Tipping Over

A view from Mazatlán

Tuesday, November 18, 2014
Somewhere outside of Mazatlán

Finally, I had a good rest last night!

I didn't think I would find a place so close to the city, as I was.

I got a late start because I was sightseeing in Mazatlán.

I chanced upon a pullout next to the road that led to a stream and a walking path that ducked under the small bridge that carried the road over the stream.

It was dusk and almost dark, and a cloud of fog was billowing from the surface of the cold water. The fog rose up to cloak everything in an eerie quiet.

Cars and trucks rushed over the bridge and their lights chased the shadows around the trees and across the bridge in a choreographed game. The long Doppler effect of the whoosh of their movement adding a climax to each round.

I'm growing use to the road noise, and with confidence I would not be discovered because of the late hour and cloaking fog, I slept well. Probably for the first time since my trip began.

~*~

I´m sitting at a cafe eating breakfast (pollos rancheros). I´m on the porch, on the only corner getting sun. It´s around 8 A.M.

I can tell it will be warm today, but right now it´s next to chilly and it feels perfect, as the sun warms my left side.

Earlier, I drank a glass of fresh orange juice.

There are birds chirping and they are so pleasant.

´´Hello!´´

´´Good morning!´´ They say.

Or, I suppose, ´´Hola!´´

´´Buenos días!´´ Or maybe it´s an indigenous language. I don´t know.

~*~

Yesterday, I went exploring in Mazatlan.

From afar, I saw a peninsula with a light house perched high atop a hill, and a road leading to it.

Following the road, I arrived at the base of the light winding road that led to the top.

As I arrived, I saw another motorcycle start up the road. ´Encouraging,´ I thought.

Over the road was an arch that announced this was the path to the top and and gave an average walking time (25 minutes) to reach the light house. A bit strange to put on a road I thought.

I started up anyway.

30 yards on, I could see the concrete ended and a very rough dirt road proceeded beyond. I grew cautious.

At that moment, a motorcyclist came around the bend.

He pulled up to me. I couldn´t be sure if this was the motorcyclist I had seen ascending just a moment before.

He greeted me and I asked if motorcycles could make it to the top. He spoke Spanish but seemed to understand me okay, and he said I could make it. I asked, ´´Are you sure? With this kind of bike?´´

He reassured me, ´´Yes, just be careful.´´ He was riding a small cruiser or standard style bike, and he didn´t say he´d just been to the top but I assumed he had, optimistically.

I revved the engine and proceeded slowly.

To those who´ve been there, it reminded me of Camelback Mountain in Phoenix. An urban hiking trail with steep grades.

There were many groups of people ascending and descending and I felt acutely out of place, but buoyed by will, desire, and the encouragement of a stranger that I chose to trust.

The road quickly went from cement, to dirt road, to washed out hiking trail with protruding rocks and runoff trenches formed by erosion. I did not belong there and I knew it, but I kept revving the engine, feathering the clutch, and coercing the bike to climb, albeit slowly.

I rounded the first switchback, lost speed, pulled in the clutch, pulled in the brake, and stopped. It was a sad, wobbly sight. I put my foot down. It kept going down. I had stopped next to a trench. The bike kept leaning over until my foot finally touched down, but it was too late. The 480 lbs or more had traveled too far away from the center of gravity and I could not stop it, but I did slow it down. All the while saying (not too loud), ´´No! No! No! No!´´

But yes, yes it did. The bike toppled, I toppled. All in the middle of several groups of hikers. I sat up, and began laughing.

This was ridiculous, I knew it, and I persisted. Why wouldn´t I laugh?

Once the bike was down I became aware that I had made a spectacle of myself, but I had that coming and I knew it.

I tried to lift the bike but it kept slipping downhill when I did. Soon, some hikers offered assistance and we had the bike upright.

The headlight cluster was broken and hanging by wires. The handlebars slightly askew.

Since the bike was upright there was no immediate rush (fuel and oil can flood the engine or otherwise leak into places you don´t want them to when it is horizontal).

I took some pictures, sat down and laughed some more at the situation, then fished out my duct tape, reaffixed the headlight cluster to its approximate location, gingerly turned the bike around, remounted, and coasted down the hill.

I´d only made it 50 meters but it was enough adventure for me, and I decided to keep on moving.

~*~

I have pictures of several of these locations and events but they are on my camera (all pictures posted so far are from my phone) and I can´t upload them until I can process the raw digital images. So, sadly no visuals to help tell the story.

I want to specially acknowledge the financial contributions from Alexandre Nguyen, Manny Rangel, Michael Pang, my mom, and my aunt Julie, as well as Kate Phillips and Ian Wheatland for helping make these words and pictures possible!

Tales from the Road

Monday, Nov 17 2014
Somewhere outside of Obregón.

I flicked the bike into neutral and greeted the attendant, ``Buenos días, cuanta questa?´´ It was 32, he said.

I was at one of the many toll booths I would encounter during my foray through Mexico.

In my pocket I found I had change for 31 pesos, or 35 pesos. Naturally, I offered the attendant the 35 pesos.

He frowned and asked if I had 32 pesos. I double-checked, verified I did not, and he began tell me something I did not understand.

Then, he yelled over to the next booth, and asked his co-worker if he had change. His co-worker must not have, because the attendant turned to me and began explaining something to me, and again, I did not understand.

Seeing my confusion, the attendant held up the 5 peso coin I had given to him. Pinching the coin, he showed me one side, and pointed to it with the index finger of his other hand, and then to himself. Then he turned the coin to show me the other side, and again pointed at it, and then at me. One last time he pointed at the coin, and then turned his finger to point up.

By the time I processed the pantomime, he had already tossed the coin, shown me the result (it was his side) and raised the gate for me to proceed.

I began laughing, and he began laughing too.

Just laughing at the turn of events, the moment, and the moment of realization. I laughed, "Esta bien!" and thanked him.

I rode away laughing, and thinking, "That's justice!"

Later...

2:26PM
Mazatlán.

Camorones Imperiales

I`m sitting in the shade after eating at La Faena café. I had camorones imperiales; shrimp stuffed with cheddar cheese and wrapped in bacon. It was very tasty.

I rode through the most beautiful and relaxing countryside. From Culiacán to Mazatlán, on the 15 (libre, not cuota). The entire trip was gorgeous; happy little river towns, restive farm land, and scenic, verdent bluffs. Like if Arizona and Florida had a baby.

I suppose it is all due to a large delta or watershed.

The roads are perfect and smooth, not too much traffic and everything just feels easy.

However, I have noticed that a lot of people speed here, no exceptions even for semi-trucks (I saw one had flipped over a clover leaf going up the ramp, all the contents spilt down the embankment.)

