The ocean is on the other side of this mountain. There is nothing majestic about this mountain. It’s just annoying. And tall. And steep. And I have to climb it. I hate every single car that has passed me, even the friendly looking, stereotypical looking, VW bus full of hippies who were going thee miles per hour because they were stoned out of their mind. They even offered me a lift but there was no room except on the roof and the way that bus was swinging around I just couldn’t bring myself to say yes. I imagine that with a car this drive is lovely. The slow build up the mountain. Then the thrill of the crest and the windy road down to the sea. Walking, there is no build because there is no perspective. All I have are the trees along the side of the road to measure my progress. Can’t see the forest. Can’t see much of anything except my feet right now and some gravel. I feel very exposed out here. The cars come by quickly. They’re overcompensating for the hill. The road winds up a sort of valley. It’s too steep to get far from the road on any side. You got to walk / that lonesome valley / you got to walk / it by yourself. When I began this climb I imagined there would be just me and the mountain. That’s how it is in the books. Momentous struggles contract the world till it holds just you and the other. I keep flitting about. I latch onto a passing bird till it passes out of sight. I wonder what’s behind that crooked tree. I peer into every car. I do everything possible to make the mountain disappear. I’ve thought about turning around and giving up on seeing the ocean. I just spend time by a lake. The ocean might be bigger but that’s merely a mater of degree, not a fundamental difference. I think about everything I could be doing instead of climbing this damn mountain. I am starting to enjoy hating this mountain. It’s giving me something to do. The worst part is that I don’t care about the top. I can understand climbing a mountain to get to the top. But it’s not a pilgrimage for me. I just want to get to the other side. If there was a tunnel I could take right through the belly of this thing as if it wasn’t there I totally would. Not to spite it but because I just don’t care. And I’m going to not care the whole rest of the day as I trudge up this fucking mountain. This mountain is giving me way too much time to think.
I sat down. Not in the middle of the road, under a tree, a pathetic shrub of a tree. I couldn’t keep climbing the mountain like this. I’ve never felt anything like this. Everyone thinks they’ve had overwhelming feelings. Especially in college. Especially around finals. But everywhere really. I’m guilty too. I’ve always wanted to be overwhelmed by emotion. I played at it even. I tried to will myself over the edge. I’d be the sensitive one, instead of just another callused pleb. At least then there would be a reason, an explanation, an excuse? I spent hours on the internet looking for possible mental syndromes I might have. I’ve been close collapse. Actually I often feel I’m in a state of almost panic. Despite my sincere desire to let go and fall into chaos I always managed to pull through. Till now. I honestly can’t climb anymore. It’s the type of thing of which I’d think to myself “That would make a good story.” It is a good story: a spiritual climb. I should have picked a better tree if that’s the case, like the one in back of the library in college. I liked that tree. This is different of course. The cars are still zooming by. I don’t think they even see me. I’m too low to the ground and probably blend in. I still feel exposed though. I’m right next to the road. I feel each car. The wind hits me. I wish I had learned to do the full lotus. The ground isn’t flat so I’m half sitting half leaning trying not to loose perch on this loose stony dirt. I have to concentrate to not slip. I’m breathing deeply and slowly. I think that’s what you’re supposed to do. I had my eyes closed. I thought that would help. But now they’re open. I want to close them, so I won’t flinch every time a car comes by. I’m not sure what’s supposed to happen now. I guess I’m waiting for it to all pass so I can go on. Maybe I’m supposed to fight back and overcome it and force myself up this stupid mountain. That would make sense if I were afraid. I feel more like I’m supposed to be here right now. I could just keep walking. But I don’t want to break the moment. I want to enjoy it like hot sauce, especially that cheap kind they have at take out Thai restaurants. The food might have been nothing but oil and MSG but that burning sensation made it all worth it. This isn’t burning.
This is just sitting. “Nothing to be done.” I’m halfway up a mountain. It’s cold but I’m going to pretend that doesn’t matter. I’m smiling. I’m forcing myself to smile and enjoy this. Well? shall we go? / Yes, let’s go. / They do not move. “You’re so lonely I don’t know what you want.” A girl said that to me once. I have no idea what she meant. Sometimes I wonder about it for a while. It sounds right but it doesn’t mean anything, at least not to me. I don’t think she knew what she meant. I’ve been carrying it around with me because maybe it’s important, but I doubt it.
The rest of the walk up the mountain is easy. I don’t even stop at the top. I’m making good time down the other side. I think there’s another, smaller, mountain ahead before I make it to the ocean. I won’t make it there today, it’s already getting dark.
I took a trip up the mountain today
my friend has a one room cabin there
We didn’t stay long -- just dropped some stuff off
and then drove back down
We were back in the city
amongst awkward out of place houses
And the mountain stared at me
from every patch of dirt and every weed
The pavement felt like a thin rug
thrown hastily over the earth
My mind rejected the sight of civilization
the way the body rejects foreign cells
The feeling wore off after a few hours
as my sense came down from the mountain
Walking down is more tiring. It’s tough on your knees. Because it’s downhill you come down hard with each step. You have to brace yourself. You have to fight gravity. Ironic isn’t it. Fucking ironic. Makes me angry. The cars now are going even faster. They’re not paying attention to anything. It was all over at the top for them. I’m not going to make it to the ocean today. That makes me angry too. Everything makes me angry right now: this dusty road, those sad half dead trees, that dark blue SUV that probably thinks I’m a total looser for walking out here. I’m kicking loose rocks and walking closer to the road than I should. I stop and look back up the mountain and wonder what the hell is going on with me. Hopefully I’ll figure it all out when I get to the ocean. I doubt it but that’s ok. It’s still a nice thought for now.
I wanna walk up the side of a mountain
I wanna walk down the other side of the mountain
I wanna swim in the river and lie in the sun
I wanna try to be nice to everyone
I have that song stuck in my head now. There’s no river her though and the sun is already on it’s way down. I have it stuck in my head even though it’s not really how I feel, but I’m singing it out loud at the top of my lungs anyway because what the hell why not. It’s probably not a good idea to walk this close to the road now that it’s getting dark but even this far down the road is still carved precariously through a valley so there’s not much room to the side of the road. I could scramble up and find a place to stop and rest and sleep but I want to keep walking. My legs hurt from walking downhill. My shoulders hurt from carrying the backpack uphill. My stomach hurts because I didn’t stop and eat. I’m still walking. I’m thinking about what happened today, trying to think what I’ll tell people about it.
I’m stumbling now, shuffling my feet, walking only to stave off the effort of bedding down for the night. Fuck it. I’m done. It doesn’t take long for me to make a makeshift bed. I’m good at it by now, a seasoned traveler. I have a little bit of food left but I’d rather go to sleep hungry. I’ll be asleep soon so it doesn’t matter anyway. The mandarin orange and bread will taste better in the morning when I’m really hungry. Today was a good day, even if I don’t really know what happened today and probably never will. I know it has something to do with what happened college. I thought that was behind me. I thought it was a one time thing. I guess these are extreme circumstances. That’s probably why it came back. I’m too tired and too cold and too worn out to worry about it right now. I’ve never pushed myself this hard physically before. It feels great.
The Lake
I’m not at the ocean yet. I decided to stay a few days at this lake. It’s actually pretty close to where Emily lives. I keep wondering if I’ll run into her while walking around here. I hope not. I wouldn’t know what to say. I hated that about college. It’s such a small community you are constantly running into people. I know a lot of people like that about college and small towns. Sometimes you just don’t want to talk to people though. More importantly, there are some people you never want to talk to. There was no one I hated or was on terrible terms with. That would have been fine. We would have just avoided each other, pretended not to see each other, not talked to each other. A handful of people just rubbed me the wrong way – especially M*** T. - but that’s fine too. You just exchange pleasantries and get over it. I always afraid of running into people that wanted to know how I was and what I was up to. There is a different between asking those as bland innocuous questions and actually expecting me to catch you up on my life. I didn’t begrudge them knowing, I just never knew how much or which details they actually wanted. I know it sounds silly and it’s probably my lack of social skills speaking. Usually I would lie. I could tell them I was just coming from the library but last time I ran into them I was just coming from the library and I don’t want it sound like I spend all my time in the library because I don’t and I want to give an accurate picture. That’s why I want to live in a city. I should have run away to the city. This lake isn’t bad though. There are a lot of people here but I’ve mostly been keeping to myself. Most of them are tourists. They come for water sports. They’re the type of folks who have a boat in their driveway even though they live miles from any water. I am completely out of place here. I’ve picked my way through the campsite a few times to use the showers and such. The grown ups pay me no mind. The kids sometimes stare, especially the ones on mountain bikes. Mostly I keep to myself. I set up a little place for myself on the far side of the lake. It’s sort of like in Hatchet except that motorboats chug by all day and you can smell the barbecues going at night. I’m actually that nobody has called into the ranger to report a strange dude hanging out on the far side of the lake. I have a friend who always “goes up to the lake” with his family over the summer. He’s really into wakeboarding. They have an RV and a boat and everything. I went with them once. It felt a lot like camping in the backyard. All the right trappings but none of the nature. We spent most of our time out on the lake. It was actually an artificial lake, part of California’s damn and reservoir system. But none of that matters because it’s raining. I’m wet, very wet. My clothes are entirely soaked through. Everything I own may as well have turned to water it’s so wet. I haven’t taken cover under a tree or anything. I’m sitting at the edge of the lake and just completely mesmerized by all the ripples the rain is making. There are no boats out of course. The campsite is probably miserable and muddy. I imagine everyone is huddled inside their RVs. At some point it’s so wet it doesn’t really matter if it gets any wetter. I feel like if I get up and try to move somewhere drier – which would be basically anywhere other than out here in the open – I’d suddenly notice how insanely wet I am, and this would cease to be quasi-romantic and magical and begin to be miserable and raggedy and just plain wet. I wish I was good at poetry. The rain on the water would make a beautiful haiku. Rain on the water / Ripples on the lake / Dripping wet. I’m smiling. I want to laugh. I want to laugh like a wild animal and maybe dance. There’s a frog sitting to my right. I can’t dance when people are looking at me; I’m too self conscious. I can dance when other people are around just not when they are looking looking at me. So if everyone is dancing it’s ok, not great, but I’ll dance, flail, jump, bounce around dance. There’s a haiku about a frog, a famous one, by Bashō.
Old pond
Frog jumps in
Plop.
I remember seeing a page with hundreds of different translations of that poem. Each one trying to capture the Japanese, which was just trying to capture a frog hopping nonchalantly into a pond. This frog is just sitting there, enjoying the rain with me.
And then it’s over.
And I’m still wet as a mop.
It’s like when a fireworks show is over. You linger because you don’t want to miss that one little afterthought even if it is unspectacular. I hear muted cheers from the campsite across the lake. It’s probably bad for me to stay this wet but there isn’t really anyway for me to get dry. So I’ll stay wet. I’ll go swimming. My clothes will dry faster if I hang them up and I’m wet anyway. I don’t even think about the fact that I’ll be skinny dipping until I’m standing in my underwear. For a flash I consider keeping it on but the thought doesn’t stay long enough to solidify. Even though I’ve been at this lake for a few days I haven’t gone swimming till now. The lake was the boaters and campers territories. But the rain drove them back for me! I forgot all about the frog. He (or she) is gone now, maybe swimming as well. I also forgot that I don’t really like swimming. The first house I lived in was near a pool. During the summer I would go swimming what felt like everyday. But then we moved and I never really swam much. Here and there, but I could never remember what was so fun about it. The sensation of being in the water just felt mildly unpleasant and there didn’t seem to be anything fun to do in the pool, definitely nothing that I couldn’t do equally well while staying perfectly dry. And then there were the one or two times that I ended up in a pool with a girlfriend. It never felt romantic or sexy or anything like that. It felt awkward, which might be some body issues on my part but I think the pool thing is all hype. I don’t think I’ve ever gone swimming alone. I might bet bored after a while but for right now it’s nice. I’m floating and feeling the water run through my toes. Closer to the shore I can stand. The bottom is pebbly and kinda hurts so I stay out in the water mostly.
I skinny dipped and no one saw me. I expected someone to see me and for me to be embarrassed, at least at first. Maybe I’d be brave and defiant and flaunt. But no one saw me which is disappointing but not so disappointing that I really care. My clothes dried faster than I expected. I still feel damp, as if the rain is somehow lingering in the air. Not just the rain but the whole atmosphere of rain. The RV people would likely disagree and disregard such silliness. A few of them are out for a quick boat ride before it gets too dark. A campfire would the perfect way to welcome the darkness and round up this day. Even if I had matches there is now way I could find any dry firewood after that rain. Now that I’ve thought about a fire I’m cold. Falling asleep cold is part of the deal I guess. It’ll make a good story when I tell about my travels. I might have to spice up the skinny dipping a bit. A mighty rainstorm – joyous carefree skinny dipping – then bitter cold at night. You’d almost think I was having an adventure out here in the virgin woods a whole mile away from anything resembling civilization, here all alone and stranded, by choice – nothing a good editor can’t fix. I wish the haiku I came up with was better, that would help solidify my romantic traveling poet persona. I have plenty of time to come up with something better. I don’t think I’ll be actually talking to anyone anytime soon. I can hear the RV people at their merry making across the lake. Happy sounds sound lonely from far away. I think I also hear a frog croaking but that could be my wishful imagination.
I’ll get back on the road again tomorrow. I’ve gotten everything I can out of this lake. That’s a crude way of thinking about it. I shouldn’t think that way. But I’m still leaving tomorrow. Yesterday, in the back of my mind, I was flirting with the idea of just staying here. I think some other part of my mind was worried that I actually would. I feel calmer now that I’ve decided that. I didn’t notice that I was tense but I feel more together and on top of things now. Maybe it’s not because it’s the right decision but just because I haven’t had to make plans or a decision lately and my mother’s OCD tendencies that have seeped into me over the years were rebelling. That almost makes me want to stay. To prove that I don’t have to be a slave to decisions. But staying won’t prove anything and besides I do want to get back on the road and see the ocean and just walk.
Old pond
Frog jumps in
Plop.
I remember seeing a page with hundreds of different translations of that poem. Each one trying to capture the Japanese, which was just trying to capture a frog hopping nonchalantly into a pond. This frog is just sitting there, enjoying the rain with me.
And then it’s over.
And I’m still wet as a mop.
