All in Time Due ((Part 15))

Wow, so I’ve done it. I’ve rambled my way through 15 parts. That’s FIFTEEN WHOLE PARTS, man! Considering that each is probably estimated to be read in something like 20-30 minutes, that’s like 300-450 minutes. Or, in better, more understandable terms: somewhere betwixt.lol between 5 hours and 7 and a half hours. To me, that’s insane. I’ve written enough here to keep someone occupied, with events that have already happened in my life, for quite THE TIME. Also to me, this has all been so weird. I have always wanted to write, but had never chosen to make the plunge, to “take the plunger,” in STUPID TERMS. And boy do I know STUPID terms. I once lost a “word-off” with an ACTUAL MEDICAL DOCTOR, by way of the word avuncular. I didn’t know, at the time, like I know now, that the word essentially means OF OR PERTAINING TO UNCLES. Now THAT’S a burn, man. Quit being so avuncular, bro. Quit hogging all the younger chicks, you creep. Wait, what? But, getting back to the point, I have started writing. So started that I have amassed HOURS of reading. If I include the Terrorism and Surveillance series, which has been put behind passwords for now, I could very well be at like 10-15 hours of reading. And that’s just what’s posted here.

As mentioned elsewhere, and maybe even here, I have written many other things.

Now, let me get to beginning this ending. The point here being to detail the third installment in my discussions of adventure. At least I think that’s what it’s supposed to be. I DO know that this piece is supposed to be the second half of the whole Bodhi thing. I spoke before about how I met Bodhi and what we did the day we met. And in some ways, all the days to follow, too. I hadn’t spoken to him in about a year, maybe two. I don’t think I had his number. We had been conversing, once our last trip ended, via email. Mostly, our discussions involved us talking about how we were like the characters in Hunter S. Thompson’s Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. I hadn’t yet actually lived THAT story, give or take, with another wild character. Something like ALLEY CAT ZACK. How in the hell do I meet all these weird ass people? I guess weird really does attract weird. Opposites attract too. So, it’s opposites and weird. That’s probably ALL OF IT, man. At least everything that makes a person a person, anyways. So, Bodhi and I had had our fun along the Salton Sea some year or two before. I, being in Los Angeles again, THANK GOD, BRO, naturally, I emailed Bodhi. We hadn’t been speaking, as all conversations, no matter how much initial energy, must come to an end. If you love someone so much that all you want to do is talk to them. Well, there are definitely bounds on how exactly you can do that. Eventually, the all conversations must end.

INTENTION

AS A FISHBOWL

FULL OF HALF-LIVING

WORMS;

PEOPLE, TOO

all is well

So, in that year or so after, our conversations had ended. And, seeing as we never really know if we’ll see someone, anyone, again, we just essentially stopped talking. And this happens. With no offense to anyone. Call it ghosting in both directions. Eventually, it’s all ghosts. Man. What surprise. We responded. He messaged me back, somewhat quickly, noting his willingness to adventure again, to DO SOMETHING. I was camping north of the valley, not too far where I had met (and drank with) (and hugged over a charged conversation) Bob Camp. That’s the dude somewhat responsible for Wren and Stimpy. Talk about a way to spend New Year’s eve. I also ran into a dude who worked in a coffee shop in Tampa. My drinks were free, as some dude spent the whole evening trying to accost me via a sans-sobered mind, via thus too many drinks. I was not taking advantage of him, as he kept saying no strings attached. So, when a woman tells me about similar situations, I can certainly empathize. because, dude, I’m a dude. But, I’m a dude who happens to have a few more effeminate traits. I’ve been honked at on my bike, only to have the same (i.e, honking) offenders yell out “Dude, that’s not a woman!” Well, yeah. But that’s on you, stupid. Maybe you shouldn’t ogle ANYONE that way? Maybe that would help keep your fragile sense of manhood enough in place to prevent you from going ill-minded into a fucking grocery store. And, no, this is not a confession.

I happen, also, to be a pacifist.

And that’s cool. That’s cool. To wit, I had a cop buddy confirm that I am in fact like THE DUDE, from The Big Lebowski. And that is quite the compliment to me. It was funny, really really funny, when I, in turn, told him he looked like John Goodman. And, John Goodman having spent the majority of his acting career overweight, the cop-buddy replied, “You asshole.” And it was beautiful. It’s good to have friends in low places. Blue ones too.