Butterflies were all over and I`m sad to say that many of them hit me, but so many did not, and those streamed by my face and created orange and yellow streaks! There were sweet smells, too. Like dendelion or clover. It was a blissful experience, euphoric, even. Perfect temperatures, smooth, gentle curving roads. It was just as joyful an experience as I could have hoped to have. It felt surreal, at moments, it was such vivid perfection that it felt like a halucination.

During this blissful ride, I came around a gentle curve and upon a man who waved me down with his thumb. I don't know why, but without hesitation, I turned around and pulled up to him.

In the brief moment before I saw him and slowed down to turn around, I took in a white car parked carelessly on the opposite shoulder, with a crushed windshield.

The man was in his thirties, I'd say, with a short beard and rings around his eyes.

He shook my hand and explained he had been traveling the same direction as I was (toward Mazatlán) when he rounded the corner and cut it short, running onto the shoulder. Then he hit a speed limit sign (he said this without irony but I surmised it might have been karmic). The sign explained the smashed windshield.

Then he explained that he over corrected and swerved, apparently did a 180, and wound up on the opposite shoulder, facing the opposite direction.

He started the car and demonstrated that the transmission was stuck in neutral, and besides, he had two front flat tires.

It was a hopeless situation.

During all of this exposition, I noted 4 or 5 broken beer bottles in the bed of this Chevy Tornado (a modern interpretation of the El Camino), and allowed myself to wonder if their contents had played a part in this story.

In any case, I pressed my impovrished Spanish into use, and inquired what I could do to help.

I wasn't going to offer it, but if he asked I knew I would say yes.

He pointed in the direction of Mazatlán and to my bike,

Now is a good time to mention that the bracket for the box had broken a day or two before, and I had not much certainty it would hold the box, and now a man was indicating he'd like to ride on it.

Naturally, I said, "OK."

Off we went, down that winding road. I kept the speed low, and he shifted so that he was sitting on the box, his feet on the seat, and hands on my shoulders. He would be sitting at the height of a semi-truck cab.

I thought, "We must look ridiculous!" but no one seemed to take a second look at this odd couple. He, a bearded Mexican man, I, a white power ranger (all of my protective gear is white and plastic).

About 30 kilometers down the road, we entered a small town. He pointed to an older woman with a cart and indicated he wanted to stop.

She was selling shaved ice and he ordered one for himself and asked if I wanted one, as well. I declined but thanked him.

While she was preparing the treat, a chicken bus rolled up, and he signalled the driver. He indicated to me he would take the bus the rest of the way, so I started the bike and sped away to more curves and Mazatlán.

I want to specially acknowledge the financial contributions from Alexandre Nguyen, Manny Rangel, Michael Pang, my mom, and my aunt Julie, as well as Kate Phillips and Ian Wheatland for helping make these words and pictures possible!

Locked In!

The freeways in Mexico are generally lined by fences on either side, delineating private from federal land. However, there are countless driveways and access gates along the way. These may lead to small villages, grazelands, or fields of farm crops. It was the latter kind of place that this story unfolded.

Monday, November 17th, 2014
Somewhere in Mexico

Locked in!

Last night I thought I had found a good place to rest.

A dirt road that stretched for miles up the rolling hills that led to fields.

It looked perfect, and it seemed so, too.

I set up camp (read: put down a tarp and my sleeping bag.) and slept fairly well.

I only saw one vehicle on the dirt road, a pickup coming from the fields. It stopped at the intersection of the highway and the dirt road for a couple of minutes and after that I was left in peace.

In the morning, after eating an apple and brushing my teeth in the predawn light, I headed for the road and discovered why I hadn´t been disturbed: there was a gate, it was shut and it was chained to a post.

My stomach dropped and my sublime morning started to fade away, even as the gentle colors of a peach sunrise were beginning to seep out of the horizon.

Not to be deterred, I mounted the bike after thoroughly verifying that I could not circumvent the gate and went exploring down the dirt road.

At a crossroads, I explored first the left branch, but a quarter mile down the road it ended in a field of crops. Backtracking, I crossed the main road and went the other direction. That road dead ended at another locked gate.

I wobbled the bike back down the tractor tracks to the main dirt road and decided against going further in, as that direction didn´t seem to offer freedom from this fenced in field.

I found myself back at the locked gate, out of ideas and options. For a while I just waited, thinking that a farm hand would arrive soon and unlock the gate. I´d have some explaining to do, and I prepared my broken Spanish as best I could. I even prepared some money in case it came to that.

I wrote in my journal, took pictures and worried myself. Eventually, after an hour, I decided that there was no guarantee that anyone would come on this day, and even if they did, no guarantee that it would be soon.

Examining the fence, I noted some weaknesses between the first post to which the gate was chained shut, and the adjacent post. The barbed-wire fence could be cut, and pulled back. The bottom most strand was already unfastened. I would only need to cut one strand, and the others I could unwrap from around the post as they were not stapled to the gate post.

Out came the multi-tool. Out came the adrenaline. I detached the luggage from the bike, it would not fit otherwise. With a quickness I began unwrapping and pulling back the wire.

I did not want to be caught by a farmer taking down his fence. I´ve lived on a farm--fences are taken seriously.

In a few minutes the fence was open. I shuttled the luggage through first. Then I started the bike, and walked it to the opening. With some revving, a little slipping and one snag on the top wire, the bike was through. Now, I wanted to undo my damage.

Locked fast. This is after I had removed the fence and before I had repaired it.

Before I began, I had determined I would be able to mend the fence in a manner consistent with how other sections had been repaired. I set to work, the almost finished feeling of a race coursing through me.

I re-wrapped the wire around the gate post, and the piece I had cut, I was able to twist with a spare section of wire and reattach to the rest of the fence.

In a few minutes the job was done and I rearranged the plants to make a better presentation.

No doubt, the farmer would notice immediately, but at least no animals would get in or out and anyone else casually observing would not notice.

I re-loaded the bike, started the motor, and--with elation--sped off into the rising sun.

I want to specially acknowledge the financial contributions from Alexandre Nguyen, Manny Rangel, Michael Pang, my mom, and my aunt Julie, as well as Kate Phillips and Ian Wheatland for helping make these words and pictures possible!

Belonging

Belonging.

How does one belong? No really, how?

Is it when I feel accepted, or is it when I am accepted. If I'm accepted but I don't feel accepted, do I still belong?

People ask me where I'm from. I don't know how to answer that question.

I was born in Texas, but raised in Ohio. I'd like to claim I'm from Texas because I identify with the weather, and the individualist culture. But I only lived there for the first three years of my life. It's my birthplace, but it's not really the origin of Me. I don't know what it's like to live in Texas.