It’s like when a fireworks show is over. You linger because you don’t want to miss that one little afterthought even if it is unspectacular. I hear muted cheers from the campsite across the lake. It’s probably bad for me to stay this wet but there isn’t really anyway for me to get dry. So I’ll stay wet. I’ll go swimming. My clothes will dry faster if I hang them up and I’m wet anyway. I don’t even think about the fact that I’ll be skinny dipping until I’m standing in my underwear. For a flash I consider keeping it on but the thought doesn’t stay long enough to solidify. Even though I’ve been at this lake for a few days I haven’t gone swimming till now. The lake was the boaters and campers territories. But the rain drove them back for me! I forgot all about the frog. He (or she) is gone now, maybe swimming as well. I also forgot that I don’t really like swimming. The first house I lived in was near a pool. During the summer I would go swimming what felt like everyday. But then we moved and I never really swam much. Here and there, but I could never remember what was so fun about it. The sensation of being in the water just felt mildly unpleasant and there didn’t seem to be anything fun to do in the pool, definitely nothing that I couldn’t do equally well while staying perfectly dry. And then there were the one or two times that I ended up in a pool with a girlfriend. It never felt romantic or sexy or anything like that. It felt awkward, which might be some body issues on my part but I think the pool thing is all hype. I don’t think I’ve ever gone swimming alone. I might bet bored after a while but for right now it’s nice. I’m floating and feeling the water run through my toes. Closer to the shore I can stand. The bottom is pebbly and kinda hurts so I stay out in the water mostly.
I skinny dipped and no one saw me. I expected someone to see me and for me to be embarrassed, at least at first. Maybe I’d be brave and defiant and flaunt. But no one saw me which is disappointing but not so disappointing that I really care. My clothes dried faster than I expected. I still feel damp, as if the rain is somehow lingering in the air. Not just the rain but the whole atmosphere of rain. The RV people would likely disagree and disregard such silliness. A few of them are out for a quick boat ride before it gets too dark. A campfire would the perfect way to welcome the darkness and round up this day. Even if I had matches there is now way I could find any dry firewood after that rain. Now that I’ve thought about a fire I’m cold. Falling asleep cold is part of the deal I guess. It’ll make a good story when I tell about my travels. I might have to spice up the skinny dipping a bit. A mighty rainstorm – joyous carefree skinny dipping – then bitter cold at night. You’d almost think I was having an adventure out here in the virgin woods a whole mile away from anything resembling civilization, here all alone and stranded, by choice – nothing a good editor can’t fix. I wish the haiku I came up with was better, that would help solidify my romantic traveling poet persona. I have plenty of time to come up with something better. I don’t think I’ll be actually talking to anyone anytime soon. I can hear the RV people at their merry making across the lake. Happy sounds sound lonely from far away. I think I also hear a frog croaking but that could be my wishful imagination.
I’ll get back on the road again tomorrow. I’ve gotten everything I can out of this lake. That’s a crude way of thinking about it. I shouldn’t think that way. But I’m still leaving tomorrow. Yesterday, in the back of my mind, I was flirting with the idea of just staying here. I think some other part of my mind was worried that I actually would. I feel calmer now that I’ve decided that. I didn’t notice that I was tense but I feel more together and on top of things now. Maybe it’s not because it’s the right decision but just because I haven’t had to make plans or a decision lately and my mother’s OCD tendencies that have seeped into me over the years were rebelling. That almost makes me want to stay. To prove that I don’t have to be a slave to decisions. But staying won’t prove anything and besides I do want to get back on the road and see the ocean and just walk.
The Couch
Dinner was better than I expected, nothing fancy but filling and satisfying in a wholesome way I haven’t had for a while. My mother is actually a good cook, and I’d like to think I am too. I learned from her mostly. When I was little I would hang around the kitchen and watch. I was home-schooled for a two years when I was little so I was home a lot. Even now my mom and I talk about food and cooking quite a bit. She’s always giving advice and telling me to eat healthier. The truth is I eat plenty healthy. She just wants be motherly about it. I let her It’s one of the few things she knows about and is good at so she feels more comfortable with it than when the conversation veers off into the real world. I helped rinse of the dishes and put them in the dishwasher. For a brief moment I felt like part of the family, but then I didn’t know where to put away the lid to one of the pots. Jimmy ran back off to his room as soon as he was done eating. I think he’s supposed to be doing his homework but I doubt he is and doesn’t look like Emily feels it’s her responsibility to bother him about it. We sorta drifted over to the living room and now I’m perched on an old couch that’s on the verge of being raggedy.
“... climb to a high of about 50 degrees with a bit of cloud ...”
“I always watch tv around now, I hope you don’t mind”
“... get to see the sun.”
“I don’t know if you have plans or something but you’re welcome to sleep on the couch tonight. Our parents went to a wedding and won’t be back till late tomorrow.”
I wasn’t expecting that. I wasn’t expecting any of this, but definitely. Luckily Emily doesn’t seem to expect much of a response from me; she’s busy flipping through the channels. I could be gruff and mysterious and walk off into the wilderness with a mumbles no thank you. I’d need a cowboy hat to pull that off I think, and the couch is starting to feel really comfortable. The remote seems to be missing so Emily is standing right up by the tv mashing the buttons. I think every single show on tv is some sort of police procedural or crime drama.
“Look,”
There’s no good way to sit when you’re talking to people sitting on the same couch as you.
“I have tons of questions but I don’t want to be impolite so if you don’t want to answer or feel like it’s an interrogation or whatever just say so and I’ll totally understand and shut up and just let you have a quite relaxing evening which is probably what you want after all that walking and stuff.”
I think she did that all in one breath. I don’t think I’ll have answers to her questions. I barely understand what I’m doing. I’ll probably pontificate and B.S. and sound magnificent and all knowing and like a very together kind of guy. That’s how I made it through life so far. Once in high school I was talking to my English teacher and was totally winging it and talking big and I even think I completely reversed my position on something but she just ate it up and thought I was a darling smart little thing. Usually nobody catches me but this time one my best friends was standing next to me – she was the smartest kid in school by far and everyone knew it even though she didn’t have the highest g.p.a. because she took unweighted non-gate classes like art for the fun of it – and she could barely keep herself from laughing because she totally saw what I was doing even though the teacher didn’t. I loved her because she was one of the few people who saw through my bull shit. There were others who tried to call me on it. They could tell I was just flinging up a smokescreen of words but they couldn’t actually see through it so even though they tried to call me on it it was never hard to just keep talking. This friend of mine though just ignored my nonsense, wasn’t phased by it at all. She always brought me back down to earth when I was in danger of believing my own pretentious lies. There’s no reason not to be dully honest with Emily but it’s pretty clear she’s expecting and wants cool answers, and I just hate sound banal.
“So talk!”
“You didn’t ask me anything” Unless I zoned out and she did and I didn’t hear her in which case I’m just came across like an even bigger freak than I actually am.
“Well yeah, but you know.., I’ve never met someone who’s out walking like you are. I don’t really know what to ask. I just want to understand what it’s like and why you’re doing it. I guess, just tell me your story.”
I’m trying, I really am. I think about what I told the therapist but none of that seems to fit here. I give the facts of the matter but they sound hollow and lame. There isn’t that much to explain. Somehow though Emily seems satisfied. She accepts that I just upped and ran. The tv is still on in the background. Commercials ad lib the gaps.
“I don’t really know what else to say.”
“I’ve thought about running away sometimes. Everyone wants to get out of this town though. It’s one of those small towns everyone is escaping from you always hear about. It really is like that. We all hate it, except for Kyrah – she’s our local and stereotypical little miss popular with just enough of a bad streak to keep everyone interested. She’s always going on about how much she loves it here. I’m pretty sure she’s lying. She just says that to be different.”
If this were a day dream we’d make out right now but instead we just pretend to be fascinated by an ad for deodorant. I think she’s waiting for me to ask her something. The only thing I can think of to say is “Do you have any plans, you know, for the future?” I hope that’s right.
“Do you have any plans, you know, for the future?”
“Yeah, well I’m taking classes at the city college. You know how that is, it’s more a glorified high school than actual college. Everybody from high school is there, except for the kids you didn’t talk to anyway because they were smoking out in the parking lot. I want to transfer somewhere far away and study psychology. Everybody says they’re going to transfer but only like two or three ever do. It’s a big joke but the grown ups like to pretend and we all go along with it.”
I don’t know what to say next. I went straight to a four year. I grew up in a smallish town but I was so out of it, so in my own world, that I didn’t even feel part of it enough to feel alienated. I could invite her to come along with me but I don’t want to.
“Hey, it’s getting late and you probably want to get a good night’s rest.”
I instinctively look up at the clock and she’s right. Somehow we’ve been talking for a couple of hours. It turns out the couch pulls out into a pretty comfortable bed with sheets and everything. I always have trouble falling asleep in a strange place. I’m pretty sure everyone does. It should all look the same when you close your eyes. But I haven’t closed my eyes. They’re roaming the room trying to pick things out in the dim light.
“Good night.”
“Night”
I still wonder what Emily was thinking when she invited me over like this, what she was hoping to get out of it. I also wonder what Jimmy was up to in his room all night, even though I know it doesn’t matter at all. And I wonder what he thought of his sister inviting me in. I’m just full of wonder tonight. Maybe I’ll ask her again in the morning. How do you say goodbye to someone who fed you and let you sleep in their home but you hardly know? Especially when you’re not getting in a car or on a train but just walking away. That’s really affected how I arrive at and leave places. It’s so slow and lingering. To really get away you have to stop paying attention for a while and then later suddenly notice you’re miles gone. It’s not that different from falling asleep in that sense, except that right now the blinking lights on the dvd player are keeping me up. I’m half inclined to program the time so it stops blinking. I ought to find a way of thanking Emily. I’ll say thank you of course. In my imagination drifters leave little gifts, like something they carved, behind as a token of their appreciation.
There. I programed the time on the dvd. It’s not a little carved mockingbird maybe but it’s all I got. I hope she notices it, though I’m pretty sure she won’t. Maybe a few weeks from now she’ll suddenly notice and go “Huh, who programed the time on the dvd? Ya know, it must have been that travel kid. Well isn’t that sweet. I knew he was good kid. I’m glad I let him sleep here that one night. I hope he’s doing all right. Maybe he’s made it up to where he was going by now.”
“... climb to a high of about 50 degrees with a bit of cloud ...”
“I always watch tv around now, I hope you don’t mind”
“... get to see the sun.”
“I don’t know if you have plans or something but you’re welcome to sleep on the couch tonight. Our parents went to a wedding and won’t be back till late tomorrow.”
I wasn’t expecting that. I wasn’t expecting any of this, but definitely. Luckily Emily doesn’t seem to expect much of a response from me; she’s busy flipping through the channels. I could be gruff and mysterious and walk off into the wilderness with a mumbles no thank you. I’d need a cowboy hat to pull that off I think, and the couch is starting to feel really comfortable. The remote seems to be missing so Emily is standing right up by the tv mashing the buttons. I think every single show on tv is some sort of police procedural or crime drama.
“Look,”
There’s no good way to sit when you’re talking to people sitting on the same couch as you.
“I have tons of questions but I don’t want to be impolite so if you don’t want to answer or feel like it’s an interrogation or whatever just say so and I’ll totally understand and shut up and just let you have a quite relaxing evening which is probably what you want after all that walking and stuff.”
I think she did that all in one breath. I don’t think I’ll have answers to her questions. I barely understand what I’m doing. I’ll probably pontificate and B.S. and sound magnificent and all knowing and like a very together kind of guy. That’s how I made it through life so far. Once in high school I was talking to my English teacher and was totally winging it and talking big and I even think I completely reversed my position on something but she just ate it up and thought I was a darling smart little thing. Usually nobody catches me but this time one my best friends was standing next to me – she was the smartest kid in school by far and everyone knew it even though she didn’t have the highest g.p.a. because she took unweighted non-gate classes like art for the fun of it – and she could barely keep herself from laughing because she totally saw what I was doing even though the teacher didn’t. I loved her because she was one of the few people who saw through my bull shit. There were others who tried to call me on it. They could tell I was just flinging up a smokescreen of words but they couldn’t actually see through it so even though they tried to call me on it it was never hard to just keep talking. This friend of mine though just ignored my nonsense, wasn’t phased by it at all. She always brought me back down to earth when I was in danger of believing my own pretentious lies. There’s no reason not to be dully honest with Emily but it’s pretty clear she’s expecting and wants cool answers, and I just hate sound banal.
“So talk!”
“You didn’t ask me anything” Unless I zoned out and she did and I didn’t hear her in which case I’m just came across like an even bigger freak than I actually am.
“Well yeah, but you know.., I’ve never met someone who’s out walking like you are. I don’t really know what to ask. I just want to understand what it’s like and why you’re doing it. I guess, just tell me your story.”
I’m trying, I really am. I think about what I told the therapist but none of that seems to fit here. I give the facts of the matter but they sound hollow and lame. There isn’t that much to explain. Somehow though Emily seems satisfied. She accepts that I just upped and ran. The tv is still on in the background. Commercials ad lib the gaps.
“I don’t really know what else to say.”
“I’ve thought about running away sometimes. Everyone wants to get out of this town though. It’s one of those small towns everyone is escaping from you always hear about. It really is like that. We all hate it, except for Kyrah – she’s our local and stereotypical little miss popular with just enough of a bad streak to keep everyone interested. She’s always going on about how much she loves it here. I’m pretty sure she’s lying. She just says that to be different.”
If this were a day dream we’d make out right now but instead we just pretend to be fascinated by an ad for deodorant. I think she’s waiting for me to ask her something. The only thing I can think of to say is “Do you have any plans, you know, for the future?” I hope that’s right.
“Do you have any plans, you know, for the future?”
“Yeah, well I’m taking classes at the city college. You know how that is, it’s more a glorified high school than actual college. Everybody from high school is there, except for the kids you didn’t talk to anyway because they were smoking out in the parking lot. I want to transfer somewhere far away and study psychology. Everybody says they’re going to transfer but only like two or three ever do. It’s a big joke but the grown ups like to pretend and we all go along with it.”
I don’t know what to say next. I went straight to a four year. I grew up in a smallish town but I was so out of it, so in my own world, that I didn’t even feel part of it enough to feel alienated. I could invite her to come along with me but I don’t want to.
“Hey, it’s getting late and you probably want to get a good night’s rest.”
I instinctively look up at the clock and she’s right. Somehow we’ve been talking for a couple of hours. It turns out the couch pulls out into a pretty comfortable bed with sheets and everything. I always have trouble falling asleep in a strange place. I’m pretty sure everyone does. It should all look the same when you close your eyes. But I haven’t closed my eyes. They’re roaming the room trying to pick things out in the dim light.
“Good night.”
“Night”
I still wonder what Emily was thinking when she invited me over like this, what she was hoping to get out of it. I also wonder what Jimmy was up to in his room all night, even though I know it doesn’t matter at all. And I wonder what he thought of his sister inviting me in. I’m just full of wonder tonight. Maybe I’ll ask her again in the morning. How do you say goodbye to someone who fed you and let you sleep in their home but you hardly know? Especially when you’re not getting in a car or on a train but just walking away. That’s really affected how I arrive at and leave places. It’s so slow and lingering. To really get away you have to stop paying attention for a while and then later suddenly notice you’re miles gone. It’s not that different from falling asleep in that sense, except that right now the blinking lights on the dvd player are keeping me up. I’m half inclined to program the time so it stops blinking. I ought to find a way of thanking Emily. I’ll say thank you of course. In my imagination drifters leave little gifts, like something they carved, behind as a token of their appreciation.
