I’m experimenting with the excercise of free hand writing, so I wrote this quickly, bear with the grammar..
15.04.10- 19.04.10
I thought I should write this before the thundering clamor rings and dissipates from my skull, leaking all the thoughts that swim only in backseats of cars to the tune of some kind of orchestral hum. The grand accumulation of idle time [FINALLY] in hopes of a decent idea or two in the thick, molasses depths of otherwise gibberish monologue of the mind. Have you even heard the kind of things that can come out of a quiet mind? Listen for it the next time you watch the eternal pavement meet the unreachable horizon on your way to the next rest stop. When you realize you’re still at an unspeakable distance from your destination, you’ll eventually taste the tail-end of a peculiar, self-imposed madness. Mine materialized as a ferocious need to sleep, to over-rest my body into a kind of dull state, while the car’s occupants breathe in nothing but solid carbon dioxide- enough to knock out a grown man, caffeinated or otherwise.
We started out in San Diego, we were headed up to San Francisco with a genius plan to hit Portland and Seattle, and back again in five short days. None of us paid any mind to how much ground we were to cover compared to time awake vs. time exploring. We just named cities, packed bags and bikes, and left. I still don’t know why we went. I came up with the idea in passing, but never intended to execute it. The group included three former roadies: Daniel, Andrea and I, and our friend Raf. We are all expert transients, so much so that we all manage to abandon all immediate wants and needs for time. Showers, delayed. Comfort, on hiatus.
I could nearly tell you for certain that Daniel has been hosting a small demon inside his intestines for the better part of his twenty-five years, one that causes wretched screams and treacherous words into the eardrums of anyone that had the misfortune of standing too close. Daniel is unquantifiable. He was born with far too much life inside his limbs, that he must emit ungodly shrills of laughter or otherwise suffer a great and chronic pain. His affinity for Taylor Swift is horrendous and unapologetic, and rather than it be a novel quality, it is a very real and serious illness. He undoubtedly brushed us all with the pungent smell of roadside death while singing carelessly and fatally weaving up the interstate. We all recalled waking up several times, drunk with a great fatigue and the acceptance that this may very well be the end. Sleep makes you frightening okay with things like that.
Andrea shared the back with me [*in perfect Christian formation, the required separation of boys and girls], and for two individuals to spend such a concentrated period of time next to each other, you’d think I’d never want to see the girl again. She’s far sweeter than you could imagine, and is perhaps the best candidate for such a position. We formed a pillow blockade to create some kind of respectable boundary. We also share a material kinship for all things odd, old, and worn. We sought out the best vintage shops the West Coast has to offer, effortlessly honoring Portland for ‘most outstanding selection of nineties tanks’ and first edition Steinbecks. She is also poetic in her photography, capturing things and places in holy lights, vivid with nostalgia.
Raf is undeniably the best human on the road, and in life. He drove most of the way, quiet and noble, without a mere blemish of a complaint. He affirmed our great faith that men, at times, are quite handy at ‘taking care of things’. And by that I mean anything navigational or physical. We could just as well close our eyes and have everything straightened out. He created order out of otherwise chaos. And I swear, if you ran him over, he would apologize to you. Or he would at the very least, tell you a few good things about your character, reminding you that murder or any sort of isolated incident does not define who you are. He’s likely one of the best friends I’ve ever had, and certainly the most wise.
I could tell you about the spectacular kaleidoscope of warm pastel-y houses, monstrous hills, brick roads, Berkeley, debris and old ghosts of the once revolutionary city of San Francisco, or the Unicorn Hotel at 4am in Portland and our salvation in the form of a beatnik Couch Surfee, to whose name is still largely unknown, …Keith? I could go on about the fatal concoction invented by Daniel, mixing fools’ hot sauce in a morning’s bloody mary, to swallow it whole under the command of a dare. We nearly lost him. Seattle found us in the company of good old friends, Johnny and his sweet wife Alyssa- their hospitality was unmatched by any other (the air mattress becomes a small luxury). There were dollar pints, giant trolls, fish thrown, French bakeries, first Starbucks, bike rides, Marshill, homemade ice cream, babies, and thirteen hour car rides back to San Fran, then the final stretch that would take us home in what would feel like a year’s time, condensed into hours that melted slowly. (Seems we found the remedy for time travel! It’s a quarter perception and three quarters distance)
What this does to a man’s mind is nothing compared to his soul. The body, unmoved, yearns only for the worst kinds of meal, so laden and creamed, crunchy and sweet- and in large, consistent consumption. Every stop required more and more, like children who know no bounds in their capacity for junk food. It all of a sudden seems perfectly reasonable to wash a coke down with another coke and some fries, and for those who have the taste for it- slim jims, trail mix, potato salad, guacamole chips, milk duds, and the occasional apple. Holy hell, we watched our own bodies disintegrate into our seats for a few long days. We watched our pants tighten as we scraped the bottoms of all sorts of buckets and bags. Where does this desire spring from? Where there is no home, there is no routine, and in place of routine- give me chocolate!
But it is only in the careful times of isolated contemplation, out the sides of windows where what you stare at doesn’t stare back at you. It’s the same film, on repeat. The same hills and signs and peppered cattle. The only evidence to suggest bodies close by are the sounds of breath and the smell of others’ clothes, besides that, there is a place you can reach only in these rides that is the closest thing to truth. The truth that is so real and good and honest that it MUST be documented, recorded, or otherwise squandered under our fallible memories. It is a place ripe with thought and angst, and wings ready to propel once the ride stops. It is the realization that you are awake and alive, and you are moving. It is the reminder never to stop moving. It is the glorious image of a safe bed and clean fingernails. It is a glimpse of more than the imaginable, and the living breathing stories still to chase. I’m exhausted, broke, and just as confused as before I left. But now I have stories, and better friends.