Then there is Ohio. I really don't like Ohio. I don't like to be associated with it. As a place, and as a general culture, I just don't identify with it at all. I don't want to be “claimed” by Ohio. But so far, it's the leading contender for where I “belong.”

I've lived in Arizona, a short while in the Utah desert, and most recently, California. I've never really felt like I belong in any of those places.

Sure, I've felt accepted, and I've felt comfortable, but no place has ever held me, no place has ever spoke to me; told me it is my home. Conversely, I've never arrived somewhere and felt “home,” or that I wanted to stake my claim to a place.

I'm always passing through. Sometimes for a longer time, sometimes for a shorter time. But everywhere I go, I always know that my time there is finite.

I had a moment of recognition in L.A. I was amongst a group of friends—4 or 5 of us. We were diverse, from different backgrounds, races and cultures. Because of that, I felt like I belonged, because I was part of the mix. But as we were hanging out, languages came up, and everyone started talking about their home life and the other languages they spoke because their parents were of a different ethnicity. I realized that as diverse as these friends were—each one of a different race—they all shared this common thread of being bicultural, bilingual, and it united them. I was the odd one out. I didn't have a distinct culture to identify with. I was just white. And in that instant, I didn't feel like I belonged there any more.

Nothing had changed. No one spoke to me differently, and we still had fun, but for the rest of the evening I felt like the black [white] sheep. It made me sad.

After that night, I started thinking more seriously about where I belonged. In my reflection, I didn't come up with any place. In Ohio, I feel like I would have had too many experiences that people that have lived there their whole lives could not relate to. I have this feeling that even if I went back to the origin of Me, that I would no longer fit. I've been transformed by my experiences, and my opinions have changed, and those things would make it much more difficult to find belonging amongst what I remember the vast majority of Ohioans to be like.

Equally, I don't feel like I fit in other areas because my origins have shaped my opinions and core tenets. My moral code and integrity is largely influenced by the Christian culture I was raised in, even though I don't practice any religion now.

Therefore, I'm as though a freshwater fish that swam into the sea and adapted to breathe the saline water. I feel I can't go back because no one will understand what it is to breathe the saline water, or the other types of fish and sights I've seen. Not that I've lived an extraordinary life, just that my background experiences are different from most people's there. On the other hand, I'm obviously an interloper in the sea. I don't belong there either.

The only time I feel like I'm fitting into people's understanding is when I'm traveling. A traveler is a person that comes from one place and goes to another, and when you see them, you accept that about them, questioning much less whether they belong at their present location because it is only a waypoint for them to get to where they belong.

I fit in, in a lot of places—I can be likeable when I want to be. Typically, I can break off a little piece of myself and show it to someone and say, “See, it's like one of your pieces!”

I relate to many people that way. But as with anyone, I have many pieces, and maybe unlike many people, I feel that my pieces are wildly diverse and combined in a rare manner, and I struggle to find communities of individuals that share many of the same pieces.

That was the realization in L.A., that I thought I was matching more pieces with people than I really was. Or maybe, that everyone else was matching just as a few pieces to me as I was to them, when in reality they had many pieces to share with each other but fewer to share with me.

So what now? My feet itch—all the time they tell me to move on.

I'll find a place once in a while and I'll stay until I find that I've exhausted my pieces to share, and then I feel like I don't belong any more when I see everyone else seems to have endless pieces to show, share and match with each other.

It's that grade school feeling of being left out because you don't watch the same television shows, or wear the same fashion, only now it's because you don't have similar ideological backgrounds, or cultural experiences or childhood struggles.

I felt like I belonged in L.A. when I dated someone from there. I felt like she vouched for me. I felt protected by her influence. As soon as she broke up with me, I felt expelled by the homogeneous force of the city. I lost my in. Always on the outside, I feel I orbit social circles and only interact when someone from within reaches without and holds on to me for a second, like a playground merry-go-round where I'm held in the orbit until I'm let go, and then I float again.

I hope one day, that if I travel to enough places, I will by chance find a place that I know I can call home. A place I can claim for myself. A place where I can find people with who I can share and match many pieces of myself.

~*~

That's it for today. I promise the next post will have some adventures from my current trip. This theme of belonging has been weighing on me and as such, it has become part of the larger theme for this journey. It's something I reflect on often. I welcome opinions and personal experiences from anyone willing to share. 

Tears Shed to the Wind

Tears shed to the wind:

I listen

“Has the world gone mad, or is it me?”

Such a long time it has been

Since I have beheld unadulterated beauty

The green life of these hills,

your Spring skin:

each draped over fine bones.

These hills, these words,

Remind me of your handsome curves.

Visceral and pure,

tears shed to the wind

Tears cried again, and again.

“And I can't see my love.”

~*~

Sun. Nov. 16, 2014 Somewhere in Northern Mexico

I forgot to mention the fog!

In the morning, I rode into the deepest and thickest fog I had ever seen in the desert.

I slept in a field last night. It was right next to the highway and loud, but I wasn't disturbed all night.

I navigate primitively, with a map, simply following road signs from one town to the next. Connect the dots: reality version.

My Spanish is poor—impoverished, even—but not bankrupt, and I can make myself understood. I have a harder time understanding others, but I think that will come

I can generally comprehend all road signs, and I'm working on not translating everything into English in my head.

~*~

These days spent in Northern Mexico, they were the acclimatization period. My head swirling, the ground blurring, road twisting and engine churning, I tired quickly.

In the evenings I would find a place to camp, close to the road, a place to hide the motorcycle. Not so much for fear of theft, or because I was doing something wrong—though if I've mentioned those things they must count for something—but because it made me feel more comfortable to know no one would stop for any reason, and I could sleep peacefully.

At 5:30 in the morning, before the cold light of day broke, I awoke. By 6:30 I would be on the road. One of these mornings, I reflected that the phrase the "cold light of day" while it can mean the harsh unforgiving illumination day, to me it meant the hours of the day where light had broken darkness, yet the sun had not yet appeared. It is that pre-dawn period where the light is unforgiving in its revelation of what the night has held in secret, as well as the cold hours spent before the sun makes its tardy appearance.

I began to expect those morning hours, the cold light of day that would insist that I begin moving again, despite the cold wind that would creep and seep into my clothes, then my skin and bones. Only later would it be expelled by the sun. 

The roads in the north west of Mexico, especially the toll roads and some of the free federal highways, are the nicest roads I have ever ridden. Better than anything in the states. The drivers stay to the right except to pass, so there's hardly ever any congestion, and the speed limits are reasonable. I would typically ride around 50 to 65 MPH, or 80 to 110 Km/H, and ride for 8 to 10 hours each day.

I want to specially acknowledge the financial contributions from Alexandre Nguyen, Manny Rangel, Michael Pang, my mom, and my aunt Julie, as well as Kate Phillips and Ian Wheatland for helping make these words and pictures possible!