As I write this, I am almost on the verge of tears. Here in this coffee shop. Sad, typical music plays sad, typical riffs; and it all fits all too well with how I am doing this here. I am writing, about a life so full of major events that I may as well give each month it’s own Hurricane Name. This was Bertha, like for real. I mean, I was in a trailer during Andrew in ’93, not even kidding, and it was hell. The trailer shook the whole night. And still, I was more afraid of my father. For he was a far more random storm. Still to this day, he rains on my parades. And that sucks. But, life is beautiful too. Just yesterday, someone, a buddy, noted to me that I tend to stay amused. I told him it’s because I’m happy. THAT was my gut response. And that makes sense. Because: I really AM happy. Dude. But, my life has also been shit. I’ve seen way too much in way too small a time frame. And this is mostly for most of my time frames. And that, to me, and so FOR ME, IS life. I’m a set of smiling googly eyes set elegantly atop a steaming pile of shitty events. It’s all so bad, in stench, that I can’t even tell you whether the whole thing is brown.

POOP

nevermind

Still, I bet it’s on your mind. By now, I get it. I can see my life for what it has been. Mostly, I would say that this is due to my FINALLY taking part in therapy. And boy am I glad I have done that. My therapist is a wonderful woman who doesn’t really see her own value. She’s a millionaire, at her spirit’s break. And this, even I don’t understand yet. I just write this stuff. Then, I leave it up to time to make sense of the whole thing for me. This TRUE, too, for my music. Sometimes, I’ll write a song, entire lines, only to understand it later. I’ll make clever quips all over the place, somewhere along the beneath my nose. Wow, I must be in one hell of a Shakespearean mood. And that’s really REALLY weird, man. Either way, I woke up looking at the mountains, like I had bought REALLY EXPENSIVE PROPERTY. But, I had only paid for the gas. I consider myself, in all of this life of mine, lucky. And by this I mean OVERALL. Locally speaking, doo doo doo doo doo … doo doo… Yeah, that’s piles galore. Now, what does ANY of this have to do with my seeing Bodhi again, after one or more years off from our friendship? I believe I was chatting on about Bob Camp when I got derailed. Oh, how fractal, and spoken, must my mind be, to venture so ugly in its path against the whole of other possibilities. Other people just choose the normal ones. I can’t even figure out what that means.

NEURDIVERGENCE

AS A SONG

PLAYED BACKWARDS

and so correctly

Within about a day or two, Bodhi was up there, above LA, camping with me. Inspired by our friendship, I was at full bore. Seriously, I was. I, after we had drank a bit of liquor, was going on about plans and what we could do with our time together, the very same time before I had to be back to teaching, for the upcoming semester. I was, at this time, and I guess many others, a TA. And this I was then. When we woke up the next day, something I will eventually get to, there were unintelligible note cards all over the place. All mostly my doing. From what we could make of these cards, we were headed to Mexico, like for real. Seriously, we had decided, to go to Mexico. And being fully grown MAN-CHILDREN, both him and I, we actually set out to do so. Two bums, setting out to speak a different language. As, I bet, many other bums have done. Once again, I’m typing at like 2.5 pages an hour. Why, again, did I have ANY problems getting my PhD? I didn’t. It was other things I had problems with. Still, it looks like whatever others think it is. And that never makes it right. By the end of this, I will tell a story. As always, it will take SO many roads to get there, most of them QUITE POINTLESS. Somehow too, there WILL be a story. We set out to do things nice and pretty, only to have them besmirched and searched by everything evil. And this too makes us. It’s the kind of making that made me hang out with what COULD amount to an ACTUAL OUTLAW.

Bodhi is an ACTUAL OUTLAW.