There. I programed the time on the dvd. It’s not a little carved mockingbird maybe but it’s all I got. I hope she notices it, though I’m pretty sure she won’t. Maybe a few weeks from now she’ll suddenly notice and go “Huh, who programed the time on the dvd? Ya know, it must have been that travel kid. Well isn’t that sweet. I knew he was good kid. I’m glad I let him sleep here that one night. I hope he’s doing all right. Maybe he’s made it up to where he was going by now.”
The Invitation
I’m not really sure how I got here. I walked into the first generic chain gas station I saw and asked for directions. The man behind the counter was pretty gruff and grumbly. It was fairly new and clean looking with the air-conditioning on way too high. The dude did not get what I was asking at all. I admit asking how to get the ocean on foot from a semi-middle-of-nowhere town is out of the ordinary but I don’t think I deserve head shaking and impatience just because I’m not giving adequate account of myself. I felt like a snotty prep school kid who had wandered into town to “interact” with the locals, which is a hollow feeling to have. I almost shouted “Dude, I’m an Indian.” Then this other guy got involved, boy really. He started giving directions. But then the dude behind the counter cut him off and said he was wrong and started giving completely different directions, even though ten seconds ago he didn’t understand what I was asking. They started arguing and looked like it was getting pretty heated but I couldn’t tell if they knew each other and it was jocular or if the dude behind the counter was going to blow and totally yell at this kid, who looked like he was in Junior High. But all of that is just a prelude, like the set up of a joke but more serious. While all this is going on I’m just sort of standing there. I remember thinking I should step in and sort out where the hell I should be going. I remember trying to think of a good dramatic line that would send them both into stunned silence and allow me to elicit the simple clear truth with my level headed questions.
“Jimmy, stop arguing.”
Instead this girl walked in and yelled “Jimmy, stop arguing” and the dude behind the counter just turned around he gave off that “shrug” attitude but I’m pretty sure he didn’t actually shrug. I started explaining myself to the girl because she seemed in charge, or at least to be a “with-it” type of person who had answers for perplexed and semi-lost travelers such as myself. (Yes, that’s how I was thinking of myself just then). She laughed. In my face. I’d never had anyone do that to me before. I’ve had people mock laugh me in the face and I’ve had people laugh at me before but I’ve never had anyone actually laugh me right in the face like that. I shut up just as quick as Jimmy had – who was now wandering around the little quick-mart picking up and then replacing every single item in the store.
“You’re seriously just walking?”
I nodded. I should have had a quick witty reply. I’ve been walking around for a week without much to think about and this was an obvious question I could have anticipated receiving eventually but I had no reply, not even the truth. So I nodded and then stumbled over myself trying to explain everything, but of course I wanted to make it simple and clean so I left out complicating details, but that just made it sound lame and lamer as I went on. She didn’t laugh a second time. I expected her too. The part of me that wasn’t being embarrassed was trying to figure out what I would do when she laughed at me a second time. She actually nodded kind of knowingly. It felt weird to be taken seriously. It felt good but then I felt silly for feeling good because I was feeling good that this random girl was taking me seriously even though I knew perfectly well that what I was saying wasn’t serious.
We talked some more and now I’m sitting at a kitchen table in her house about to be served dinner, I think. I’ve never been invited home for dinner by a stranger before. But that’s not the part that feels weird. I ran away from home and am walking to Oregon. It seems almost natural that strangers would invite me into their homes and feed me. My mind accepts, perhaps expected, that that goes with the territory. The weird part is that I said yes. It was a total “why the hell not” moment. If nothing else it’ll get me a free warm meal. While I felt good about saying yes back at the gas station, and I don’t regret it yet, I do feel a tad uncomfortable sitting here. Jimmy is in his room, playing video games I think. Emily – that’s the girl’s name – is in the kitchen making dinner. I’m sitting at the kitchen table, which is covered in crap, looking around trying to get my bearings. It’s a small house. The vibe is a cross between redneck and college dorm room, or at least that’s what I’m getting from it. I’m never really sure what to make of other people’s houses, how much or what to read into the décor and such. They often feel like sports fields for some game for which I don’t know the rules. I offered to help but it was pretty clear that there wasn’t much I could do in the kitchen. So I’m sitting at the table sipping awkwardly at a glass of water. It looks like dinner is going to be pretty simple, mashed potatoes, left over meat and veggies a la frozen aisle.
“Why did you invite me over for dinner?”
I wasn’t exactly invited over for dinner. I was, but that makes it sound like she asked a neighbor or a family friend. I’m a stranger, a random dude from the street, and a guy traveling on foot from who knows where to god knows where for unknown reasons. The girl must be crazy to just ask me over like this.
“Charity maybe? I dunno, just popped into my head and it seemed like I’d regret it if I didn’t.”
I hadn’t thought of myself as a charity case. I figured we were just two friends having dinner. I realize we’re not friends friends, seeing how we don’t really know each other. Friends the way everyone you go to college with – even if you don’t know them – is your friend and it’s ok to bum a cigarette off of them. I assumed Emily was part of the crazy underside of society, just like me. I didn’t take her as the pity and charity type. You read about folks who “don’t want to take no charity”. I always thought they were fools, take what you can get right? Especially when you’re down and out. I sort of resent being considered charity. I’ll still eat the food of course, no overblown sense of pride here, but I was enjoying it more when we were two kids, each crazy in our own way, who had come together for a nice meal. It be impolite to object but I do have an urge to say something. I almost say, “Well I appreciate it.” That would just clinche the whole charity dynamic and doom the evening to a really awkward dynamic. I actually want to start asking Emily about her life, what she does, who she is, but I can’t think of anyway to broach the subject that wouldn’t come across as creepy prying from the strange man. So I’m still just sitting here. Emily is busy with the cooking so the silence probably doesn’t bother her. If Jimmy had stuck around it would have felt less weird, but I can’t blame him for not wanting to talk to the random dude – who he probably already though was weird for requesting bizarre direction back at the gas station – his sister brought home. Video games is a much better option. If the video games had been in the living room instead of in his room I might have been able to casually strike up a conversation or joined him shooting aliens or whatever the way guys who date single moms in the movies always do.
“Right after I asked I realized how ridiculous it was and sorta hoped you would say no.”
“I can leave ...”
“No no, don’t be silly, unless you’re looking for an excuse to leave.”
“No no, I appreciate you having me.”
There, I said it anyway. It’s true, I do appreciate it. Now we’re going to have an awkward silence for a bit.
“Jimmy! Dinner’s ready!”
Saved by dinner I guess.
It’s not a very formal dinner. We all grab a plate, pile on food in the kitchen straight from the stove and then clear a little space for ourselves on the table. My plate ends up fighting for room against a stack of psychology books and some unopened mail. I expect Emily to apologize for the mess. My mother would go into overdrive whenever we had guests. She was always ashamed of how the house looked, even when it was spotless. She seemed to have this idea in her head that everyone else in the world was more formal and neat than we were, which as you can guess is the exact opposite of the truth. At the same time she was desperately trying to impress guests she also had a sort of disdain for them, as if they couldn’t appreciate everything she was doing. She’d often whisper mean-spirited remarks to me in the kitchen when I was helping her bring out the coffee and tea. Emily’s just eating, as if she’s completely forgotten I’m here. Jimmy is talking, a lot actually. Something about something that happened at school. It doesn’t look like Emily is listening, but I could be wrong and Jimmy doesn’t seem to care either way. It must be a brother sister thing. After a while I just focus on eating and it doesn’t matter that the silence and the strangers and the house feel unfamiliar and I have no clue what I’m doing there or what to say or what to do or what’s going to happen next.
“Jimmy, stop arguing.”
Instead this girl walked in and yelled “Jimmy, stop arguing” and the dude behind the counter just turned around he gave off that “shrug” attitude but I’m pretty sure he didn’t actually shrug. I started explaining myself to the girl because she seemed in charge, or at least to be a “with-it” type of person who had answers for perplexed and semi-lost travelers such as myself. (Yes, that’s how I was thinking of myself just then). She laughed. In my face. I’d never had anyone do that to me before. I’ve had people mock laugh me in the face and I’ve had people laugh at me before but I’ve never had anyone actually laugh me right in the face like that. I shut up just as quick as Jimmy had – who was now wandering around the little quick-mart picking up and then replacing every single item in the store.
“You’re seriously just walking?”
I nodded. I should have had a quick witty reply. I’ve been walking around for a week without much to think about and this was an obvious question I could have anticipated receiving eventually but I had no reply, not even the truth. So I nodded and then stumbled over myself trying to explain everything, but of course I wanted to make it simple and clean so I left out complicating details, but that just made it sound lame and lamer as I went on. She didn’t laugh a second time. I expected her too. The part of me that wasn’t being embarrassed was trying to figure out what I would do when she laughed at me a second time. She actually nodded kind of knowingly. It felt weird to be taken seriously. It felt good but then I felt silly for feeling good because I was feeling good that this random girl was taking me seriously even though I knew perfectly well that what I was saying wasn’t serious.
We talked some more and now I’m sitting at a kitchen table in her house about to be served dinner, I think. I’ve never been invited home for dinner by a stranger before. But that’s not the part that feels weird. I ran away from home and am walking to Oregon. It seems almost natural that strangers would invite me into their homes and feed me. My mind accepts, perhaps expected, that that goes with the territory. The weird part is that I said yes. It was a total “why the hell not” moment. If nothing else it’ll get me a free warm meal. While I felt good about saying yes back at the gas station, and I don’t regret it yet, I do feel a tad uncomfortable sitting here. Jimmy is in his room, playing video games I think. Emily – that’s the girl’s name – is in the kitchen making dinner. I’m sitting at the kitchen table, which is covered in crap, looking around trying to get my bearings. It’s a small house. The vibe is a cross between redneck and college dorm room, or at least that’s what I’m getting from it. I’m never really sure what to make of other people’s houses, how much or what to read into the décor and such. They often feel like sports fields for some game for which I don’t know the rules. I offered to help but it was pretty clear that there wasn’t much I could do in the kitchen. So I’m sitting at the table sipping awkwardly at a glass of water. It looks like dinner is going to be pretty simple, mashed potatoes, left over meat and veggies a la frozen aisle.
“Why did you invite me over for dinner?”
I wasn’t exactly invited over for dinner. I was, but that makes it sound like she asked a neighbor or a family friend. I’m a stranger, a random dude from the street, and a guy traveling on foot from who knows where to god knows where for unknown reasons. The girl must be crazy to just ask me over like this.
“Charity maybe? I dunno, just popped into my head and it seemed like I’d regret it if I didn’t.”
I hadn’t thought of myself as a charity case. I figured we were just two friends having dinner. I realize we’re not friends friends, seeing how we don’t really know each other. Friends the way everyone you go to college with – even if you don’t know them – is your friend and it’s ok to bum a cigarette off of them. I assumed Emily was part of the crazy underside of society, just like me. I didn’t take her as the pity and charity type. You read about folks who “don’t want to take no charity”. I always thought they were fools, take what you can get right? Especially when you’re down and out. I sort of resent being considered charity. I’ll still eat the food of course, no overblown sense of pride here, but I was enjoying it more when we were two kids, each crazy in our own way, who had come together for a nice meal. It be impolite to object but I do have an urge to say something. I almost say, “Well I appreciate it.” That would just clinche the whole charity dynamic and doom the evening to a really awkward dynamic. I actually want to start asking Emily about her life, what she does, who she is, but I can’t think of anyway to broach the subject that wouldn’t come across as creepy prying from the strange man. So I’m still just sitting here. Emily is busy with the cooking so the silence probably doesn’t bother her. If Jimmy had stuck around it would have felt less weird, but I can’t blame him for not wanting to talk to the random dude – who he probably already though was weird for requesting bizarre direction back at the gas station – his sister brought home. Video games is a much better option. If the video games had been in the living room instead of in his room I might have been able to casually strike up a conversation or joined him shooting aliens or whatever the way guys who date single moms in the movies always do.
“Right after I asked I realized how ridiculous it was and sorta hoped you would say no.”
“I can leave ...”
“No no, don’t be silly, unless you’re looking for an excuse to leave.”
“No no, I appreciate you having me.”
There, I said it anyway. It’s true, I do appreciate it. Now we’re going to have an awkward silence for a bit.
“Jimmy! Dinner’s ready!”
Saved by dinner I guess.
It’s not a very formal dinner. We all grab a plate, pile on food in the kitchen straight from the stove and then clear a little space for ourselves on the table. My plate ends up fighting for room against a stack of psychology books and some unopened mail. I expect Emily to apologize for the mess. My mother would go into overdrive whenever we had guests. She was always ashamed of how the house looked, even when it was spotless. She seemed to have this idea in her head that everyone else in the world was more formal and neat than we were, which as you can guess is the exact opposite of the truth. At the same time she was desperately trying to impress guests she also had a sort of disdain for them, as if they couldn’t appreciate everything she was doing. She’d often whisper mean-spirited remarks to me in the kitchen when I was helping her bring out the coffee and tea. Emily’s just eating, as if she’s completely forgotten I’m here. Jimmy is talking, a lot actually. Something about something that happened at school. It doesn’t look like Emily is listening, but I could be wrong and Jimmy doesn’t seem to care either way. It must be a brother sister thing. After a while I just focus on eating and it doesn’t matter that the silence and the strangers and the house feel unfamiliar and I have no clue what I’m doing there or what to say or what to do or what’s going to happen next.