Mexico, Day 1

Greetings, from San Cristobal de las Casas!

I've been on a whirlwind tour of Mexico so far. I'm not sure the funds will stretch me as far as I wanted to go, but what I've seen has been worth every last dime spent on gas, motels, carne asada, and highway tolls!

From my travel journal/diary:

Saturday, November 15, 2014,

Somewhere in the Sonoran Desert, south of the Arizona border.

Yesterday, I finally took the plunge and entered Mexico—twice.

I rode through the border and—not really being familiar with the procedure, cruised through the “nothing to declare” lanes, thinking I would run into an immigration officer or station. Nope.

Next thing I knew, I was trawling the streets of Tijuana, looking for “Immigration and Customs”. Then I was lost.

Rather than try to find a work-around, I decided it would be easier as a do-over.

So I returned to the U.S., and re-entered Mexico. This time I went to the “something to declare” section and found one-stop shopping for my visa, and temporary vehicle import permit.

The rest of the day was riding. Only stopping for gas, and only eating Cliff bars, 10 of which I had brought with me.

Got lost once, but was quickly turned around at the nearest Pemex—Mexico's federal gas station that is seriously as ubiquitous as Starbucks in America. Usually, there are two stations within line of sight in any given town.

I dropped into the Sonoran Desert. A fun drop; down winding canyon roads with too-fast driving Mexican semi-trucks (I have seen three jack-knifed and overturned semi-trailers since the week I entered Mexico).

And then, I felt at home. I had not realized before now how familiar the Sonoran feels to me. I know it like a family member; its ticks and quirks—where its true beauty lies.

Nov 15, 2014 6:58PM

A photo posted by @curtislong on Nov 11, 2014 at 6:12pm PST

I can't figure out if this is the sunset or sunrise for that campsite. Let's just call it the sunset. The date stamps don't seem to be accurate [edit: upon further review, this is definitely the sunrise. I took pictures of the sunset on my camera, this is from my cellphone.]

At dusk I found a good spot to camp.

No sooner had I hid the bike behind a tree, and down an access road to a radio tower, played guitar a little, then gone to sleep, I was awoken by a big-sounding truck crunching gravel and shifting gears. It stopped right on the other side of my tree. My mind made up the worst scenarios.

I was about one mile or less from the border (it was only 100 meters away to my left for much of the ride that day),and I feared the men were up to something bad.

Another truck arrived, then another. I didn't know how long I had been sleeping, but it was dark, and as they arrived, their lights shone on the tree, a thin mesquite type of tree, and I was sure they could see me, but they didn't act like they did.

I put on my boots and quietly covered the bike as best I could with my camo poncho. The truck idled loudly and covered my noise.

Then, I waited.

The big truck was a tanker, carrying what, I don't know. The men, about 5 of them I'd guess, had headlamps on, and after pumping some of their cargo into a container in the smaller truck, they took pictures with cell phones. I'm guessing it was for record keeping.

The big truck stayed put and the little truck ferried its mysterious cargo (fuel, water?) back and forth 3 times to the top of the hill with the radio towers.

I could see the headlights push away the darkness in diagonal lines up the switchbacks. As the truck corkscrewed its way up the winding, steep road, it passed out of my line of sight, but I could see the headlights shine like a lighthouse beacon, stretching out from the hill, hailing and warning.

There was no moon yet, but the stars were bright.

I kept the driver of the big truck silent company.

My anxiety—which had had my heart pounding so hard I could hear the thumping in my head—diminished with time, as they hadn't seemed to notice me, or didn't seem to care if they had.

Two hours later, after their three trips to the top, the crew left. I had a chance to look at the time during this event, and it had only been 8PM when it started, so it wasn't the dark of night clandestine mission I had imagined it to be when I had been woken.

I went back to sleep, though not as deeply as I had been.

I woke to sounds of the highway (a quarter mile away) all night, and to my dreams.

I dreamt I was riding my moto and I kept dropping it (and picking it up).

I dreamt my helmet was too small and was making me go bald (something I had worried about that day).

I dreamt I was popping wheelies by accident, surprising myself each time.

And I dreamt of the former lover of Me.

I awoke for the final time to a spectacular sunrise: delicate oranges and hues of red lit the pale pink crags, frail light-yellow grasses seemed to float on the parched sand.

I ate a Cliff bar, reminding myself that Jesus said something to the effect of, “man cannot live on Cliff bars alone,” and determined to eat some good local food later in the afternoon. Then I mounted up for the ride into Sonoyta, some 150 kilometers away.

The sunrise and the radio tower hill after a hard night's sleep.

~*~

That's it for now.

I do want to say, despite this talk of danger and what not, those are mostly fears and thoughts that I brought with me to Mexico, and not what I am taking away from it. Please stay tuned to see how the trip has influenced my perspective so far, and of course, the journey is ongoing, so who knows what is yet to come. Much has already occurred since that first night!

I want to specially acknowledge the financial contributions from Alexandre Nguyen, Manny Rangel, Michael Pang, my mom, and my aunt Julie, as well as Kate Phillips and Ian Wheatland for helping make these words and pictures possible! I think that's everyone, but please let me know if you donated and I missed you. I want to show my gratitude!

Los Angeles, via Highway 1 from Auburn

I want to specially acknowledge the financial contributions from Alexandre Nguyen, Manny Rangel, Michael Pang, my mom, and my aunt Julie for helping make these words and pictures possible! I think that's everyone, but please let me know if you donated and I missed you. I want to show my gratitude!

Finally, I'm getting around to the first update on my trip.

I've been in Los Angeles for a week.

I left Auburn, CA on Friday, October 31^st. It was a bit earlier than expected but due to weather my workday was cut short and I decided to leave. I rode through the rain from 1 PM until about 6:30 PM that night.

I camped in a parking lot on the Pacific Coast Highway, overlooking the cliffs and the sea. The rain abated until about 3 AM, at which point I got a little wet, but no big deal.

Saturday, early in the morning, I continued the trip and made it to Los Agneles after stopping along the way to take in the views and to see some juvenile elephant seals basking on the beach.

The coastal scenery is always and truly stunning. It was a very nice ride, both days, despite the intermittent rain.

I was happy for the bad weather, in fact, as it allowed me to test my gear, which in turn gave me some shopping to do once I got to Los Angeles. On the list: water proof gloves, and a better tarp.

Since arriving in LA, the weather has been perfectly nice, even a little warm, and I have been making the most of my time here.

It's been nice to be around people again, as my eight months in Auburn was a semi-ascetic and very solitary experience. To be hugged, and to hug, to laugh and to be around people who chose to be around you is a gift and privilege.