In his presence, I feel like I’m a cowboy, living in a much simpler, and therefore more chaotic time. If anything that’s what time does. I feel like a Gonzo journalist, like a rebel. I feel that my cause is a good one. And, if I had to venture at all, he feels, or at least felt, the same. When adult children get together, the amount of fun is only estimable by something of a Lebesgue situation. Too many jagged edges and discontinuities. Everything, when like for real, is just too real for ANY MATHEMATICAL DESCRIPTION. Fuck you, Godel. You ruined so much with your goddamn honesty. Either way, we were there that night, drinking, somewhere above LA, heavily, maybe even heavenly, frantically discussing everything and making foolish plans to visit Mexico, without ANY prior ACTUAL PLANNING. And this is what people like us do. In a way, this is a bit like WWTBSD, or What Would Taking Back Sunday Do. LOL. We had a fire, as we made these plans. We had so much noise. Bodhi, I’m not sure if I’ve mentioned this, is also a musician. he told me once about how his parents gave him the money to go to Nashville and he didn’t end up going. In a way, this is the kind of stuff that keeps me going. Bodhi, being a bit older than me, had the kind of stories that could lead me to not make similar mistakes. THIS is THE BENEFIT of seniority. Our elders, just by having taken more dumps/drugs, stand to teach us a lot about the world.

AN ELDER

STRUGGLING TO CONNECT TO THE INTERNET

AND THIS IS A GOOD THING

[ IMAGE OF BODHI, MUCH SHORTER THAN YOU’D IMAGINE HIM TO BE ]

An by this, I mean no offense. Bodhi is in fact of average height. I love noting this here, for pretty much everything I read aims to make pure angels of all good figures. And this, is not reality. I’m here to write reality, what a singular man experienced, as he put too many miles on everything, around him. So, Bodhi isn’t perfect. He is cool as hell, yes. But, he’s not an angel. He has bad stories too. Ones that COULD make you question following him, via your own charismatic tail, into another country altogether. but, I did it. I don’t care. I didn’t care then, and I certainly couldn’t have cared then. When the note cards had been fully utilized, when the fire left and the ink had virtually run out, we went to bed. he slept as he always did, in his truck, I think. I slept, no shitting whatsoever, on top of my car. I seriously did that. I felt that the Los Angeles air, ripe with just the right mix of pollutants that night, called for such a sleep. A weird and unfortunate sleep. The alcohol kept me up anyways, so it was like I ruined anything that night. I had two weeks before I had to be back and so like a week and a half to enjoy Mexico. Of course, I am so eccentric, in general, that I pretty much never get things like when the semester actually starts right. I didn’t get it right here either. I had one week left, not two. But, at this point, as I slept under the stars of Los Angeles, atop a BLAZIN’ BLUE subcompact, I wasn’t aware. I still had two weeks. And so we went.

IMAGE OF A MAN EATING BREAD

STRAIGHT FROM THE BAG

ON A BUSY HIGHWAY

like it was cool

AND SO IT WAS

Maybe the substances had everything to do with it, maybe nothing. Either way, it was fun. And, eventually, those things are gone. Like all things. But, for now, we woke up, solidified our plans, threw out most of the tattered cards. For, they made no sense. From what we actually could gather, we were headed to Mexico, via about the most uncomplicated route possible, and so as to see all of the coolest things unseen up to that point. I’m talking San Diego for the second time, and not attached to anything so official as the Veteran’s Administration. I saw parking lots so dirty that I figured them for hell itself. Maybe that really IS what hell is: a collection of the crummiest things in waking life. Like mosquitoes in some number too large to be true for real. A bit like The Everglades, I guess. That place sucks. I even chose to go at a reasonable time of year. But, having stolen a night’s worth of camping, I headed the next morning for a hike, to see some rogue gators, potentially, those big-headed green fucks. Well, about 200 yards, LOL, into a hike, I ran back to the car. My Lemon Keep the Bugs Away was a bit like nothing. These bugs were ALL OVER ME, and it sucked, so I ran, to where they weren’t were. What the hell, man? I’m in The Everglades now, and so you too are in the everglades now? Yeah. Deal with it.

We’ll get there, kids.

IMAGINING ICE TEA INSTEAD OF ICE CUBE

How many rappers ARE there with ICE in their name? And, will this increase as the world warms all us monkeys to a boiling pile of lifeless junk. You know, much like that Bing Crosby song. The lore goes that he was fed up with how hot it was during the holidays that year. So, he made that Chestnut song. Weird right? So, will THAT get worse with time? Hot, hot time. That’s right, time is now hot AF. Once again, deal with it. Your kids don’t matter. I wish they did, and they do to me, the whole future in fact, but to those who have all the power and therefore matter, yeah, to those bitches, nothing really matters. And, somehow, this is entertainment. To complain about life, as story. Such is about every rambling homeless dude on King Street. And, yes, I’ve met them all. I know their concerns, and so know them too.