The Road
I’ve been on the road for about a week now. Last night sucked. I couldn’t find anywhere good to sleep and ended up literally in a ditch. It was so cold I hardly slept. Mostly I’ve been pretty lucky. I’ve been so focused on walking and eating and sleeping that I haven’t spent much time just thinking. I still don’t know where I’m going. If this is what life on the road is like then it’s not too bad. I wouldn’t mind a hot shower but I don’t feel too icky yet. I plan on skinny dipping when I do. I’ve always wanted to go skinny dipping but never had the chance or the nerve to find the chance. I was playing “I’ve-never-ever” once at this girl’s birth day party and was surprised how many people had gone skinny dipping. I’m not sure it really counts if you do it alone – that’s more like just taking a bath. It seems like a right and proper thing to do in my present situation. (“Right and proper” always makes me think of “Dolce et decorem est”. Every time we talked about war in school I thought about white men attacking Indians and I desperately wanted those images to be feel personal but they never really did). I can see myself telling folks later “What did I do for a shower? I just skinny dipped in whatever river or lake I could fine of course, this one time I even sneaked into someone’s pool, they came home and I had to jump the fence naked.” I actually have a friend who sometimes sneaks into the jacuzzi of this really fancy hotel in town. I was invited to come along once but it ended up not happening that night, which was a relief to me at the time, even though I was always jealous when they talked about it. Now I’ll have skinny dipping out in public, once I actually do it of course. Not icky enough yet to make it worth it. Food has actually been the biggest issue. I’ve had to spend a little bit of money on food. I’m thinking I might try shoplifting. That’s another one of those things my friends do that I never have. My friends pull crazy shit. I don’t feel like I am the lame one though. They have crazy stories but they’re not crazy. I see a therapist. I’m the real kind of crazy. I once read that most, or at least a disproportionate number of, homeless have mental issues. I’m a statistic now! Except I’m not really homeless. I have a home, I just left. I even wrote home yesterday. Just a postcard to say I was alive. At first I didn’t want to send a postcard because then they could tell where I was. Actually, at first at first I was surprised that a tiny nothing of a town like the one I was in would have a postcard. It was a picture of their water tower. But then I realized that when they stamp the stamp it usually says the zip code it was mailed from so it didn’t matter and a postcard from a tiny nothing of a town with a picture of their water tower was just too good to pass up. I didn’t write much. I spent the whole day trying to think of something clever to write. In the end I went with “I write therefore I am.” Too many philosophy classes in college I guess. The guy at the post office read it and thought it was pretty funny. I don’t think they’re supposed to read the mail even if it is a postcard. Van Gogh and his brother wrote postcards to each other because it was cheaper than regular mail. They would write in English so the mailmen couldn’t read it. If I knew whatever the native language of my tribe was I’d write in that. My mother knows it a little but I’m pretty sure my dad is as clueless as I am. (My parents made me take French in High School because they thought it would be useful to me, as if I was some cosmopolitan elite. My pronunciation was good but my teacher was insane so I didn’t learn much. I hear all French teachers are crazy.) I thought about learning once but I wouldn’t have anyone to talk to so I gave up on it. If I end up at one of the reservations I’ll regret that – though almost nobody speaks it there anymore either. The English First people don’t have worry, they’re already winning anyway the racist bastards. I always get worked up when I read about racists in the newspapers. I haven’t actually faced that much racism myself. That’s not entirely true. I was always “the Indian”, not just Joseph, in High School. Most kids called me by name and all but whenever I did something extraordinary – both for good and bad – it was attributed to my Indian blood, or if there was no way to bend the stereotype to make that fit folks would see it as a repudiation of the stereotype. But I never had overt “I hate you because you’re an Injun” racism. Mostly cautious curiosity, which was worse in a way because I didn’t have an answer to it. I know very little about my Indian background. Racists I could dismiss but questions I couldn’t answer. Usually I changed the subject. I used folks’ fear of racism against them so they would be afraid to bring it up too much. Once in a while, and usually only with my close friends, I would make up an outrageous lie. I never told my parents about any of this. My mother would have probably sat me down and started telling me all about “our people”. Not that it would have helped. I never knew what to do with the few stories she did tell me. They were fine rattling around my head but I could never find a place for them at school. I’d sound like a pretentious freak if I actually tried to share them. Mother doesn’t have many friends. I know she sometimes tell her friends about Indian stuff but she always packages and sanitizes it. She has a really low opinion of her friends, especially with regard to how open minded they are and willing to try new things and understand strange concepts. The funny thing though is that sometimes she tries to make Indian stuff sounds more foreign than it actually is. “Well our people ...” and then say something that is basically universal to all humans, or at least fairly common in modern America. I always hate hearing her talk about Indian stuff to White people. I don’t really think of myself as Indian but I do think of others as White. When I overheard the Latinos in High School – and also, though less often, in College – talk about “that White boy” or “that White girl” I always smile and feel like I know what they mean even though I’m sure I don’t because they’re looking at White from an even greater distance than I am. Those migrant workers I saw yesterday would probably think I was loco for voluntarily taking to wandering like this. “Easy for a white boy to go on a journey of self discovery, we go on a journey to make a few pennies”. But I’m not the son of a yuppie going down to Mexico to build houses with Habitat for Humanity for a weekend. I ran away. They’d probably see the distinction as academic. For now I’m taking it as a tenet of faith that they’re wrong.
I’m starting to get tired of these fields. I had no illusions that I would be walking romantically in idyllic nature, but that doesn’t mean all I should get to see is brown grass. When the Inuit go on vision quests they go out onto the tundra where everything is white. The sensory deprivations, along with hunger and fatigue helps give rise to whatever it is they see. Dead grass isn’t doing it for me though. I think I’ll cut over to the coast. I’ve always had a love hate relationship with the ocean, but I haven’t been in a while. I was glad I was living by an ocean when I got my first girlfriend. Long romantic walks (and make out sessions) on the beach were pretty sweet. The only problem is I’m not really sure where I am, or which road would take me to the ocean. That’s been the nice thing about just heading north, it’s always easy to find north. It shouldn’t be hard to find a library of course. But, I’ve been avoiding libraries, too easy to check my email, the news, friend’s livejournals, that’s not running away that’s just voyeurism from a distance. I figured after I’d been out “in the wild” for long enough I’d lose interest in all that. But I don’t think one week is long enough.
I’m an idiot. I just realized I don’t have to go into a library. I guess I’m so used to finding information on my own from behind a computer without talking to anyone that I didn’t even think about just asking someone. I‘m an idiot. I haven’t really talked to anyone for a week except for a few automatic words at a store here or there. You hear about folks who spend time alone in the woods and then shout because they’re not used to hearing their own voice. I haven’t been miles from civilization or anything, mostly on well paved roads (or at least next to them) with cars zooming by in fact, so I should be fine, though I never was the type that enjoyed striking up conversations with strangers. I’ll ask at the next gas station or whatever. I wonder how I’m going to explain that I can’t take highways because I’m walking. Hopefully it’ll be a “don’t ask don’t tell” type of thing.
I’m starting to get tired of these fields. I had no illusions that I would be walking romantically in idyllic nature, but that doesn’t mean all I should get to see is brown grass. When the Inuit go on vision quests they go out onto the tundra where everything is white. The sensory deprivations, along with hunger and fatigue helps give rise to whatever it is they see. Dead grass isn’t doing it for me though. I think I’ll cut over to the coast. I’ve always had a love hate relationship with the ocean, but I haven’t been in a while. I was glad I was living by an ocean when I got my first girlfriend. Long romantic walks (and make out sessions) on the beach were pretty sweet. The only problem is I’m not really sure where I am, or which road would take me to the ocean. That’s been the nice thing about just heading north, it’s always easy to find north. It shouldn’t be hard to find a library of course. But, I’ve been avoiding libraries, too easy to check my email, the news, friend’s livejournals, that’s not running away that’s just voyeurism from a distance. I figured after I’d been out “in the wild” for long enough I’d lose interest in all that. But I don’t think one week is long enough.
I’m an idiot. I just realized I don’t have to go into a library. I guess I’m so used to finding information on my own from behind a computer without talking to anyone that I didn’t even think about just asking someone. I‘m an idiot. I haven’t really talked to anyone for a week except for a few automatic words at a store here or there. You hear about folks who spend time alone in the woods and then shout because they’re not used to hearing their own voice. I haven’t been miles from civilization or anything, mostly on well paved roads (or at least next to them) with cars zooming by in fact, so I should be fine, though I never was the type that enjoyed striking up conversations with strangers. I’ll ask at the next gas station or whatever. I wonder how I’m going to explain that I can’t take highways because I’m walking. Hopefully it’ll be a “don’t ask don’t tell” type of thing.
The Drinking Gourd
I expected to wake up full of doubt and second thoughts, maybe even some fear and worry, cold and achy at the very least. I’m already up and walking again. North. I have lots of reasons why north but I’m not going north because of any of them. The great thing about running away is that it’s not teleological; you don’t need a destination. I never went anywhere because I always felt that I needed a place to go. When I first got to college I thought to myself “I’m totally going to go out a lot, and go into the city, and do cool stuff”. But then I hardly ever did. It just never seemed to work out. I don’t think I’ve ever walked this much. That’s not right, I have. In junior high I was in this youth group. We went on a couple of over night hikes. We’d hike all day, sleep, and then hike all day again. I was only in the group for one year. I don’t remember why I left. I think I had fun on those hikes. Mostly I didn’t understand them. In junior high it felt like stuff sort of just happened. In know I took part in the planing of those trips and was out there with friends but when I was actually out hiking it all felt alien. At least it taught me a little bit about hiking – I’m no woodsman but I feel comfortable hiking. I have a friend. We worked at the same place one summer. But then she just took off. She called into the office one day to say she wouldn’t be coming in because she had joined this “Peace Walk”. It was actually an Indian thing – ironically enough. They were going to walk from the west coast to D.C. My boss was miffed. I thought it was hilarious. She didn’t last long though. Camping out every night was a too much for her. I think she came back after about a week, didn’t get her job back though. I know an overnight hike and doing it day after day and night after night isn’t the same thing but I have a feeling I can stand it. I don’t even have to keep walking. Nothing is waiting for me anywhere. Except I guess for folks back home. I haven’t given them any thought. I’ll send a letter, not like that kid from Into the Wild, that was plain cruel. This whole thing is nothing against them, actually it’s got nothing to do with them. They’re no longer part of this story; but I’ll still send a letter to be polite and tell them I’m still alive; that doesn’t have to be today though. I have a feeling I’ll forget to. In college I swore I’d keep in touch with people. It never really happened. Once in a while I got on a letter writing kick, the old fashioned kind. The romantic eccentricism appealed to me. It always petered out after a week or two. Sometimes I wanted to write but then I would have to confront the fact that I had let it slide for a few weeks and so it was easier at that point to just let it all go. I have no intention of staying in touch this time, just a polite letter to say I’m alive. I wish I didn’t even have to do that. Not out of spite, I wish there was something neutral I could do. I don’t want to have contact but no contact sends a message just as loudly. Fuck. I was running away because I didn’t want to be part of it anymore. I’m not going to go back though. I know it’s futile, impossible even, but I’m enjoying this just walking too much. I don’t know if I’m entitled. I’m probably not. I won’t say I don’t care and dismiss it all like an eight year old throwing a tantrum. I don’t have a justification, not yet. I’m not saying I’m going to find one or it’ll all end up all right or it’s just for a little while and then later it’ll all go back to how it was. I have no clue what I’m saying. I’m going to shut up for a while. I guess that’s like running away from my own thoughts. Kind of lame. At the very least I’m going to take a deep breath; I’m really tense.
I’ll write a letter. It’s no big deal. That’s the point.
I’m not really sure where I am. I know in general where I am, but I’ve never actually been here. I’ve driven north before but you take the highway then. On foot you take different roads. I wish I could say it was pretty and magnificent. It’s less dull than by car but not overwhelmingly so. I’m not even looking around me that much. Mostly looking down, not at my feet, a few feet ahead, just enough to know where I’m going, not enough to really get a sense of the road. A bit back there was a tree I stopped at. All around it the ground was covered with dead leaves, beautiful oranges and reds and golds. The tree itself was mostly bare but still majestic in a quiet way. I sometimes feel uncomfortable looking at natural beauty. I don’t know what to do with it. My sister would have taken a picture. To me that detracts. You should just enjoy it, not enjoy it as a good picture. I tell her that sometimes. But the truth is I don’t know what it means. I stared at the tree with the perfect dead leaves for a while but how long can you stare. It’s beautiful but static and I don’t know what to do with it and that makes me angry and anxious. I pretend there is quiet nobility, a Zen like enlightenment, in appreciating and then moving on. But I’m not sure I believe it. Not appreciating, I meant experiencing. That’s not right either. I don’t know what is – I guess that was my point. I think I’m getting a shin splint. I hate shin splints. Maybe I should just stop and camp here. It’s a rural road. I should be able to find a spot out of sight of passing cars. The lands just tall grass. In the spring it’s pretty and green (green and pretty would make more sense) but now it’s just dead and brown. I always wondered who owned all of this land and what they did with it. I almost never see cattle out here and it’s clearly not used much for farming. I still have enough food with me that as long as I make it to a town of some sort tomorrow I should be fine. When I drive past these kind of places I sometimes fantasize about pulling off and exploring. It’d be fun, as long as there are no gruff men with double barrel shotguns. For some reason though, I’m confident I’ll be alone. I brought a sleeping bag along. So far I haven’t come across anything I’ve forgotten to take along. If I were still at home I’d be sitting in front my computer right now doing nothing. I don’t know how I spend all my time. I guess I watch movies and surf the net and stuff, and just sit and stare off. I can spend hours doing nothing. I hate it. I’ll look up at the clock and realize I haven’t done a thing and it’s already two or five or 8 o’clock. My muscles tense and I want to hit something, break something, let the anxiety out. My brother gave me a microphone so we could skype. I broker it. I didn’t mean to break it. I didn’t think it would snap. That’s when I get up and take a walk. That helps a little. Or I get something done, like clean a little or take care of some errand or chore. That helps too. Nothing for hours. Just thinking about it I want to scream. Stupid computer. (Stupid me really, I just don’t understand where the time goes, what I do.) I also tried St. John’s Wort tea for a while, but I don’t think it did much. On of my friends called always called it “Happy Tea”. I wasn’t trying to be happy, just beat down the panic. Sometimes I wished I would panic and have a full blown anxiety attack. I figure then there would be something to do something about. Maybe that would be better than this eternal almost panic. Now I’m miles away from my desk and my computer and just sitting and staring. I’m lying on my back with my eyes closed. I’ll probably fall asleep soon. That’s fine. That way I can get up early again and keep walking. While walking today I thought I might go all the way up to Oregon, to the Wallowa Valley, it’s an Indian thing. It’s a long way to walk, and I’m not sure I want a goal. I’ll just leave it as a thought. I’ve actually been thinking less. A lot of today was just walking. Not even walking meditation but seriously just walking. It was nice. But now I’m afraid that I don’t have any thoughts of my own, that all my thoughts were just variations of my fears and anxieties. I might be ok with that, I’m not sure yet. Now I’m just getting introspective for the sake of being introspective, because that’s what your supposed to do when you’re alone out in quasi-nature running away from home. Omphaloskepsis. That’s the first time I’ve had a legitimate reason to use that word. I’ve used halos a lot, just like any college kid joking about sexual imagery and finding meaning that isn’t actually there. If nothing else that alone will have made this all worth it.
I’ll write a letter. It’s no big deal. That’s the point.