I'm looking forward to many more opportunities to be social on this trip. I've had my fill of my own company.

While in LA, I have done some of the touristy activities I never did when I was here. I hiked to the Hollywood sign, went to the Griffith Observatory and also explored the abandoned LA zoo—things I had wanted to do but never felt like I had the time or energy to do properly.

I'm realizing that LA is a better city than I saw it for, but only because I am different, not it changed. When I was working here, I betrayed myself, selling my climbing gear to make ends meet, working long hours (also to make ends meet), and commuting. All of that left me feeling used up and unsure of what to do.

I spent so much time trying to maintain the interest of my significant other that I lost interest in doing the things that would make living in LA worthwhile.

That's all in the past, though. And being in LA with a clear mind is a different experience. Whereas before I looked around and saw opposition to my goals, now I am free, and I see opportunities everywhere I look. Opportunities to explore, to socialize, to work. It's all here. Along with the traffic. There is always the traffic.

~*~

Riding a motorcycle laden with gear seems to be an invitation to start a conversation, and I've already met a few people who are interested in the trip, and want to see my particular solutions to the problems they foresee. Even met someone who had done the trip.

Everyone is excited to hear where I am going and what I am doing. The more cautious are concerned for my safety, but generally I am encouraged by everyone to make the most of it.

I was supposed to have an interview with Peace Corps China on Friday, and I lament to report that I got the time wrong and missed the interview. I misread the e-mail confirmation, and the scheduling phone call was cutoff due to a bad connection, so I was ready and waiting... 3 hours too late. I'm going to try to reschedule it before I leave the country. We'll see.

I have vague intentions of taking a English as a Second Language (ESL, or TESOL) course while on the road. Planning for the future, after this immediate trip.

All that's left for my immediate attention is to reduce the size of my luggage. I am unhappy with the amount of stuff I have brought, and being here in LA has allowed me to figure out what I use on a day to day basis, and I think I will be able to reduce my baggage my a considerable amount.

Next: Mexico!

Nov 1, 8:16AM

A photo posted by @curtislong on Nov 11, 2014 at 11:38pm PST

Visions and Vignettes

Vision

California is on fire.

I wake up to the smell of wood smoke. The sun is an alien sun; not ours. It looks warmer than it feels. I imagine I'm on another planet. It's redder and oranger and more unfamiliar than an eclipse. I tell myself it's these clouds, but what if that wasn't the case?

The orange sun cannot burn through these clouds. No, these are no ordinary clouds. I hear it rumored, “pyrocumulous clouds” they call them. Speaking of their origin; fire clouds.

I shut my eyelids, freeing my mind's eye to float up into those clouds. With microscopic vision, I can examine the clouds. They are made of up bits and pieces—tiny motes of debris. Here is a little black speck. I drift closer to it, focusing on the speck, the rest becomes a blur. It's just black. I know they call it carbon. The basic building block of life, but here it is stripped bare, and life seems anything but a possibility.

I am omnipotent in my mind's eye.

I rewind time, but instead of my eyes returning to my body, they follow that black speck. A day returns to tomorrow, and I follow this speck through updraft and downdraft. I drift away to gain context. This speck, this one particle that will in a day become part of a cloud so great that it blots out the sun, this one speck is now living. It's a host of cells that form a small patch of bark on a sapling in a meadow.

There are loud pops all around, crackling. Fire is nigh. Then the sapling is engulfed. The sapling and this patch of bark are submerged in the heat, adjacent to the fire. Roiling, the flames are casual. They do not rush. They know they have gained dominion here. They will consume that which they so desire.

This sapling, its rich leaves and precious moisture, so carefully kept, so fastidiously gathered—it presents a small challenge to the flames. It is defiant in their march of destruction.

Lo, its green leaves do wither, and it loses its small branches, but it does resist. A tree not yet, but neither a small seed. There is power in the life of this small thing.

The fire is great, though, and it corrupts the life around it, infecting it with heat and reaching out with tentacles of flame, the visual manifestation of a ruthless destroyer. As the fire corrupts, it gains strength. It adds fuel—a cold word for things not yet burned—and the heat becomes greater, demanding more fuel and more to consume, lest the fire itself die.

This sapling, and that small patch of bark are summoned by the all consuming need of the fire. Finally, there is not enough life left in this young thing with ambitions of becoming a great tree. Though it may have lived for hundreds of years, as its younger brethren may do after this calamity, this not-yet-tree is not destined for longevity.

With a crackle the outer skin begins to shrivel and blacken! Pieces fall to the ground, and are lapped up by stray licks of fire. The heat from this burning life is infectious, and as it dies, it spreads fire to the kind perennial flower that kept it company these few years, and the friendly mushroom which sought shade in its meager leaves. These things too, are corrupted.

Finally, that small patch of bark shrivels, blackens and with a pop! it releases from that dying sapling, and floats into the air, burning. The chaff falls off, and once all but the naked carbon is burnt away, this speck begins to rise on the heat of its burning mother, drifting into a lonely nothingness.

There is a quiet purgatory here. Individuals floating their own ways. Some up, some down. It depends on the wind; does it wish to carry them? This speck it favors, and the speck is carried past those that are beginning to fall. Down, down, they float. They are heavier, or they have a greater density, and they are too much work for the lazy wind.

But not this speck. Barely anything, it begins to float, not in purgatory, but now in the amorphous river of specks and vapors that are beginning to coalesce into a great body of things. They cloud together, and begin a new journey, divorced of their pedestrian origins, they are transformed. This speck is amongst brethren once again, yet these brothers are not the same as those it once called its brethren.

Once full of vitality—life, literally—this speck would only have considered other living things its brethren. The leaves and the other patches of bark adhered to the mother. Those were its brethren. The perennial’s purple petals that sang spring songs—those too were its brethren. Now, to belong to this speck's kin, those things must be transformed as it was. Burned, desiccated, and adrift. A new kin, a new kind.

Far below this speck is another, but upon closer examination, that speck is me. Time has passed us both.

Tomorrow become yesterday.

Eyes closed, imagining the short life of this former patch of bark that now casts a mote of a shadow, blocking just a little bit of light from my eyes, which do presently return to me. I open my skin shutters, and the weak light of a wan sun warms my face windows.

Clear Vision

With feet aflame I commit to a journey that cannot be reversed

Stoic, upon high place, I look out into that desolation that soon will become me

Lo, it has crept to my feet, pulling me toward its abyss

These days are wavering

The ashen sky, grotesque all day

It hides the blue with smokey clouds the sun cannot burn away

This place burns

Throbbing, momentous, the energy to survive is steady and low

Like a long saw, the energy is steady and rhythmic, its teeth tear away

The resistance that is each day

Steady, strength in its flexibility, the long bow of the saw wavers, forward and back

It cuts through the hostility of each day

Energy against energy

Mine against thine,

I wade into it, let it surround me

I am overcome

Wash over me!