[LOOKS AROUND LIKE AN ABSOLUTE CREEP

LOOKED UP THE WAYS TO TELL SOMEONE IS A CREEP THE OTHER DAY

AND NOTED THAT MANY OF THOSE ARE TRAITS I HAVE

I MUST BE A CREEP ]

My plan, like as of right this second, while it’s on my mind, is to NOT PROOF this thing. I will probably give it a ONCE OVER. Then, I will hit publish and let you deal with it. It’s not and never will be slop, so yeah, it’s already proofed above the norm, just because I went to school and read a bunch of books and have spent too much time being creative. Time Wealth is Freedom, and to this I am not kidding. That’s how it ACTUALLY BE. That’s how the Cookie Actually Crumbles. But, shit, how will I ever get this story to Mexico if I can’t leave all the philosophies and OTHER LOCATIONS somewhere else. So, forcing myself back into a more focused state, right, I could go on now about how our initial plan was to make San Diego, to park his car, and hop into mine. He drove a truck that got NO MILES PER GALLON, while my little Maxine only gets like 40-45 MPG. I’m not sure why, but that drive was magical to me, from LA to San Diego. We stopped at a coffee shop, my head on largely sideways, my brain reeling from having been drunk the night before, having taken [CONCENTRATED ANIMAL URINE] that very morning. Deal with it. Perhaps I NEVER want to work again. I certainly don’t wish to run out of cash, but, dude, I could totally go for spending all my time focusing on the gifts [OD gave me. “He” really can be cool as… Whatever. And this reminds me. As we drove south, I felt more free than I ever had before. I was headed into the PROVERBIAL WOODS with a NON-PROVERBIAL MAN. Wait, maybe he’s EXACTLY PROVERBIAL. He’s at least a shaman. His uncle was a real-deal shaman. Sounds like a decent dude, really. Bodhi, by association, and interest, happened to also become a shaman. Do people honk at people they THINK are shaman?

A SHAMANIC BIKE

$$ let’s leave it at that

ON SECOND THOUGHT

bike flies too

Here I am, some massive number of quick pages in, and we’re only in Sand Diego, give or take. Move on, dumbass!

As mentioned once by a cool student in my class: it’s not good to down-talk yourself. Eventually, we come to believe it. So, when your friends constantly call you something shitty, well yeah, that’s kind of like abuse. Come to think of it, abuse is like everywhere. Still, we made Sand Diego, parked his car, worried a bunch, imagined life ending because of travelling with some random averaged-height dude “from” LA. I mean he happened to be around when I emailed. Normally, he’s a bit more north of there. Kismet. But, who knows.

CONCEPTS, FLOATING, ABOUT

LIKE ACTUAL, PHYSICAL OBJECTS

HOW IT _REALLY _ _ ACTUALLY IS

QED, AND SO

DONE WITH DEGREE

At the time, I still had the dissertation hanging over my head. This was all probably 2016 or 2017. As suck, I wasn’t done. Intentional. Unintentionally, I wasn’t done with my degree. At that point, I was between teaching in the math department and being a consultant in the business department. It’s weird to think of what life can do to us. here I am now, somewhat MAKING IT as a busker. People are fond of my music, and more so my spirit. I’ve been tipped for the spirit alone, and the music too. As we headed from San Diego, across the dust that makes up everything between said Diego and a certain Texan [EXPLETIVE], somewhere far east of Big Bend but not so east that we couldn’t have added Big Bend to the trip without too much extra travel. Then, I may get to see the wandering Hipsters of Marfa. I’ve been everywhere, have noted the nature/condition of so many types. As such, I may be considered both well-traveled and stereotypical. As for this last part, I don’t mean it the way you think I might mean it. I mean the way people tend to be becomes stereotype, if only for the sake of exaggeration. People love to tell stories. And, for some of them, and some times, the stories are good. Hemingway probably got lucky a few times before becoming so HEMINGWAY that the books sold themselves. I’m not picking on this drunk for no reason. It’s very much the stories of such figures, prose so simple you’d need an excuse in order to NOT understand it, that lead me to live a life so STORY that even writing about it makes you/me feel like something of an archetypal cartoon character.