I’m not really sure where I am. I know in general where I am, but I’ve never actually been here. I’ve driven north before but you take the highway then. On foot you take different roads. I wish I could say it was pretty and magnificent. It’s less dull than by car but not overwhelmingly so. I’m not even looking around me that much. Mostly looking down, not at my feet, a few feet ahead, just enough to know where I’m going, not enough to really get a sense of the road. A bit back there was a tree I stopped at. All around it the ground was covered with dead leaves, beautiful oranges and reds and golds. The tree itself was mostly bare but still majestic in a quiet way. I sometimes feel uncomfortable looking at natural beauty. I don’t know what to do with it. My sister would have taken a picture. To me that detracts. You should just enjoy it, not enjoy it as a good picture. I tell her that sometimes. But the truth is I don’t know what it means. I stared at the tree with the perfect dead leaves for a while but how long can you stare. It’s beautiful but static and I don’t know what to do with it and that makes me angry and anxious. I pretend there is quiet nobility, a Zen like enlightenment, in appreciating and then moving on. But I’m not sure I believe it. Not appreciating, I meant experiencing. That’s not right either. I don’t know what is – I guess that was my point. I think I’m getting a shin splint. I hate shin splints. Maybe I should just stop and camp here. It’s a rural road. I should be able to find a spot out of sight of passing cars. The lands just tall grass. In the spring it’s pretty and green (green and pretty would make more sense) but now it’s just dead and brown. I always wondered who owned all of this land and what they did with it. I almost never see cattle out here and it’s clearly not used much for farming. I still have enough food with me that as long as I make it to a town of some sort tomorrow I should be fine. When I drive past these kind of places I sometimes fantasize about pulling off and exploring. It’d be fun, as long as there are no gruff men with double barrel shotguns. For some reason though, I’m confident I’ll be alone. I brought a sleeping bag along. So far I haven’t come across anything I’ve forgotten to take along. If I were still at home I’d be sitting in front my computer right now doing nothing. I don’t know how I spend all my time. I guess I watch movies and surf the net and stuff, and just sit and stare off. I can spend hours doing nothing. I hate it. I’ll look up at the clock and realize I haven’t done a thing and it’s already two or five or 8 o’clock. My muscles tense and I want to hit something, break something, let the anxiety out. My brother gave me a microphone so we could skype. I broker it. I didn’t mean to break it. I didn’t think it would snap. That’s when I get up and take a walk. That helps a little. Or I get something done, like clean a little or take care of some errand or chore. That helps too. Nothing for hours. Just thinking about it I want to scream. Stupid computer. (Stupid me really, I just don’t understand where the time goes, what I do.) I also tried St. John’s Wort tea for a while, but I don’t think it did much. On of my friends called always called it “Happy Tea”. I wasn’t trying to be happy, just beat down the panic. Sometimes I wished I would panic and have a full blown anxiety attack. I figure then there would be something to do something about. Maybe that would be better than this eternal almost panic. Now I’m miles away from my desk and my computer and just sitting and staring. I’m lying on my back with my eyes closed. I’ll probably fall asleep soon. That’s fine. That way I can get up early again and keep walking. While walking today I thought I might go all the way up to Oregon, to the Wallowa Valley, it’s an Indian thing. It’s a long way to walk, and I’m not sure I want a goal. I’ll just leave it as a thought. I’ve actually been thinking less. A lot of today was just walking. Not even walking meditation but seriously just walking. It was nice. But now I’m afraid that I don’t have any thoughts of my own, that all my thoughts were just variations of my fears and anxieties. I might be ok with that, I’m not sure yet. Now I’m just getting introspective for the sake of being introspective, because that’s what your supposed to do when you’re alone out in quasi-nature running away from home. Omphaloskepsis. That’s the first time I’ve had a legitimate reason to use that word. I’ve used halos a lot, just like any college kid joking about sexual imagery and finding meaning that isn’t actually there. If nothing else that alone will have made this all worth it.
The Hijra
It’s the middle of the night. I think I was dreaming. Someone’s knocking on my window. My window? When I was little I once thought I saw the dude from the “neighborhood watch” signs – the silhouette with the hat – pass outside my window. It scared the shit out of me, I couldn’t get the image out of my mind, I knew it couldn’t be real because it looked way too much like the dude from the “neighborhood watch” signs but I stayed scared for weeks and then when I thought I had forgotten about it popped into my head and scared me again. It’s three a.m. and someone is knocking on my window. Instead of actually feeling anything I’m laying in bed thinking about what I should be feeling about the fact that someone is knocking on my window at three a.m. Mostly I don’t want to have to get up because I’m warm; it’s more that I won’t be warm if I get out of bed. Still knocking, drumming actually, twice four fingers and then a pause, regular but not regular enough to be mechanical. It doesn’t have to be a person, plenty of birds and raccoons in these wild suburbs. It would be really cool if it was a person. In Tom Sawyer Huck stands outside of Tom’s window and mews like a cat when he wants him to sneak out. I always wished I had a friend who would do that. Of course, Tom sometimes didn’t realize what was going on so Huck had to resort to throwing gravel.
“Joseph!”.
Now that’s just creepy. Someone just called my name just as I was thinking about having a friend come get me to sneak out of the house in the middle of the night.
“Dude, wake up and get the fuck out here, I’m freezing.”
I know this is real but I’m still just laying here trying to figure out why I’m still laying here. I’m not afraid. The old Mission Impossible TV series always started with “Your mission, should you chose to accept it...” I always wondered what would happen if they said no. It’d be really cool to have one episode where we got see what the team did when they didn’t have a mission. It would also be massively boring, probably even worse than this past week I’ve spent at home with my parents.
“I know you’re awake. If you don’t get out of bed I’m ringing the doorbell and waking your parents up.”
I really want to get out of bed because I really don’t want my parents to be woken up by Joseph at three a.m. But, I sleep in my underwear. So what that it’s Joseph and I’m a college graduate and it’s three a.m.? I’m wearing briefs.
Why is Joseph rapping his fingers on my window at three in the morning?
“Dude, why are you rapping your fingers on my window at three in the morning?”
This insane. We might have thought something like this up back in High School. Except that in High School we couldn’t have pulled it off, parents n’all. I remember my second week away at college. I bought a graphic novel at the comic book store. It was either Ode to Kirihoto or Kapilavastu, I can’t remember and it doesn’t matter for this story anyway. This was one a Saturday. I bought the book around eleven. I’d slept in a little, had a nice breakfast, simple college Saturday, and then went for a walk. I happened to pass the comic bookstore on my walk. The whole thing was a free whim. Two blocks further up was this nice coffee shop. I got a drink – probably hot chocolate, with whipped cream of course – and sat and read for like three hours. I could just sit and read because no one was expecting me anywhere and when I got home no one was going to ask where I had been or what I had done or why I had spent money on some graphic novel. My parents were strict but not oppressive. I could have gone through these same motion three weeks before at home. It just felt good to choose to do it. We could pull it off now, this insane middle of the night prelude to an escapade. And I guess we are which is awesome, I guess, – I just wish I could remember why we would have thought something like this up back in High School.
“Jailbreak!”
Joseph actually answered me somewhere in the middle of that previous thought but I only just heard it. He said ‘Jailbreak!’ It’s the wrong metaphor. We’ve talked about that before, or at least outlined what a conversation about it would be. We’ve never talked about what happened back at college. I want to get up and close the blinds in a grand dramatic gesture then go back to sleep without a second thought.
“Sounds good but can we do it in like two hours when I’m actually awake”
In control, touch of wit, a nod to doing the ‘cool thing’ but still playing my cards close to my chest, and I don’t stumble over any of the words. Perfect. So this time I say it out loud.
“Sounds good but can we do it in like two hours when I’m actually awake.”
I don’t think Joseph was expecting that. I’m not sure what he was expecting. He can’t have expected me to actually get up and go with him right this second. He’s probably trying to figure out whether or not I’m serious. He’s probably cursing the fact that everyone can discern these fine distinctions except him. Except this is Joseph and he actually can.
“1.5”
He actually says one point five. Now I can’t tell whether he’s kidding or not. It’s like game of chicken except the drivers don’t know whether they’re in bumper cars or the real thing. I think he’s walking back to his car. I don’t want any of this. That just sort of hit me.
Once I’m up I’m awake. It’s actually easy. I’m probably forgetting something, sure of it actually, but that’s all part of it. In a way I’ve already planned all of this, not consciously consciously but it all feels familiar. There are a lot of things I could be worrying about. I’m not sure where to leave the note. My desk is messy, they may not find it. I could leave it on my bed, especially if I made it – they’d notice that. This is the other note I’ve always thought of leaving. “I Quit.” I like Qs. Joseph’s going to get a laugh out of this. I should send him a postcard from wherever it is I end up with this stunt. It’ll read “I Win,” that way quitters will be winners. Those would make good chapter titles for a book. I Quit could be the first chapter and I Win could be the last. I guess that means It’s a Tie should be in the middle. But this isn’t the middle. I can’t tell what it is. A lot has happened but I don’t know what to do with any of it yet.
I’ve never run away before. When people talk about how they ran away from home when they were eight – blankie trailing behind them – and made it all the way to the end of the block, I envy them. It would have been even better if I had tied bedsheets together and thrown them out the window and climbed down all stealthy, maybe right past the living room window. I want a two story house just so my kids will have the opportunity to do that. I have about as much an idea of where I’m going after I reach the end of the block as those eight-year-olds, but at least I’m not trailing a blankie anymore. There’s a great children’s book about running away and hiding out in a museum. But she had everything planned out perfectly. I’ve thought about lots of things lots of times but I honestly don’t think that running away has ever come up before. And yet out of all my crazy ideas I’m out here at about four in the morning trudging to nowhere with limp backpack. I feel good. I feel great. I feel a tad cold. My mind is still racing but none of it’s important. Wow. This is big. This is real.
“YAWP”, barbaric to the core!
Sleep would be good. Soon. Next time I should run away after a full night’s rest. Or at least a good nap.
“Joseph!”.
Now that’s just creepy. Someone just called my name just as I was thinking about having a friend come get me to sneak out of the house in the middle of the night.
“Dude, wake up and get the fuck out here, I’m freezing.”
I know this is real but I’m still just laying here trying to figure out why I’m still laying here. I’m not afraid. The old Mission Impossible TV series always started with “Your mission, should you chose to accept it...” I always wondered what would happen if they said no. It’d be really cool to have one episode where we got see what the team did when they didn’t have a mission. It would also be massively boring, probably even worse than this past week I’ve spent at home with my parents.
“I know you’re awake. If you don’t get out of bed I’m ringing the doorbell and waking your parents up.”
I really want to get out of bed because I really don’t want my parents to be woken up by Joseph at three a.m. But, I sleep in my underwear. So what that it’s Joseph and I’m a college graduate and it’s three a.m.? I’m wearing briefs.
Why is Joseph rapping his fingers on my window at three in the morning?
“Dude, why are you rapping your fingers on my window at three in the morning?”
This insane. We might have thought something like this up back in High School. Except that in High School we couldn’t have pulled it off, parents n’all. I remember my second week away at college. I bought a graphic novel at the comic book store. It was either Ode to Kirihoto or Kapilavastu, I can’t remember and it doesn’t matter for this story anyway. This was one a Saturday. I bought the book around eleven. I’d slept in a little, had a nice breakfast, simple college Saturday, and then went for a walk. I happened to pass the comic bookstore on my walk. The whole thing was a free whim. Two blocks further up was this nice coffee shop. I got a drink – probably hot chocolate, with whipped cream of course – and sat and read for like three hours. I could just sit and read because no one was expecting me anywhere and when I got home no one was going to ask where I had been or what I had done or why I had spent money on some graphic novel. My parents were strict but not oppressive. I could have gone through these same motion three weeks before at home. It just felt good to choose to do it. We could pull it off now, this insane middle of the night prelude to an escapade. And I guess we are which is awesome, I guess, – I just wish I could remember why we would have thought something like this up back in High School.
“Jailbreak!”
Joseph actually answered me somewhere in the middle of that previous thought but I only just heard it. He said ‘Jailbreak!’ It’s the wrong metaphor. We’ve talked about that before, or at least outlined what a conversation about it would be. We’ve never talked about what happened back at college. I want to get up and close the blinds in a grand dramatic gesture then go back to sleep without a second thought.
“Sounds good but can we do it in like two hours when I’m actually awake”
In control, touch of wit, a nod to doing the ‘cool thing’ but still playing my cards close to my chest, and I don’t stumble over any of the words. Perfect. So this time I say it out loud.
“Sounds good but can we do it in like two hours when I’m actually awake.”
I don’t think Joseph was expecting that. I’m not sure what he was expecting. He can’t have expected me to actually get up and go with him right this second. He’s probably trying to figure out whether or not I’m serious. He’s probably cursing the fact that everyone can discern these fine distinctions except him. Except this is Joseph and he actually can.
“1.5”
He actually says one point five. Now I can’t tell whether he’s kidding or not. It’s like game of chicken except the drivers don’t know whether they’re in bumper cars or the real thing. I think he’s walking back to his car. I don’t want any of this. That just sort of hit me.
Once I’m up I’m awake. It’s actually easy. I’m probably forgetting something, sure of it actually, but that’s all part of it. In a way I’ve already planned all of this, not consciously consciously but it all feels familiar. There are a lot of things I could be worrying about. I’m not sure where to leave the note. My desk is messy, they may not find it. I could leave it on my bed, especially if I made it – they’d notice that. This is the other note I’ve always thought of leaving. “I Quit.” I like Qs. Joseph’s going to get a laugh out of this. I should send him a postcard from wherever it is I end up with this stunt. It’ll read “I Win,” that way quitters will be winners. Those would make good chapter titles for a book. I Quit could be the first chapter and I Win could be the last. I guess that means It’s a Tie should be in the middle. But this isn’t the middle. I can’t tell what it is. A lot has happened but I don’t know what to do with any of it yet.
I’ve never run away before. When people talk about how they ran away from home when they were eight – blankie trailing behind them – and made it all the way to the end of the block, I envy them. It would have been even better if I had tied bedsheets together and thrown them out the window and climbed down all stealthy, maybe right past the living room window. I want a two story house just so my kids will have the opportunity to do that. I have about as much an idea of where I’m going after I reach the end of the block as those eight-year-olds, but at least I’m not trailing a blankie anymore. There’s a great children’s book about running away and hiding out in a museum. But she had everything planned out perfectly. I’ve thought about lots of things lots of times but I honestly don’t think that running away has ever come up before. And yet out of all my crazy ideas I’m out here at about four in the morning trudging to nowhere with limp backpack. I feel good. I feel great. I feel a tad cold. My mind is still racing but none of it’s important. Wow. This is big. This is real.
“YAWP”, barbaric to the core!
Sleep would be good. Soon. Next time I should run away after a full night’s rest. Or at least a good nap.