This unholy thing

I travel on

Salomé Jump

Mogollon Rim, Arizona, 2011

The Salomé Jug. If you live in Arizona, you might have heard of it. It denotes a section of the Salomé creek.

In the spring and late fall, it's a water park. A pink granite slot canyon, smoothed and carved as only time and nature can do, falling toward the man-made Roosevelt lake. The water rushing through isn't too cold to enjoy, and so as one descends the canyon, the walls growing high, they slide and plunge into pools, the canyon laughs with you, and you know that nature is happy sometimes, too.

I discovered this place alone.

What was meant to be a trip for two became a trip for one. An argument or a breakup? I don't remember. Does it matter?

The place is fabled, and I was drawn by its projected power. I felt the need to explore its curves, taste its waters and immerse myself.

I drove alone in the dark of night, slept under an immortal blanket of stars. In the morning, I ventured down the steep banks of the water shed to the canyon side. In the heat of an approaching Arizona summer I stuffed what could not be doused in dry bags, and I took the plunge into crisp cracking cold water.

I began to venture down into the narrow canyon, descending with the water.

It was a fantastic place! I was wading and sliding and jumping. And I was alone.

I was smiling and happy and exploring a new wonderland. And I was alone.

It was everything it was said to be, but because words are flat, this place, it was more grand and full than I had imagined.

Abruptly, I stood at the top of a precipice: a waterfall of some 20 feet, down a narrow shoot that opened into a pool below.

I brought ropes and a harness. I knew of the 20 foot jump to the pool below. Not too high, really, but I was an Ohio boy then. I guess I still am. It was something I'd never done before. I was afraid.

Yet, here I was, I thought. I had made it this far alone, and I wanted to jump, but I had brought the rope and harness in case I was too scared. I didn't want to be stuck if I wasn't able to jump.

But I wanted to jump!

But I couldn't jump! I kept looking down, and looking at the hard rocks on the side, below. I'd have to run and aim the jump to clear the obstacles. I was really scared. I couldn't work up the nerve. I wasn't sure if the water level was normal or if there were rocks below the surface.

I stood, looking, for several minutes. I didn't want to repel, but I was feeling the comfort of the idea start to take hold of me. “No!” I thought. “I want to jump,” it was just scary and new. I knew if I could just see someone else go first, it would fortify me and I could do it. I could just copy them.

Being a trailblazer in this sense was hard.

In the moment, I realized this fact: that as long as I had the option not to jump that I wouldn't, I made a decision. I threw the pack—with the ropes and my car keys and everything else I needed to get out of that canyon—into the water below.

The clock started ticking. The current of the waterfall was carrying the pack at a leisurely but steady pace, and in a couple of minutes it would round a bend and disappear.

As I watched the pack floating away, I had two new fortifications to help me jump.

1. I had just watched my pack make the fall, so I knew it was possible, and I knew what the trajectory should be.
2. If I didn't jump soon, I would lose that pack and I would be very inconvenienced and slightly stuck in that area until someone could tow my car or help me find the pack in the open lake (assuming it didn't sink)

So, with time ticking, scared as I ever had been, I jumped!

It was the first time in my life that I let out a yell from shear fear. Not the kind of yip you might make when your brother scares you as a kid, but the kind of yell you cry when you think you might die.

I had climbed before, and fallen on the rope. Scary sometimes, to be sure. But I'm a “suffer stoically” kind of guy, and was always proud I didn't scream on roller-coasters or when falling off a climb.

This time, the yell was extracted from me. I couldn't keep it in. It was high-pitched and anxious. What a feeling, to do something so outside of your comfort zone that you lose control of your own body!

Suspended in air alone, it seemed to me that my yell and my guts stayed stationary as my uncovered them, falling down around beneath them.

Then I hit the water. Not the rocks, not the bottom, just the water! I was OK!

I popped up—exhilarated—and swam after my pack, not too far away, but I had waited long enough that it wasn't close, either.

Then I swam over to the rocks, heaved the pack up, then myself. I sat for a while, contemplating the jump (which looked much shorter from below). I was proud of myself.

No one there to goad me, no one to tell me it was okay. I made decisions and they got me down. Certainly, I did know that people commonly made the jump, but not everyone. So I wasn't a true trailblazer, but I felt like I had done a common thing differently nonetheless.

It was a teachable moment: you have to figure out what will motivate you. Then do it. I figured it out. It was a do-or-die (or be really, really stuck) situation for me, but for others it might be having options. Whatever the motivator, it's important to know what you want. If I didn't know if I wanted to jump or not, what would I have done when faced with that final situation? Maybe contemplated a long time.

There's no right way to descend that waterfall. Rappelling, jumping, who cares? As long as it's what you want to do. Hitting the rocks is the only wrong way. The point for me was I wanted to challenge myself to do something. I wanted to unlock something within me.

With that in mind, today I stand on a new precipice, and I have thrown the pack before me. I want to embark on a new journey and it's one I've been scared to commit to. It means being alone again, and it means jumping into the unknown. But it's all worth it, if it unlocks a part of myself that I have been unable to access any other way.

Reflections

A creature of a kind normally capable of sight, but unable to see, we call “blind.” There is a distinction between sightless and blind.

A creature of a kind normally capable of hearing, but unable to hear, we call “deaf.”

These states can be transitory or permanent, but the perfective forms imply a certain permenance to the conditions.

What of a creature of a kind normally capable of feeling, but unable to feel? We call a temporary loss of feeling, “numb”, but I'm speaking of the more metaphoric use of the word feeling, the usage that connotes emotional feelings.

But is there a loss of feeling that is as permanent as someone born blind? Perhaps paralysis is the ultimate loss of feeling, but that is problematic because it also implies a loss of locomotion and agency.

What do we say of a person who is born without emotional feeling? Somewhere between Asperger's/Autism and sociopath.

A strange thing to wonder at, I know.

Emotions are synthesized feelings. They are correlated to input, but they are not a reflexive reaction. Input must be processed first before we get the output emotion. If we reprocess, we can even change the output. We can change the emotion with reflection. Emotions seem to be on their own level in this sense. Sight, sound, touch, taste, smell, those things all seem to exist on a less alterable level.

If we had a bond amongst us all, a bond where we all felt what each other was feeling, wouldn't we all do our best to avoid pain—as we already do—but even the pain of others, since their pain would be ours too? It seems to me that such a mechanism exists.

Albeit in the prototype phase, I would call empathy and sympathy social feeling mechanisms, useful for promoting desirable behavior toward others.