INSET CARTOON CHARACTER

INSERT THE EXACT MOMENT THE STUDENTS TURN ON YOU FOLLOWING A HARD TEST

INSERT THE REST OF THIS STORY

This reminds me, I once chatted with Katie, while still at the VA, Katie was cool, about how someday all stories will eventually be told, facilitating the use of vast story portions via symbology and language. In more relatable terms, I conjectured that, someday, we will invent a unit of story above the unit of word. Something like [INSERT THE HOMERIC HERO ARC] or [INSERT ROMEO AND JULIET, excepting this or that character, no matter how important]. As always, I’m rambling. Relevantly, but definitely rambling. Said every family member of mine. When I still had a family. Now, it’s math symbols, musical tones, and the here and there I meet along my-THAT chosen path. Once again, I am not planning to proof this too much. The details are here, no matter how slowly., The rest is just what happens when the instruments aren’t playing. It’s still music. Silence is still very much music. Deal with that too. Deal with the fact that Bodhi and I traveled via crummy motels and other notably bad camping spots to a place where I didn’t know the language. I barely understood the people. I knew they were Mexicans, but I didn’t have any way to think much further than that on the whole thing. I knew what Spanish my truant seventh-grade education taught me. I had about as much clue as a Spanish commercial about rented rims. Here’s to looking at you Rent-And-Roll, which apparently still exists, probably without the Mexican guy in the commercial talking about literally loving his new wheels. Dude, the wheels are the same. your rims ARE different, but yeah. Still, I don’t wish to sound like an asshole here. Notwithstanding calling cops by way/name of overweight actors.

“You asshole.”

Yup, that’s not the first time I’ve heard that one. Suffice it to say, I once walked into a store with the kind of problem, and approach, that made the employees say:

“But who the fuck are you?”

So, yeah, me and Larry David.

Bodhi and I, too. I learned, as we headed east, about how Bodhi struggled with certain mental health issues, me too. Mine clashed with his. My somewhat cold demeanor tends to clash harshly against to aberrant emotional states, and egos, of certain OTHER MENTAL HEALTH ISSUES. I’m not good with narcissist. They literally suck the life away from good-natured people, like me. Certain others tend to seek out those they can hurt the most. Kind of like the opposite of how it SHOULD be. That’s like 7 pages in under two full hours. What the actual. yes, we didn’t really get along. This, THIS, is what happens when you pick such weird people as friends. Weird often comes from certain deficiencies and differences in each individual. Thus, weird is often like water to oil. And, after a possibly brief period of time, water to water, oil to oil. Just like BACK TO NORMAL. Bodhi would get up earlier than me, I had done a lot of the driving, all of it actually, and so was tired and so had planned to wake up LATER. But, he wanted to move on with the day. He couldn’t understand. I couldn’t either. So, we conflicted. We weren’t fighting. Too, we’re getting along. Things were somewhere in between. Between LA and Mexico, at all times. By the time we made Texas, he had talked my ear off, had become the victim of so many offenders. I don’t blame him for this. Life can be VERY TOUGH for some of us. And, I assume his life has been tough.

I’ve learned to show a little give when it comes to the ways of others. I think, perhaps they’re having a bad day? Maybe their cat just… had to go to the vet for a problem with their foot, or their butt.