The Train
I don’t actually know how to get on a moving train. Indians usually attacked trains, not hop them, so my daydreaming schemes never covered this. In the movies they always through their bag on first and then run after it for a bit and somehow swing on. I think the train would be moving to fast here for me to do that. There’s no station for it to stop at. Sometimes they slow down to make less noise but I don’t think they do that at night. I’m also not sure I’d find an open boxcar just waiting for me. I can’t ever remember seeing one when I saw trains go by. So we’re just going to have to skip over the whole me getting on the train part and assume I managed somehow. Let’s call it beginner’s luck. It’s probably cold on that train, but luckily I brought my jacket. I should figure out which direction the train is going. West is toward the city. East is just east. I want to go east eventually. There’s more out there, a whole country. If you go west from here you hit the city and the ocean and that’s that. You can stare out across the ocean at the great expanse. Very expressive. Maybe I’d go to New Mexico. I’ve always wanted to go to New Mexico. Not because of the Indian thing, we’re not even from there. I wouldn’t be able to go to New Mexico directly. I’d take this train east for a while and then switch over to another, and maybe another after that. I’d try to settle and sleep. Not much of a view at night and I already know this area. The train would puff its way over the pass and then down to Sacramento. I’d have to switch trains there, I’d probably wake up as the train pulled in. Except the train yard isn’t in Sac but in Roseville. But there’s now way I could know that – unless I had planned ahead but the whole point of this is that I did it spontaneously – so I’d be confused as all hell, expecting Sacramento but only seeing sings that read Roseville. There wouldn’t be anyone around to tell me. If a bull saw me he’d arrest me so we can’t let any of them see me, a friendly bull is just too much suspension of disbelief. It’s a bit early in our story to introduce a fellow traveler. I guess I didn’t wake up as the train pulled in but a bit earlier while the train was rolling through Sacramento. I’d panic, afraid it wasn’t going to stop, and then scramble of the second it slowed down – which would be a right outside the J.R. Davis Yard in Roseville – like a wet kitten. Which would actually work out well because I’d be lost and hungry, both of which can be solved by having me get something to eat. If the author had a sense of humor he’d have me eat breakfast at a diner. It wouldn’t be a diner in an actual diner car, that would be way too much, best to leave that to David Lynch movies. So far it’s all been a bit too easy, but I’m only in Sacramento. There’s always that first bit of road trips when you could just be driving to the store or to see a friend that isn’t really part of the road trip. It’s especially bad when where you sleep the first night is relatively close to home. But I wouldn’t be sleeping in Sacramento, just eating at a diner there. Let me enjoy the diner a moment. I can smell it. I love the smell of grilled cheese sandwiches – that’s what I would have at the diner – especially when they’re not made with real cheese but that Kraft stuff and the bread is empty white bread. I’d also have black coffee, also for the smell, and for streak of heat going down to my belly because I’d be freezing after a whole night in a boxcar. The thing about diners is that they’re real. They really do exist like you see in the movies. There are fakes one too of course. Downtown there’s this really gaudy one with bright red and white booths. It’s awful. I’ve never actually been inside so I have no idea how the food is. I don’t understand how people can go to a place like that. I can understand wanting just a cheap burger but a place like that adds two bucks to the price for the gaudy look and the worst part is everybody knows it. They don’t even take the trouble to hide the fact that they’re faking it. It sort of makes sense with those pizzerias or Chinese restaurants. Looking like a copy is part of the MO. But with diners it doesn’t make sense; real diners still exist, with waitresses named Marge and everything. The best part about this diner would be the people. You’d have your regulars at the bar, catching up on the latest, downing a cup of coffee on their way to work. Some families would be eating breakfast together all family like. And I’d be in the middle of it all, a haphazard frazzled and dirty – but clearly not used to wearing dirt – traveler who’s barely knows where he is or what he’s going to do next. That would probably attract some attention. The waitress – Marge, she’s the older type with crinkly hair and over painted nails, not the younger sweet hooker smile type – would eye me over semi-suspiciously, but she’s seen enough to know I’m not dangerous, just hopelessly out of place. Eventually a girl sitting in the booth farthest from the door will get up and come over to me; I’m sitting at a table by the end of the bar. She’s a local, more curious than anything else. She was waiting for someone but he didn’t show, maybe a boyfriend? That’s a tad melodramatic. Better just make it a girlfriend. You’d expect her to be shy but there’s no hesitation, or if there is I was too oblivious to notice whatever hesitation there may have been. She’d probably tell me her name but I can’t think of any good names right now. She’d ask what I was doing there and I’d tell her about hopping a train last night and my plan to go to New Mexico and I’d be the cool one, maybe I’d even throw in that I was Indian. I wouldn’t tell her it was my first time. I’m not actually sure I could pull of being cool but with a story that good how hard could it be? It would have to end of course. I might want the conversation to go on and on and lead to more and god knows what but that’s just not going to happen. Her friend would show up. It’s the only way out, even though I’d be totally charming her, nothing seductive just friendly charming. I’ve been trying to rework the conversation in my head but it always ends there which is fine because I have to get to New Mexico anyway.
I wouldn’t ask the waitress where the best place was to catch a train going south. If this were a movie I would and she’d shake her head and answer kindly and I’d be suave and collected and sure. I’d probably just head back over the tracks and hope to find a good spot. If I were smart I’d buy some food and water for the road. But with the sun shining and it still being morning I’d most likely forget. More like I’d let myself forget because I didn’t have that much money left in my wallet, that’s a nice tragic hero tinge. Hopefully I’d fine a train quickly. It gets hot out there in the valley. Sitting by the tracks in the heat with dull scrappy grass would be a lot less fun than sitting by the tracks at night like I’m doing now. The whole trip south would probably be unpleasant. When you travel the length of California all you see are military bases, prisons and (illegal) migrant workers, a trifecta of sorrow – at least that’s what you see when you drive down the 101. Taking the Union Pacific through the valley would probably be different, though not different enough to make it interesting. It would be hot and itchy in a boxcar. I wouldn’t be able to really see the view, not that there’s a view to see in the valley. I guess that would mean lots of time to think, as if I don’t have enough of that already. I wonder if my thoughts would be any different hurtling down the central valley. Probably not. I’d start thinking about my parents but then force myself to stop. Maybe I’d actually think about what actually started it all. I don’t mean at first but after a few hours I might just because I had run out of things to think about. I’m starting to get a bit tired. I don’t want to fall asleep here. I don’t really have a choice but to head back to my parents’ place. Hopefully I can make it to bed without having to really talk to them. My dad is probably still awake, half waiting for me half getting work done he put off to be/deal with Mom. If it’s just him it’ll be fine. He probably doesn’t want to have to talk with me as much as I don’t want to have to talk with him, a weary truce. At some point I’m going to have to figure out what happens next. Right now I’m going to enjoy the walk home, even if it is through yellow street lamp light and past suburban lawns. I’m walking in the middle of the street, in the middle of the night! That’s got to count for something.
I wouldn’t ask the waitress where the best place was to catch a train going south. If this were a movie I would and she’d shake her head and answer kindly and I’d be suave and collected and sure. I’d probably just head back over the tracks and hope to find a good spot. If I were smart I’d buy some food and water for the road. But with the sun shining and it still being morning I’d most likely forget. More like I’d let myself forget because I didn’t have that much money left in my wallet, that’s a nice tragic hero tinge. Hopefully I’d fine a train quickly. It gets hot out there in the valley. Sitting by the tracks in the heat with dull scrappy grass would be a lot less fun than sitting by the tracks at night like I’m doing now. The whole trip south would probably be unpleasant. When you travel the length of California all you see are military bases, prisons and (illegal) migrant workers, a trifecta of sorrow – at least that’s what you see when you drive down the 101. Taking the Union Pacific through the valley would probably be different, though not different enough to make it interesting. It would be hot and itchy in a boxcar. I wouldn’t be able to really see the view, not that there’s a view to see in the valley. I guess that would mean lots of time to think, as if I don’t have enough of that already. I wonder if my thoughts would be any different hurtling down the central valley. Probably not. I’d start thinking about my parents but then force myself to stop. Maybe I’d actually think about what actually started it all. I don’t mean at first but after a few hours I might just because I had run out of things to think about. I’m starting to get a bit tired. I don’t want to fall asleep here. I don’t really have a choice but to head back to my parents’ place. Hopefully I can make it to bed without having to really talk to them. My dad is probably still awake, half waiting for me half getting work done he put off to be/deal with Mom. If it’s just him it’ll be fine. He probably doesn’t want to have to talk with me as much as I don’t want to have to talk with him, a weary truce. At some point I’m going to have to figure out what happens next. Right now I’m going to enjoy the walk home, even if it is through yellow street lamp light and past suburban lawns. I’m walking in the middle of the street, in the middle of the night! That’s got to count for something.
The Walk
You probably think this all about my parents but it’s really not. They’re like a dirty lens on a camera: not actually part of the picture yet they always show up. You have to take them into account to get at the real picture, but don’t pay too much attention to them.
The hardest part of taking a walk is deciding where to go. If I were a real Indian I’d wander out into the desert. The closest I can come to that is walking in the middle of the street. I had a girlfriend once who couldn’t stand it when I walked in the middle of the street. We were only together for a short summer. Especially when it’s night, like now, there’s no reason not to walk in the middle of the street. It’s not like there any cars on the road. I feel a lot more comfortable out here than on the sidewalk. When I walk on the sidewalk I feel like I am supposed to be going somewhere. You can’t linger because then you’re lingering in front of someone’s house and that’s just awkward. But out in the middle of the street you’re just a loon walking in the middle of the street. I could go down to that little park down the way but then I’d just freeze my butt off there. The truth is you don’t really have to think about where you’re going out here. All the streets feed into each other and you’ll end up at the nearest strip mall no matter what you do. I could try to consciously avoid major streets but the way these residential neighborhoods are built that’s nearly impossible. There’s a swing at the park. I remember when my first girlfriend broke up with me I spent a lot of time on that swing. That feeling you get when you’re swing really high and then come down and your stomach gets left behind felt right. Tonight I just want to walk, vision quest style.
I have this image in my head. It’s a generic move scene. The protagonist goes to a supermarket in the middle of the night. The lighting is really bright with maybe a blueish tint. You can hear the mmmmmmm of the fluorescent lights. The cashier is invariable bored, almost robotic. It’s supposed to be surreal, this bright orderly static space in the middle of the protagonist crazy night. I actually went shopping quite a bit at 3 a.m. when I was in college. I was awake and usually hadn’t bothered to get groceries for a while. I haven’t done it in a while though. I think one of the supermarkets near here is open 24-7 – that’s why the image popped into my head, I was thinking of what would be open at an hour like this. I always tried to chat with the folks working, as if we late night souls had some secret bond.
It turns out that it’s not the supermarket right by my parents’ house that’s open 24-7. It’s the other one. I have this problem that if I walk into a store I feel guilty if I leave without buying anything, as if by stepping inside I signed some sort of contract. When I leave without buying anything store it seems like store owners glare at me. Also, if I don’t buy anything I’m afraid security is going to stop me on suspicion of shoplifting. I don’t shoplift. A lot of my friends do, or did in college at least, but I never had the guts. I know it’s silly to be afraid of being stopped when I didn’t actually do anything and they wouldn’t find anything if they searched me but it still seems easier to just buy something so they see me going through the check out line. Of course now I’m standing in the supermarket and there’s nothing I actually need. The folks restocking the shelves probably think I’m some sort of freak the way I’ve wandered up and down ever aisle like three times. And the longer I stay here the greater the pressure to buy something. I can’t just walk out now, after spending ten, fifteen, minutes here, without buying something. What sort of looser walks into a supermarket in the middle of the night, spends fifteen minutes wandering around, and then leaves without buying anything? But if you saw the whole context you’d understand that it makes perfect sense. So I either have to buy something or go up to everyone in here and explain that I was out walking because I didn’t want to be at home with my parents (I don’t think I have to explain the all details of why, I can leave that vague) and I have this image of shopping at a 24-7 supermarket in the middle of the night but the one near my parents’ house isn’t open 24-7 so I walked across town to this one but I don’t actually need anything so I’m leaving again, even though I still don’t have anywhere to go except the desert but there’s no desert around here. Buying something is going to be a lot easier. A bag of trail mix would actually be nice. It would go along well with the whole vision quest thing.
I forgot how cold it was outside. I like it. I know I won’t soon but right now I like it. It makes me feel awake. I don’t even know what time it is right now. Probably not as late as I think it is. I want to look at my watch but that feels unpoetic so I’m not going to. I might break down in a little bit and look anyway but for now I’ll keep the illusion going. I’m staring at the “no loitering” sign. Does that constitute loitering? I’m bored. I’m bored a lot. Even when I have things to do I’m bored. In fact sometimes I’m so bored I flake on my responsibilities out of boredom. I always wonder how those people who loiter could have so much free time on their hands to just, well, loiter. I have the same question about stoop sitting and rocking chairs on porches. In movies when exciting stuff happens it never seems to interfere with everyday life. Sometimes they throw a bone to everyday life, shot of the kids or laundry, but only to make a point. No one ever says “I’d love to be part of that exciting adventure and all but I have a day job and a kid to feed and a dog to walk so could we maybe pull that crazy stunt later?” Of course in my case if later was the middle of the night I’d be ready to go. I haven’t been sleeping much lately. Not so much lately as since this whole thing began. So even though I’m bored and a bit cold I’m not really tired. I think I’ve been standing here in front of the supermarket for to count as loitering.
The only place in this town I really enjoy walking is the railroad track, very old school romantic, I know. Actually I like it because you can walk in a dead straight line and don’t have to think about where you’re going. It’s pretty junky, empty soda cans and dumped mattresses and stuff like that. Kids smoke pot under the overpasses and graffiti up the backside of the warehouses along the tracks. Most of them aren’t very good, just dopey tags. A lot of them are just sharpie. There’s this one of an octopus rising up above a jungle that I really like. I always wanted to meet who did it. I thought about leaving a note for them once. I don’t even know if graffiti artists revisit the “scene of the crime”, and there’s no way he – a she would be totally bad ass – would contact me just because of some note. I wish I could draw. It’s too dark now to see the octopus now, not pitch black – some yellow makes it here from the street lights – but not enough to make out any graffiti or much of anything else. I hope I’ll notice if a train is coming. They have massive headlights but you never know. I could put my ear to the track and try to listen for it, the way Indians do in the movies. I heard somewhere that that doesn’t actually work. If I don’t get out of the way they’ll probably think it’s a suicide. I wonder how that would make the cashier at the supermarket feel, to have been the last one to see me and all. It’s a popular way to commit suicide in Japan. They actually fine the family. The idea is to bring so much shame to the family in order to deter folks from committing suicide that way because it costs a lot of money and time to clean up and totally messes with the train schedule. I’m sort of surprised no one has been hit by a train out here before, with all the kids smoking pot by the tracks.