I'm going to leave it there. We already have a sophisticated mechanism to promote positive behavior toward each other, but we have to see with it. We have to use it—look through that lens. When we don't, we're capable of great harm toward one another. I know. I've been on both sides of not using our capacity for sympathy and empathy. It's painful.

I'm gun shy now, afraid of people for their great capacity to do harm. Afraid of my own capacity to do great harm. The monster is in us all. Yet each of us can also be the greatest of healers. We humans, we humans. We have so much potential.

I Maintain

“There's no place to run and no gasoline.”

Stuck, this world sometimes feels like it's stuck, but I'm still moving.

Sometimes I float through this world, watching it all go mad.

I've found my peace again. Quiet and sure, together my peace and I, we walk through this place, holding hands.

Perception is reality, they say.

When the world shakes, and everything is a blur, I choose to believe that I remain the same—that the world shakes around me. No longer am I shaken. A Copernicum Shift.

Sometimes you can slip between the sheets of reality and surreality and come out on the other side not knowing the difference. It's like walking through a hall of mirrors, seeing versions of yourself in grotesque extremes, but in the end, your reflections return to you, and you exit as you entered; one single, whole man.

Reflecting. . .

Several things have affected my perspective, lately.

Mortality and death have been walking around me, whispering to me that life has an uncertain end.

It's alright, my peace is not so weak.

I maintain.

Running through Oregonion hills, I happen into a frontier cemetery, the lineage of families etched in stone. Moss and trees try to hide these souls from our world, but if you slow down as I did, you can commune among the voiceless names. Stories are told in dates and names. The adversity of frontier life evident for anyone to see, so long as they can sympathize with the dead.

Most men died in their fifties and sixties. Several men died younger. One was my age. He was middle aged by the standards of the era.

Time passes.

The news comes that my cousin-in-law's brother was struck on the side of the road. He is a year older than I. I knew him. He had a family. He was not an old man by contemporary standards. To use a qualifier, he “should” have had much more time on this earth. He was a good man.

My grandfather passed away last month. My father's father.

Families are ephemeral entities, floating through time, usually no more than three generations at a time. We try to outrun our mortality by lighting new fires, but death is behind us, poised to extinguish any fire before its cold wind.

Sometimes, a family will fall behind, and death will overcome it. They fall into history. Dates and names.

You only know where half-way is once you've finished your journey. There are absolutes like young and old, but the promise of a future is false—albeit necessary to acknowledge its possibility. The outer edges are concrete. I know I began my journey 28 years ago, and it won't go further than a humanly possible 120 years (although it's much more likely to be half of that). Everything in between is an unknown.

I have an uncanny ability to forecast the future, and an even more extraordinary ability to ignore my own prophecy when it flies in the face of my desires. I'm coming to terms with accepting things that I wish weren't true. It's a process. I've been losing my innocence. No longer an innocent, I cannot deny the realities I live in. My reality, your reality, our reality. There is a place where they all meet, and that line gets pushed one way or another depending on the will of those involved.

I have passed beyond my youth and youthful outlook. Ages are arbitrary, and the experiences associated with particular ages are approximate. Regardless of my vintage, I am no longer a “young man.” For some the turning of that page comes earlier in life, for others, it never arrives.

It's okay to acknowledge the possibility of a future, and to prepare for it, but to live for the future may be a costly error. With nothing guaranteed, I'm more inclined to seize my goals, those that are immediately obtainable.

This far in, I cannot say that the pain and disappointment I've experienced has been worth the highs. If I died tonight, I'd come out of it with a negative balance. Red ink.

It will take concerted and determined effort to reverse my fortunes. It will take time—time I am not guaranteed.

Yet, I will try. For now, I have decided to do what I can. That is all that I can do.

For some time, depending on my progress, I will still be at a net loss. Eventually, I may reach a tipping point, where I am back to positive. I was there a year ago. It had been a long road there. I lost ground, though, and I have twice as much ground to make up now.

Current Events

I am both proud and disappointed in myself for working 5 weeks straight. 35 days straight without a day off. I'm putting it all into the moment, trying not to think too hard. The distraction of work is welcome.

I started playing guitar. I learned chords ten years ago, but never learned a song. My mom mailed my guitar to me for Christmas (thanks, Mom!), and I picked it up last month. I haven't put it down since.

To be sure, in the future I will be sharing my progress as I become more proficient and capable of expressing myself with this instrument.

Time is passing. I came in spring, I watched the mountains thaw their doors and invite us humans to play at their feet and to dance on their heads. I watched the green grasses grow golden, verdant hills turn to rolling gold fields.

The skies ignite, up here in the town of Auburn. The clouds huddle around a dying sun in the evenings, seeking warmth, and they almost catch fire, but so often, the sun goes to sleep before the clouds have fully begun to burn.

The spectacle of the chilly clouds and the dying ember of the sun is something I will remember well from my time here.

The mountains are preparing to close their doors, though. To me at least. I don't want to play in their snow. I want to see new things, and I will move on when the time is right.

The future is possible, but it is not guaranteed to me. Yet, I look to the horizon.  

Death and Rebirth

In The Ending

I have gone through many revisions.

Looking back on my life, I can see distinct chapters. Episodes.

Periods of time where I exist in a certain way.

Versions of me.

I know each one of them. I know them well, and I love them. They were me, then.

Then a cataclysm occurs.

A fire.

Each one of those versions of me has died.

Today, you see who I am, and you cannot understand who I was, because most of you have only known me for one chapter (maybe up to three if you have known me for a while and stayed close). Interestingly, before you met me, you didn't have a concept of Curtis. Once you do meet me, you must either assume nothing about my past, or—until you have gotten to know me very well—you must extrapolate who I am today into who I was yesterday, and the year before, and the rest of my life.

I'm not saying I'm not who you think I am, but I'm probably not exactly who you think I am. That stretching of who I am into the past of who I was, wouldn't tell you a lot of my story. I'm mostly speaking of an internal me, one that most people don't know very well, but I should think it's obvious that I hold the internal me as the most true me there is. I don't know if the external concept of Curtis you have today would be much different 3, 5, 10, and 20 years ago. But if you knew me well, knew the deep-seated me that lives in Curtis, you would see great differences, I think. And I am about to change again.

The Metaphor

I am engulfed in fire, and I am dying. And to a certain extent, I am—not literally—intentionally killing me.

You see, I am a Phoenix.

This person you know has risen from the ashes many times. Each time, altered.

I miss the old me. Each one of them.

I know them.

Each has his flaws, but they all have a common, good core that unites them.

When I travel to the locations of my previous chapters, I see my ghost. I know where to haunt the ghost of me.

Each time: I weathered a storm I thought I could not weather. It was only by putting myself to death that I was able to come through, for there was no other way I knew. Pain too great—I had to kill the feeling part of me.