I AM LITERALLY LAUGHING IN THIS OVER-HALFLY OCCUPIED COFFEE SHOP

the expectation is NOT this

Happiness, in times of… times like our own, is viewed with exceptional skepticism. how can that person be so happy if not by way of heavy drugs? Have they not just raped a wild animal? How CAN they be so happy? Either way, I’m often HAPPY. So, people tend to see me as a bit of an asshole. In better times, happiness would lead others to listen to THE HAPPY, to take in HOW THEY BE LIVING. But, they ramble upon me, much like Bodhi did too. So, when he woke me up and otherwise disturbed/exhausted me, I moved on little by little in my mind, from ever speaking to him again. Such is the cold mind of someone so hurt that EJECTION is the ONLY handle. This, is not, to say, that everything was bad. Some of our conversations were great, led one or more of us to change for the better. To seek, even if just for this trip, the avoidance of ALL THINGS BAD AND EVIL AND INCONVENIENT TO A GOOD TIME. I thought for a moment about lower-casing those ANDS but [insert 50 commas] I don’t have the time to do something so pointless. Instead, I’ll write sentence about how pointless it is, thereby INCREASING the pointlessness of the whole. Life, IS pointless. So, play the guitar. And write stories. But, when you do, do so in a way better and more focused than me. I learned about Bodhi better than I had those years before. What was quick and nightly became weekly and learned. I LEARNED Bodhi. In spending time with anyone, this is what happens.

The plan, one outlined in drunken/scribbled ink, was to go deep into Mexico, to a place Bodhi had been several times before, a place among friends, where the cactus takes a form like no other. Where a certain group of HERE-FIRST Americans watched the sun rise so many times that a ceremony was eventually built around that event, the rising of the sun. Not too far from our plan’s location, one can find an actual spiritual location, a Mexican Church of a city, by the name of Real De Catorce. If this is not the spelling, then please move on. you know the place enough. The thing works. I could say, RE-AL, and most Mexicans might know the place. Once again, I have no clue. I just open my mouth and hope out not comes ALL THE OFFENSES. Hopefully, you won’t blame me too heavily for this. For, my ways. This place is playing too much 80’s music, which now sucks, because of Colorado. It sucked before anyway, so whatever. So, we were headed into Mexico, to make an album, a short collection of songs constructed for the occasion, and therefore for like a billion others. Of course, having a week less than for real, that album would not get made with me there. Maybe even outside of that. Did he ever make the thing? Did he even start? Did our falling out that morning, after a SPECIAL MEXICAN CEREMONY involving ACTUAL DANGER and OTHER POTENTIAL ISSUES, my break-necking it to a cheap hotel, at least in the American sense.

Before that point, before the last day I saw Bodhi, there was so much. There was the fear at the border, the offensive nature of Bodhi among certain relaxed Mexicans. A border-line fight over words, the phrase Green-Go. Whatever. I wasn’t part of it. I was just the guy with the eyes-as-portal for story, driving. Our border crossing was highly suspicious. They saw us as a couple of drug smugglers. And, come to think of it, they may have been on to something. Not because we were smuggling drugs, but because we looked like the kind of dudes who actually do that. Eventually they let us go. I feel, here and now as I type, that it just may’ve been Bodhi’s average height that helped us through the border. I mean, one tall dude. Yeah, whatever. Two tall dudes. Alright, I gotta ask: Are you headed into Mexico to start an illegal basketball team? I wish. Seriously, imagine THAT as your life’s aim. Imagine that being what you thought about EVERY SINGLE MORNING. By the end of my typing for hours WITHOUT BREAK, I’ll probably be so tired I can’t nap. Not even if I were under the cool sun of some vastly rural Mexican City. NOT Mexico City, but definitely something closer to it than Florida. And LA. We, give or take, were so far from home. Collectively, we were probably somewhere in the Gulf of Texican Tacos. Who knows whether each name will last even ten years. The Gulf of Uncertainty might be a better name at this point.

A MAN PROOFING A STORY

and it isn’t

THIS ONE

not even CLOSE

It’s 1 PM. Do you know where YOUR celebrities are?

Also, why does Cyndi Lauper sound so overtly New York? Was she born like in the most New York Bagel Shop possible? Either way, I once saw a video where she kind of ordered one of her bandmates to keep/stop playing. It all felt so much like LORDING that I find it hard to believe she’s ever been such a hard person to be around. Remember, we only get to know so much via the production we call super-stars. And, speaking of stars, there were so many of them in Mexico. This was before Elon Musk ruined the night sky. Before some other dude ruined America’s global standing. Sitting, under those night skies, I felt a sense of magic that I had not felt too many times before. I saw excellent flowers and trees, things that rejected nature’s light in the most elegant of fashions.