There is a third option, aside from getting out of the way and getting hit. Thinking there are only two options is called a false dilemma in philosophy. I learned that my first year of college in my critical thinking class. I could get on the train. I mean like hop the train, the way hobos do, or used to. Back during the great depression it was a common way of getting around. People who had no money just traveled around looking for work. I knew this girl in college who was always talking about hopping trains; I don’t think she actually ever did. I just realized how crazy of a thought it is. The hopping itself is only kind of crazy. Illegal and dangerous but whatever I’m young. It’s travel though. You have to prepare for travel, bring a backpack and supplies and vittles (I’ve always wanted to use that word and this is the first time it seemed fitting). It would be totally awesome if right now, as I was thinking all of this, a train showed up and I hopped on. That’s not going to happen; it’s too storybook like. But just imagine if it did.
The hardest part of taking a walk is deciding where to go. If I were a real Indian I’d wander out into the desert. The closest I can come to that is walking in the middle of the street. I had a girlfriend once who couldn’t stand it when I walked in the middle of the street. We were only together for a short summer. Especially when it’s night, like now, there’s no reason not to walk in the middle of the street. It’s not like there any cars on the road. I feel a lot more comfortable out here than on the sidewalk. When I walk on the sidewalk I feel like I am supposed to be going somewhere. You can’t linger because then you’re lingering in front of someone’s house and that’s just awkward. But out in the middle of the street you’re just a loon walking in the middle of the street. I could go down to that little park down the way but then I’d just freeze my butt off there. The truth is you don’t really have to think about where you’re going out here. All the streets feed into each other and you’ll end up at the nearest strip mall no matter what you do. I could try to consciously avoid major streets but the way these residential neighborhoods are built that’s nearly impossible. There’s a swing at the park. I remember when my first girlfriend broke up with me I spent a lot of time on that swing. That feeling you get when you’re swing really high and then come down and your stomach gets left behind felt right. Tonight I just want to walk, vision quest style.
I have this image in my head. It’s a generic move scene. The protagonist goes to a supermarket in the middle of the night. The lighting is really bright with maybe a blueish tint. You can hear the mmmmmmm of the fluorescent lights. The cashier is invariable bored, almost robotic. It’s supposed to be surreal, this bright orderly static space in the middle of the protagonist crazy night. I actually went shopping quite a bit at 3 a.m. when I was in college. I was awake and usually hadn’t bothered to get groceries for a while. I haven’t done it in a while though. I think one of the supermarkets near here is open 24-7 – that’s why the image popped into my head, I was thinking of what would be open at an hour like this. I always tried to chat with the folks working, as if we late night souls had some secret bond.
It turns out that it’s not the supermarket right by my parents’ house that’s open 24-7. It’s the other one. I have this problem that if I walk into a store I feel guilty if I leave without buying anything, as if by stepping inside I signed some sort of contract. When I leave without buying anything store it seems like store owners glare at me. Also, if I don’t buy anything I’m afraid security is going to stop me on suspicion of shoplifting. I don’t shoplift. A lot of my friends do, or did in college at least, but I never had the guts. I know it’s silly to be afraid of being stopped when I didn’t actually do anything and they wouldn’t find anything if they searched me but it still seems easier to just buy something so they see me going through the check out line. Of course now I’m standing in the supermarket and there’s nothing I actually need. The folks restocking the shelves probably think I’m some sort of freak the way I’ve wandered up and down ever aisle like three times. And the longer I stay here the greater the pressure to buy something. I can’t just walk out now, after spending ten, fifteen, minutes here, without buying something. What sort of looser walks into a supermarket in the middle of the night, spends fifteen minutes wandering around, and then leaves without buying anything? But if you saw the whole context you’d understand that it makes perfect sense. So I either have to buy something or go up to everyone in here and explain that I was out walking because I didn’t want to be at home with my parents (I don’t think I have to explain the all details of why, I can leave that vague) and I have this image of shopping at a 24-7 supermarket in the middle of the night but the one near my parents’ house isn’t open 24-7 so I walked across town to this one but I don’t actually need anything so I’m leaving again, even though I still don’t have anywhere to go except the desert but there’s no desert around here. Buying something is going to be a lot easier. A bag of trail mix would actually be nice. It would go along well with the whole vision quest thing.
I forgot how cold it was outside. I like it. I know I won’t soon but right now I like it. It makes me feel awake. I don’t even know what time it is right now. Probably not as late as I think it is. I want to look at my watch but that feels unpoetic so I’m not going to. I might break down in a little bit and look anyway but for now I’ll keep the illusion going. I’m staring at the “no loitering” sign. Does that constitute loitering? I’m bored. I’m bored a lot. Even when I have things to do I’m bored. In fact sometimes I’m so bored I flake on my responsibilities out of boredom. I always wonder how those people who loiter could have so much free time on their hands to just, well, loiter. I have the same question about stoop sitting and rocking chairs on porches. In movies when exciting stuff happens it never seems to interfere with everyday life. Sometimes they throw a bone to everyday life, shot of the kids or laundry, but only to make a point. No one ever says “I’d love to be part of that exciting adventure and all but I have a day job and a kid to feed and a dog to walk so could we maybe pull that crazy stunt later?” Of course in my case if later was the middle of the night I’d be ready to go. I haven’t been sleeping much lately. Not so much lately as since this whole thing began. So even though I’m bored and a bit cold I’m not really tired. I think I’ve been standing here in front of the supermarket for to count as loitering.
The only place in this town I really enjoy walking is the railroad track, very old school romantic, I know. Actually I like it because you can walk in a dead straight line and don’t have to think about where you’re going. It’s pretty junky, empty soda cans and dumped mattresses and stuff like that. Kids smoke pot under the overpasses and graffiti up the backside of the warehouses along the tracks. Most of them aren’t very good, just dopey tags. A lot of them are just sharpie. There’s this one of an octopus rising up above a jungle that I really like. I always wanted to meet who did it. I thought about leaving a note for them once. I don’t even know if graffiti artists revisit the “scene of the crime”, and there’s no way he – a she would be totally bad ass – would contact me just because of some note. I wish I could draw. It’s too dark now to see the octopus now, not pitch black – some yellow makes it here from the street lights – but not enough to make out any graffiti or much of anything else. I hope I’ll notice if a train is coming. They have massive headlights but you never know. I could put my ear to the track and try to listen for it, the way Indians do in the movies. I heard somewhere that that doesn’t actually work. If I don’t get out of the way they’ll probably think it’s a suicide. I wonder how that would make the cashier at the supermarket feel, to have been the last one to see me and all. It’s a popular way to commit suicide in Japan. They actually fine the family. The idea is to bring so much shame to the family in order to deter folks from committing suicide that way because it costs a lot of money and time to clean up and totally messes with the train schedule. I’m sort of surprised no one has been hit by a train out here before, with all the kids smoking pot by the tracks.
There is a third option, aside from getting out of the way and getting hit. Thinking there are only two options is called a false dilemma in philosophy. I learned that my first year of college in my critical thinking class. I could get on the train. I mean like hop the train, the way hobos do, or used to. Back during the great depression it was a common way of getting around. People who had no money just traveled around looking for work. I knew this girl in college who was always talking about hopping trains; I don’t think she actually ever did. I just realized how crazy of a thought it is. The hopping itself is only kind of crazy. Illegal and dangerous but whatever I’m young. It’s travel though. You have to prepare for travel, bring a backpack and supplies and vittles (I’ve always wanted to use that word and this is the first time it seemed fitting). It would be totally awesome if right now, as I was thinking all of this, a train showed up and I hopped on. That’s not going to happen; it’s too storybook like. But just imagine if it did.
The Session
I arrived early. My dad had wanted to drive me but I insisted on going alone. It almost erupted into a simmering fight but my mother shouted from the other room, something about ‘who cares about him anyway, just let him go’. I found it easily. I always wondered what was down that road. It was one of those small roads nestled in right by the freeway behind an on-ramp. The left side of the road was taken up by dark brown condos or maybe they were townhouses, and on the right was an office complex built out of dark wood and desperately trying to look friendly. I’m expected in suite 202 which is right next to a realtor’s office. I’m sitting in the car trying to find some humor in a realtor’s office being right next to a therapist’s office but I can’t come up with anything. I once saw a bar right next to a gun store. It was right next to where I was working at the time. I never went to that bar though. It would have been cool if everyone from the office went to the bar next door after work. I don’t think anyone from the office ever went to that bar actually. It was a bit too much cowboy, a bit too local color, for our taste. I also sometimes thought about going into the gun store. I wondered how it would feel to just walk in and say “Excuse me, I’d like to buy a gun please.” I’ve never even held a gun. I don’t even know if you need some sort of license or background check or whatever to get one. The therapist will probably ask me whether I’ve ever had suicidal thoughts. I’ll tell her about the gun store, and thinking about buying a gun. Everyone’s had suicidal thoughts. I’ve even thought about what my suicide note would say. “Whatever you think the reason, you’re wrong.” Having thought of a suicide note comforts me. Only about twelve percent of suicides leave a note – and most of those actually have something to say like confess a murder or reveal a secret. I don’t have any secrets worth revealing. So if I were a real suicide risk I wouldn’t be bothering with a note, at least that’s my thinking. I wonder what the therapist will say about it. It’s time to go find out.
The receptionist is nice, girl about my age. She has me filling out this form, questionnaire really. I think it’s some sort of standard psyche evaluation. I hate these things. For each statement you have to say whether you agree or disagree on a scale from one to five. It seems so arbitrary. “I have trouble sleeping”, sure sometimes, does that make it a four or a five? What would it take to make it a six? And then to confuse you they ask basically the same question but worded differently a bit later. I know they just do it to get a more accurate picture but I always feel like it’s a test, like they want to catch me lying. So I go back and make sure I give the same answer, which I guess is cheating but it’s a psyche test; they can’t expect the insane to give honest answers. I wonder if the receptionist looks over these things at all. It must be kind of odd to deal with folks who have problems all day, except never to really know what those problems are. She seems chirpy enough, so either she’s hiding her contempt for everyone in the waiting room or she just doesn’t think about it that much. In the interest of full disclosure I should point out that this not the first time I’ve seen a therapist. Once in college I saw the on campus counselor over in the pepto-bismol colored building. He was really nice. Everyone in college was really nice when I withdrew from all my classes that one semester. So I’ve been through this routine before, but I’m no expert or anything. I’m not a serial therapist seer. In fact this whole thing was my parents’ idea. I’m happy to go along with it, if it helps I’m all for it, though I’m not sure exactly what I’m supposed to get out of it, but it was their idea. And in case you’re confused this isn’t taking place the day after the lawn thing; they didn’t have the appointment already set up or anything. My dad made the initial call after we talked and then I called the day after that to set up the exact time and everything. I’m almost done with this questionnaire, it’s longer than the one they had me do in college. Then I have to fill out this second form, which is mostly insurance stuff. I always wonder where doctors get their magazines for the waiting room. Most of the ones here are about photography. There’s actually an interesting article about how to each this cool effect with moon shots through double exposure. Apparently two different people came up with independently of each others. Photography is cool. I remember reading Susan Sontag in college, and when I was in Junior High I actually learned how to develop pictures in a darkroom. But these magazines are all treat photography as yet another super expensive hobby. Homo Sapiens Suburbia is often portrayed as a mindless mass, but that’s not true, they all have at least on yet another expensive hobby to make them unique. Some of them are even kind of cool. I know this one guy who writes a blog about roller derby events in the area. He went to every single one and took pictures and wrote up a little report afterwards. He played the journalist in this little micro-culture of roller derby which is actually kind of cool if you don’t think about too hard. I’m so engrossed in this glossy photography magazine that I don’t hear my therapist calling me to come on back; she’s already in therapist mode, calling quietly, smiling kindly but with a hint of blankness. I wonder if she practices that. I think I would.
I don’t like her office, too much cloth. It’s like a mini living room, a couch and two comfy chairs. Curtains over the window make everything dark and diffuse. The light from the lamp is yellow. Off to the side is a desk, it’s incongruous with the rest of the office. I guess she wants to make the whole thing seem less clinical and put her patients at ease. I’d be more at ease in a real doctor’s office. This doesn’t feel serious. It’s as if I was sent to the nice lady next door who paints calming pictures to talk things over. I don’t want to talk things over I want someone to tell me what’s wrong with me. My greatest fear is that nothing is wrong with me. I can tell she is writing me off as just some kid with make believe issues, “the sensitive” one who over-thinks everything, probably a bit of a romantic or idealist, and believes “no one gets me”, but is mostly a whiny white kid. That’s not me. Honest. I tell her that. I tell her straight up that I know what she’s thinking but I’m not just here to have a therapist hold my hand and help me through my life. She asks me why I am here then. I try to explain about my parents. It’s hard. It never comes out quite right. It would be so easy to make them the villains and leave at that. I can tell she that’s what she wants me to do. She thinks it’s part of my condition that I can’t bring myself to lay the blame squarely on them and it’s her responsibility to liberate myself. I keep trying to explain, to capture the whole situation but no matter what I say it sounds like it’s somebodies fault and then I have to keep talking to exculpate them but I only end up blaming someone else in the process so I just keep going. I realize I probably sound mental the way I’m rambling on to her. She just sits there and smiles and takes notes. Aw, what the hell, it doesn’t matter if she gets it or not.
When I get home the first thing my dad wants to know is “Did it help?” I have no clue how to answer him. One session, and I’m not even sure how I would know if it helped or not. He desperately wants it to work. I can’t help but feel that he doesn’t so much cared about me being better but that he just wants me to be ‘fixed’ so I can get on with it all. Maybe that’s unfair. Maybe the distinction is academic. But, I have no idea how to answer him feeling like that. So I just walk out, again. It’s an awful thing to do. I wonder what my therapist would say about it. I have a hunch she would be proud of me. What is pride coming from someone I’ve only met once? Not really met even, “had a session with”. I briefly consider sitting on the grass again just in front of the house. If I could just sit there alone for a while and then walk back in, sort of erase the question… maybe I could hustle through the evening, sort of avoid talking to them for a while until I had an answer and knew where this was going. I’m halfway down the block already – there was no way I could have just sat on the grass alone, my dad would have been out there in a second asking what was wrong. When I was younger and cried because I was angry or sad or afraid or whatever they would always ask why and sometimes, you know, I didn’t want to tell them for whatever reason, maybe it was about them or maybe it was my own private thing, or maybe I felt they ought to know, and they always said “if you’re not going to talk about it then you have no right to cry so either talk or stop crying”. I hated that. I think sometimes I kept crying just because that hurt so much. – and I haven’t even thought about what my dad must be feeling right now, standing back at the house. Walking out like that was stupid. I had no reason, it was just a simple honest question. But I didn’t have an answer; I didn’t know what to tell him; I didn’t understand what was going on.