Moving. Divorce. Unrequited love. Broken dreams. Loss of agency.

Minor things in the grand scheme of life.

I still have a healthy body. When I am hungry, I can feed myself.

I live with a roof over my head, and a sense of security about me.

This is no hell I inhabit.

All the same, I live most of my life inside of me. To my admitted detriment, I experience the world second hand; first I receive the raw input, then I process it. Sometimes obsessively, if I can't puzzle it out. Sometimes I get stuck in a loop. Sometimes I solve the problem. If that's the case, you'll see me enact the solution. Applying it to the world I live in.

Admission

I'm not saying I'm special—I don't think that's much different than most people. I think I live so much in my own world, sensing the outside world bulging and pressing against my internal world, that I sometimes try to resist reality. I am already backlogged, unable to process some things that happened years or decades ago. I just can't take any more input sometimes. And especially when I perceive I won't be able to make sense of it.

That's where I am now. And that's where the dying comes in.

The old me has got to go.

He couldn't make it work. He's a failure, and I need to restart again.

It's painful. I cry at the loss.

For, when you kill yourself, the old you, you don't get to choose what to keep and what to lose.

Some good will remain—that core—and some bad will remain, too.

There is less and less each time, though, I can say that truthfully.

Eventually, I am afraid of becoming an empty vessel. The former carrier of Curtis, but no longer inhabited by him.

I know this seems theatrically dramatic. But it is dramatic.

These feelings are as real to me as the toothbrush in your mouth this morning, with its bristles and the flavor of your toothpaste, the hard, smooth plastic pushing your cheek out. You know that feeling. I know this feeling just as well. Dying.

Depressing as the topic is, a hidden truth about me is that I am eternally hopeful. If I weren't, I would be dead—for real dead—but, here I am.

I've lost a lover of me, and a friend. One who resonated with me—a Harmonic Coexistent that when I was beside her I felt more of myself than I ever did.

With her loss came the loss of a possible future which was rich with potential. Such is the loss that it shakes me down to my core, and I am left face down, prostrate and mourning. She was my family, she was my sister and my companion. Losing her as I have was literally unfathomable. Impossible to fathom. Impossible to understand. For that reason, that Curtis must die, because he cannot go on living. His life has become a paradox. Contradiction. Impossible. Unreality.

A new Curtis must be born from the ashes, one that can accept paradoxes, one that—though he still cannot understand—lives with that paradox. This is growing older.

A Never-Ending Process

I know this is part of life. I know it's a never-ending process, and that these things happen from time to time, especially as I experience novel situations.

What I lament most, however, is that not all of these situations are necessary. Indeed, many of them can be avoided, such as this one.

But at what cost? I ask myself.

Many times it means feeling less. A conscious choice.

I have been there before. It's a numb, dreary, sad place to be. Not without happiness or joy, for indeed, it's mostly an internal condition—one that most would not notice from an outsider's perspective.

So I burn.

I burn, and it hurts and I am reduced to nothingness.

I have choices. I can choose how to rebuild. I will do my best, but there are catch-22s. 'Rebuild with the same feeling and vulnerability that led you here, and you are likely to wind up here again (and soon),' I tell myself.

So I ask myself: Is it worth the risk? Do I rebuild with feeling?

I don't know.

I do know that this not being the first time I have been here for the same reason, I am less likely to repeat what is beginning to manifest as a mistake.

There are only so many times you will try to do something that injures you before you give it up.

I will try to be a better version of me. In some ways, I already am.

I lament the loss of me, and of who I have been.

I also know that many parts of me that are good were only made possible by the destruction of those parts of me that were bad.

Building From The Ashes

Each time, I am humbled. Each time, I rebuild my pride and my ego and my self-esteem, and then I am humbled again.

I seek an enlightenment that short circuits the cycle. I seek humility. Humility allows me to see my faults. No ego; no blindness. I don't know, it's just a theory.

If I can see my faults, I can fix them.

I also need patience. It takes time to asses one's self. It takes time to ascertain the information, the raw data, and to analyze the trends. So I strive for humility and patience.

But those things may be worthless without kindness. That's essential, too, because kindness fosters relationships. Kindness fosters good will. Kindness to myself, and kindness to others. Without kindness, I may be humble and patient but I will not be good to myself, I will not forgive myself, and the same to others. And without those gifts, bitterness will grow and I will build a wall that separates me from myself and others. A lonely place.

Finally, I seek honesty. And here, I think, is something that comes from the core of me. I think. I don't know. Sometimes I doubt what I think I know. How do you know anything? Say, if I'm dishonest at my core, could I not say I am honest and believe that, because I am lying to myself? Really. I wonder. But I do think I am honest, and I hope I am not lying to myself.

I seek genuine communication, but because of that, I am overwhelmed by large groups of people because I'm not able to genuinely connect and communicate with large groups of people simultaneously. My life story has a short list of supporting actors, simply because I don't have the bandwidth to be who I want to be with everyone I know.

So at this end of me—as I burn—I also look toward the future. Now is the time to decide who I will become.

Life has a way of tripping me but I would say the mechanism isn't so obvious. If someone trips you, you might stumble but you will try to catch yourself, and you probably will. The way life gets me, it seems like I never know I've been tripped until I'm already face down, prostrate and mourning. My legs seem numb, so I don't know that my feet have erred, and by the time I'm aware of my fall, I've already fallen.

So I burn.

I burn and I look through the fire, the bright cleansing fire. I look to the future. I look to my rebirth.  

Autumn Song

Not more than two years before,
I sang you songs. Wrote you unexpected words.

"Like clear, fresh water," you said.

Not more than two years before,
I promised oxygen to your core.

Like saplings on a hill, young, supple and sure.
We grew our roots side by side, intertwined. I watered yours, you watered mine.

I felt new, you by my side.
Feeling the hum of your energy inside.

"You carry electricity in you," I said.

Our leaves grew thick green, and multiplied.
We were healthy and strong, thanks to our tangled roots.

Love was our shared mycorrhiza.

And from upon that spring hill,
We looked out in one direction.

Not more than two years before,
You and I, we chose our course.

Our vision sure, we set to work
and weathered our storms.

For a while I looked so hard,
I forgot you by my side.

I felt first a lack of hum.
Your electricity withdrawn.
And when I looked, you were gone.

I grew these roots for you to share,
Upon this hill that once was bare.

Now this autumn air
blows a wind, ominous and grim.

This lonesome tree, upon this bare hill,
Waits for spring and your return.

When once more,
the hair on my arm stands enough just to tell there's electricity in the air.

Would that: new spring should come, this sapling tree will fondly lean toward its lover once more.

The soil richer than ever before, from the leaves of fall and the tears, most of all.