[INSERT THE REMAINDER OF RYAN’S FLORID DESCRIPTION

leaves of grass MEETS walden pond MEETS superbad

]

Conspiracy Theory: The government is playing shitty Voldemort music just to annoy me. I’m part of an expensive campaign to annoy Leftists into voting right wing. Backfires. Leftists end up become Upist. They find good, maybe even empathy. The others find, and therefore lacking in discernment, they find hate. And bigotry. Society splits. Good wins, eventually. As is ALWAYS true. Why do I know? Because BAD eventually decays the whole into the ground. The BAD FRUIT eventually ruins the whole tree. And so the tree produces no more fruit, neither good nor bad. The eventual death of everything. And since it’s all still here, I can vote confidently, in those concepts relating to everything eventually becoming good enough to survive. So, yeah, it’s possible “my” government is forcing high-expenditures on my behalf. All because they can. Which is to say, because I’m different. If I were the same, they’d put me in office. But, I am different. And so NOT IN OFFICE.

AVERAGE BODHI

HAVING A SPECTACULAR

YET VERY MUCH MEXICAN

SIP OF WATER

Sip. LOL. Think about everything THAT could include. Perhaps somewhere there’s a sip that takes the whole? An alien so thirsty from travel that they bake the world, just for the RIGHTS to the water. Guns, heavy ones, along the highway. Both paid highways and otherwise. Mexican guards, looking for banditos. I’m not talking about chips. I’m talking about bad dudes who, if only to present the world with an alternative, attempt to run an otherwise stable place. Mexico has a government. The banditos just happen to try and do the same. Something something, a monopoly on violence. Don’t read Toffler. Don’t do it. Please, don’t read Toffler. Now I’m sounding like John Lennon. Calm down, talk more about guns and Mexicans and searched vehicles and good times and exchanging cash with friction and having more potatoes than ever. That was the trip. We got along enough to make it. We had made it, in the dead of some random night, to Mexico. For the time being, we felt like travelers. We had made it to A GOOD TIME’S DOOR, where our expectations of fun had been placed.

I’M STILL FUCKING TYPING!

Like the feet of a flying unicorn, I’m flying along at the bottom of everything.

CONOR OBERST

having a more normal name,

instead,

My computer wanted to replace OBERIST with TERRORIST. You do the math.

So, we ate Mexican food, the real stuff, dealt with the water the best we could, avoided danger and terror where possible, and even managed to breach fun here and there. I can recall the first day. We went for a hike, trying to get my car up the side of a mountain, into the aforementioned magical city. It wouldn’t go under any semblance of responsibility. As such, we chose to leave the car and hike up to the city. Of course, we didn’t make it because I realize leaving my car was a good way to lose the car either/or all my stuff. Eventually, after the hike and dealing with certain hotel-related matters, some random Mexican woman having tried to break into my car while I was sleeping in it the night before, our first night in Mexico, Bodhi having chosen to sleep inside, me choosing to sleep in the car, glad I did. What a sentence. To HAVE to live. A more sensible group of men, more lacking in child-like qualities, would have just started in on the album, would have ACTUALLY MADE THE MUSIC. Not us. We, instead, did things like walk around a random city in the middle of nowhere, where most of the people were friendlier than I had ever experienced, certainly nothing like Texas. I bought a giant bag of decent fruit for like a dollar or two. The fruit was good, and lasted me a few days, a few cheap days. Here’s to hoping my NOT PROOFING this doesn’t make it unreadable.

WE CAN’T HAVE THAT

They’re still playing this stupid ass early-80’s music. Wait, this is just a recent song that didn’t move past that era. Good work. It’s not ALL THAT EASY to make something sound TRULY OLD. Don’t believe me, just try reliving a moment. You can use the old camera, some analog computer system from some BC era, etc. You WILL NOT succeed. You WILL live in the NOW. AKA, IMPOSSIBLE TO EVEN TRY AND RECREATE THE PAST. We went to Mexico. And, by the time I’m done with this thing, you’ll have some sense of what we did. You know about the fruit, the speed bump I may not have seen because it was DARK. I could delve into a myriad of stupidly minute details. But, I would ruin this thing. Stories, all of them, are in the details. You’ve met THAT person. Someone who can’t actually tell any stories. They botch the details. They can try, but to fail in the details is to fail in the whole. It HAS to be that way. We HAVE to move on. I HAVE to move on. Dolly Parton is gone, Tim Curry too. Eventually, if I’m lucky enough, I’ll have absolutely no clue who all these people on my TV is. Are. Who cares. TV, I must remind you, is a thing. There will be OTHER THINGS. TV will someday become old and everything with it will die, just like this series, with this piece. It had to end somewhere.