The receptionist is nice, girl about my age. She has me filling out this form, questionnaire really. I think it’s some sort of standard psyche evaluation. I hate these things. For each statement you have to say whether you agree or disagree on a scale from one to five. It seems so arbitrary. “I have trouble sleeping”, sure sometimes, does that make it a four or a five? What would it take to make it a six? And then to confuse you they ask basically the same question but worded differently a bit later. I know they just do it to get a more accurate picture but I always feel like it’s a test, like they want to catch me lying. So I go back and make sure I give the same answer, which I guess is cheating but it’s a psyche test; they can’t expect the insane to give honest answers. I wonder if the receptionist looks over these things at all. It must be kind of odd to deal with folks who have problems all day, except never to really know what those problems are. She seems chirpy enough, so either she’s hiding her contempt for everyone in the waiting room or she just doesn’t think about it that much. In the interest of full disclosure I should point out that this not the first time I’ve seen a therapist. Once in college I saw the on campus counselor over in the pepto-bismol colored building. He was really nice. Everyone in college was really nice when I withdrew from all my classes that one semester. So I’ve been through this routine before, but I’m no expert or anything. I’m not a serial therapist seer. In fact this whole thing was my parents’ idea. I’m happy to go along with it, if it helps I’m all for it, though I’m not sure exactly what I’m supposed to get out of it, but it was their idea. And in case you’re confused this isn’t taking place the day after the lawn thing; they didn’t have the appointment already set up or anything. My dad made the initial call after we talked and then I called the day after that to set up the exact time and everything. I’m almost done with this questionnaire, it’s longer than the one they had me do in college. Then I have to fill out this second form, which is mostly insurance stuff. I always wonder where doctors get their magazines for the waiting room. Most of the ones here are about photography. There’s actually an interesting article about how to each this cool effect with moon shots through double exposure. Apparently two different people came up with independently of each others. Photography is cool. I remember reading Susan Sontag in college, and when I was in Junior High I actually learned how to develop pictures in a darkroom. But these magazines are all treat photography as yet another super expensive hobby. Homo Sapiens Suburbia is often portrayed as a mindless mass, but that’s not true, they all have at least on yet another expensive hobby to make them unique. Some of them are even kind of cool. I know this one guy who writes a blog about roller derby events in the area. He went to every single one and took pictures and wrote up a little report afterwards. He played the journalist in this little micro-culture of roller derby which is actually kind of cool if you don’t think about too hard. I’m so engrossed in this glossy photography magazine that I don’t hear my therapist calling me to come on back; she’s already in therapist mode, calling quietly, smiling kindly but with a hint of blankness. I wonder if she practices that. I think I would.
I don’t like her office, too much cloth. It’s like a mini living room, a couch and two comfy chairs. Curtains over the window make everything dark and diffuse. The light from the lamp is yellow. Off to the side is a desk, it’s incongruous with the rest of the office. I guess she wants to make the whole thing seem less clinical and put her patients at ease. I’d be more at ease in a real doctor’s office. This doesn’t feel serious. It’s as if I was sent to the nice lady next door who paints calming pictures to talk things over. I don’t want to talk things over I want someone to tell me what’s wrong with me. My greatest fear is that nothing is wrong with me. I can tell she is writing me off as just some kid with make believe issues, “the sensitive” one who over-thinks everything, probably a bit of a romantic or idealist, and believes “no one gets me”, but is mostly a whiny white kid. That’s not me. Honest. I tell her that. I tell her straight up that I know what she’s thinking but I’m not just here to have a therapist hold my hand and help me through my life. She asks me why I am here then. I try to explain about my parents. It’s hard. It never comes out quite right. It would be so easy to make them the villains and leave at that. I can tell she that’s what she wants me to do. She thinks it’s part of my condition that I can’t bring myself to lay the blame squarely on them and it’s her responsibility to liberate myself. I keep trying to explain, to capture the whole situation but no matter what I say it sounds like it’s somebodies fault and then I have to keep talking to exculpate them but I only end up blaming someone else in the process so I just keep going. I realize I probably sound mental the way I’m rambling on to her. She just sits there and smiles and takes notes. Aw, what the hell, it doesn’t matter if she gets it or not.
When I get home the first thing my dad wants to know is “Did it help?” I have no clue how to answer him. One session, and I’m not even sure how I would know if it helped or not. He desperately wants it to work. I can’t help but feel that he doesn’t so much cared about me being better but that he just wants me to be ‘fixed’ so I can get on with it all. Maybe that’s unfair. Maybe the distinction is academic. But, I have no idea how to answer him feeling like that. So I just walk out, again. It’s an awful thing to do. I wonder what my therapist would say about it. I have a hunch she would be proud of me. What is pride coming from someone I’ve only met once? Not really met even, “had a session with”. I briefly consider sitting on the grass again just in front of the house. If I could just sit there alone for a while and then walk back in, sort of erase the question… maybe I could hustle through the evening, sort of avoid talking to them for a while until I had an answer and knew where this was going. I’m halfway down the block already – there was no way I could have just sat on the grass alone, my dad would have been out there in a second asking what was wrong. When I was younger and cried because I was angry or sad or afraid or whatever they would always ask why and sometimes, you know, I didn’t want to tell them for whatever reason, maybe it was about them or maybe it was my own private thing, or maybe I felt they ought to know, and they always said “if you’re not going to talk about it then you have no right to cry so either talk or stop crying”. I hated that. I think sometimes I kept crying just because that hurt so much. – and I haven’t even thought about what my dad must be feeling right now, standing back at the house. Walking out like that was stupid. I had no reason, it was just a simple honest question. But I didn’t have an answer; I didn’t know what to tell him; I didn’t understand what was going on.
The Lawn
I live in a sunny place with well kept lawns and friendly dogs, at least that’s how you would describe my town if you were writing a book. My name is Joseph, after Chief Joseph. I don’t really know who Chief Joseph was, except that he was an Indian. I looked it up once, back in high school, the year I was trying to be Indian. Right now I’m sitting on the lawn of my parents house. The grass might look soft but if you sat on it for a few hours you would know it’s actually prickly and not a great place to spend an afternoon doing nothing. The worst part isn’t the grass. It’s uncomfortable but you get used to that after a while. The worst part is the view. You can look at either grass, asphalt or the house across the way. I chose asphalt for most of the time. When I was little I had trouble falling asleep. I would stare at the ceiling. It was one of those rough bumpy ceilings. I always wondered why they made ceilings that way, instead of just smooth like any other wall. One summer when I was an intern at some library I stayed with this lady. She told me it was called a “popcorn-ceiling” and they used to do it conceal poor workmanship, but they stopped doing it as much. I helped her remove the “popcorn-ceiling” at her place because she thought it was ugly. You spray it with a bit of water and it all comes down in one great big mess. Staring at the asphalt reminded me of staring at the ceiling when I was little. I traced out imaginary patterns in the texture to keep my mind busy. It works for while but then it gets boring. Right now, I’m bored, and starting to get a little cold. The sun started going down about 10 minutes ago. I’d go inside but I don’t have a key. Do most grown children have keys to their parents’ house? I suppose I must have given mine back at some point, maybe when I went away to college. No wait, I never had a key to this house, they moved here after I had already moved out. I forget that sometimes. When they get here I should ask them for one, in case of emergency or something. Today isn’t an emergency. I’m not really sure what it is. This past week has been kinda weird. Some weeks are just like that. Now that I think about it, I feel like I’ve been saying that about almost every week “You know, it’s just been one of those weeks”. They always seem to know, or at least they pretend they do which is good enough for me. Sometimes I’m afraid that when I talk no one will understand me. That even though I think I am speaking coherently it’s actually all gibberish. I imagine everyone looking at me quizzically and thinking I’m some sort of crazy. Mostly I don’t think about it too much and so far every time I’ve tried to talk it’s all come out just fine. But still, if someone doesn’t hear me or understand me right of way I sorta freeze and almost panic. I guess that’s what this week has been like: almost panic. I like that phrase “almost panic”. And I like having that phrase. Coming up with a succinct encapsulating term is a very satisfying way to end the week. I can get up and go inside now. Except I can’t because I still don’t have a key. I sorta forgot about that. If this were a TV show my parents would come home right now, we’d exchange some heartfelt words and walk in together. Perfect ending for an episode. I wonder if it’s this cold on TV sets. My mother is going to scold me for not wearing a jacket. She’s right, except that when I left it wasn’t cold. But then again, I knew they wouldn’t be home till late. Well I sort of knew. They’re actually out looking for me. A teenager would call that ironic. I don’t want to think about what my mother will call it. I don’t really want to think about any of it anymore which is why I’m trying to trace patterns in the asphalt except it’s dark so you can’t really see the asphalt anymore. If this were a story I would be able to see the stars, I’d probably even know a constellation or two, maybe one my dad taught me when I was a kid. You can see a few stars, but no more than ten. I’m pretty sure there are supposed to be more than ten stars. I can’t think of any reason why it would matter how many stars you can see. Except for my Jewish friend. He needs three stars to start his holidays. He’s my best friend. His name is also Joseph, but not for the same reason. I always thought coincidence like that only occurred in books. Now I’m staring up at one of the few bright stars. It might be the north star, I really have no idea. Except, in a few seconds it’ll be covered up by a cloud. All day nothing but a simple blue cloud and now that I’m looking up there’s a measly cloud covering the one patch of sky I want to stare mindlessly at. I’ve always wanted to lay on my back and imagine clever shapes in the clouds. I don’t think I ever have though. Either there are no clouds or there’s just a blanket of clouds or sometimes just lame wisps – never those nice cotton ball clouds that turn into giant killer rabbits in your mind like there are supposed to be. I can’t see that star anymore so I’m looking for the moon but I guess it’s a new moon today or something. I must look like a freak sitting on a dark lawn craning my neck around like I’m possessed or have some sort of tick. The neighbors are probably thinking about calling the cops. Maybe they’re constructing some grand fanciful tale about me, about how I escaped from a mental institute and am now preforming a sacred pagan ritual. They won’t call the cops though. They’ll just shake their heads and get bored of gawking at me from behind carefully drawn curtains and go back to watching TV. I’m not sure how I would explain my presence if the cops do come. I’d want to make up a cool story, but I’d probably just stammer and try – and mostly fail – to explain that I don’t have a key and my phone and wallet are in my jacket which I didn’t grab on my way out and I walked here and I’m waiting for my parents who are most likely out looking for me which isn’t ironic but just stupid. On second thought, it’s probably better no one calls the cops.
The thing is though, I don’t really have an exit strategy for getting off this lawn except being dragged off, figuratively, by my parents. In a little bit I’ll have to say “O look, here they come”. I can hear myself saying it and I sound stupid. Even though I’ve been waiting here, waiting for my parents here, for hours I suddenly don’t want to be waiting for them. I don’t want to just stand up when they pull into the driveway “Hey Dad,” and saunter inside. I could tell them “I’ll be inside in a sec, go on in”, the way executives make people wait in the hall before a meeting to show their powerful. My parents wouldn’t get it though. And I’m cold.
They found me asleep on the lawn like some hobo. Sleeping outside, on the grass, under the stars, ought to be romantic. I’m just sorta cold and stiff and still mostly asleep when my Dad guides me inside like a bleary eyed lamb lost in the frost. By the time we reach the door I’m actually mostly awake again but I pretend to still be half a sleep so I don’t have to answer anything. My Dad probably sees right through it but he doesn’t say anything and pretends along with me. I collapse – well, play-collapse – onto the guest bed my parents made up for me. They sold my bed a long time ago. Tomorrow there will be a “serious talk” with my parents. I try not to think about it. I made a rule for myself once that I’m not allowed to think negative thoughts or worry about the future when I’m in bed falling asleep. It actually works. Instead of playing out possible scenarios in my head, thinking of the perfect come back, trying to predict what Mother will say, not just worrying but feeling what that conversations is going to be like I just concentrate on falling asleep. I know it’s escapism. But that’s the point of the rule. It’s codified escapism so you don’t even have to think about the fact that it’s escapism. I can hear my parents talking in the kitchen. I wonder if it’s about me. I always assume it is. I briefly consider sneaking about and listening in. Do all grown children regress this much when they’re in their parents’ house?
I don’t remember falling asleep and I’m pretty sure I didn’t have any dreams. I rarely dream. Or maybe I just rarely remember my dreams. Not that it matters one way or the other. I’m glad I don’t dream much – or don’t remember them, whichever it is –, I don’t enjoy recalling and thinking about the dreams I’ve had. I do sometimes wonder what I would dream about if I dreamed more. Probably nothing super interesting. Ok, I’m going to go to sleep now because my own thoughts are starting to bore me and no one likes listening to someone just drone on and on. Good night.
The thing is though, I don’t really have an exit strategy for getting off this lawn except being dragged off, figuratively, by my parents. In a little bit I’ll have to say “O look, here they come”. I can hear myself saying it and I sound stupid. Even though I’ve been waiting here, waiting for my parents here, for hours I suddenly don’t want to be waiting for them. I don’t want to just stand up when they pull into the driveway “Hey Dad,” and saunter inside. I could tell them “I’ll be inside in a sec, go on in”, the way executives make people wait in the hall before a meeting to show their powerful. My parents wouldn’t get it though. And I’m cold.
They found me asleep on the lawn like some hobo. Sleeping outside, on the grass, under the stars, ought to be romantic. I’m just sorta cold and stiff and still mostly asleep when my Dad guides me inside like a bleary eyed lamb lost in the frost. By the time we reach the door I’m actually mostly awake again but I pretend to still be half a sleep so I don’t have to answer anything. My Dad probably sees right through it but he doesn’t say anything and pretends along with me. I collapse – well, play-collapse – onto the guest bed my parents made up for me. They sold my bed a long time ago. Tomorrow there will be a “serious talk” with my parents. I try not to think about it. I made a rule for myself once that I’m not allowed to think negative thoughts or worry about the future when I’m in bed falling asleep. It actually works. Instead of playing out possible scenarios in my head, thinking of the perfect come back, trying to predict what Mother will say, not just worrying but feeling what that conversations is going to be like I just concentrate on falling asleep. I know it’s escapism. But that’s the point of the rule. It’s codified escapism so you don’t even have to think about the fact that it’s escapism. I can hear my parents talking in the kitchen. I wonder if it’s about me. I always assume it is. I briefly consider sneaking about and listening in. Do all grown children regress this much when they’re in their parents’ house?
I don’t remember falling asleep and I’m pretty sure I didn’t have any dreams. I rarely dream. Or maybe I just rarely remember my dreams. Not that it matters one way or the other. I’m glad I don’t dream much – or don’t remember them, whichever it is –, I don’t enjoy recalling and thinking about the dreams I’ve had. I do sometimes wonder what I would dream about if I dreamed more. Probably nothing super interesting. Ok, I’m going to go to sleep now because my own thoughts are starting to bore me and no one likes listening to someone just drone on and on. Good night.
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