something that offends God? THAT is the height of human arrogance." I suspect that there are many more, and we probably make up the REAL "silent majority."
Will later offered to let me help him on a roofing job he had coming the next week, and when he discovered that I had radio experience, almost shrieked with joy. He is organizing a “Christian Woodstock” in North Carolina, and needs help getting the stream online. Ultimately, I turned down the job offer, but said I would definitely consider returning to help with the show… and meant it.
I took a picture of some of those still left at “HIS Place”, and as I rode out of town toward US-220 with Will, the intellectual enormity had yet to settle about what I had just experienced. There was intensity to be sure, but the thoughts and ideas were no more than implants that night and Sunday. It would take almost two weeks to get them processed properly, if only partially. (thus the delay!)
Will dropped me at the ramp to 220 again. No, I STILL was not motivated to walk, even after everything that had happened; simply reverting to habit! The night however was NOT quite over. However, since I am over 4,600 words now… you will have to wait for this little scene from “The Dukes of Hazard”. 4,600 is about the length of Obama’s acceptance speech, so kudos if you have made it all the way through; this was quite the intense 6-7 hours!
My hands hurt.
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