IT had to

As I left Bodhi behind, I didn’t feel great. I felt justified, for he had spent the night in a bit of a shamanic fit. One of the others there likened him to a BAD SHAMAN. Well, I can’t completely agree, but yeah, he wasn’t being so cool. In my case, he had taken to using guilt to get me to do things. And, as with anyone having this done to them, and having the wherewithal to see it, eventually, it began to annoy me. So much so, and to the point, that I eventually gave up on the concept of Bodhi. In thinking about it now, I was not exhibiting that much grace. I still don’t. But, it WAS justified to implement SOME distance, as we weren’t getting along. When a ceremony goes wrong, something just ISN’T RIGHT. Once again, there was so much in between. We had spent some time in a field, a few fields actually, looking for [BIRDS; YEAH IT WAS BIRDS, MAN]. Semi-chub. A frame sliced into a children’s cartoon. We had spent some time getting to know each other too, hanging out with some Mexicans HE ACTUALLY KNEW. Bodhi HAD actually been here. He HAD actually done what we were about to do. Before I left, that is. I was only there a few days. Bodhi, lacking his truck, still had to find his way back. His plan, the whole time, was to find his way back. To make that part of the album. In a way, and as such, this is why I chose to leave him in Mexico.

Now, now that you may perceive me as an asshole. Let me continue.

Like I said, I’m just being honest in my mouth’s opening. If I get it wrong, well. Then, I got it wrong. And that happens. Do I regret leaving Bodhi in Mexico? No. And here’s to hoping he doesn’t hate me for that. he WAS the type to host A LOT of rage and hate for the world. As with anyone who’s been treated like shit. Bodhi had been treated like shit. LA is not so kind to people like him. Something something, tourism. And dollars. And revenue. Etc. Now, what happened, besides our not exactly getting along, that would lead me to NOT LISTEN to his on-the-moment request to tag along, back to the border. This made sense, he too had had a weird night. He wasn’t right either. We were have a ceremony, not unlike the one we had before. But, this time, not in the US, and not, therefore, anywhere near the Salton Sea. We were in uncharted waters. He had been there before, but never in such a strange emotional state. I had just never been there before. I was ready for the ceremony. I felt that, unlike last time, I could truly handle the STAYING UP UNTIL SEEING THE SUN. I could do it. And this is why, our initial receptiveness and excitement, we were able to make it through about half of the night before. Before. Before things got weird.

At roughly halfway through the ceremony, a man comes up on a motor bike, blocks our ability to get out quickly. I believe, if I am inclined to do so, that they were merely protecting their investment. We were there, to have a ceremony, on their land, and they wanted SOMETHING for that. They were, Mexicans of Want. They didn’t have much, lived in ACTUAL SHACKS. Grew chickens and other plants. It was a scene man. Eventually, we would find that the arriving man, the motor bike operator, was nothing to fear. But, before that point, we had gathered and hidden weapons, modes of protection. We had experienced actual fear. Bodhi knew these people but had never experienced someone arriving in the middle of a ceremony. I had never even been to Mexico, outside of that one cruise that one time, which doesn’t even really count. And so hid, a metal pipe and a large knife. We were prepared, in the event that THINGS WENT TO SHIT, to defend ourselves. of course, we would never need to do any of that. Things were fine. It was our mental health issues that had caused the fear, not any actual dangers. Such is MOST OF LIFE. There’s what happens. There IS what is REAL. What a concept, some student has a teacher that had recently been in Mexico, had been scared of actual LIFE ENDINGS. The things we never know could make an ENTIRELY DIFFERENT WORLD. In ever neighborhood, there’s probably a criminal, give or take. Even the nice ones.

When one of the Actual Mexicans found the weapons, he had no choice but to become disappointing, to say “Ah, man.” Just as a hippie would to the same. It WAS bummer, it WASN’T right. In spite, however, we continued to enjoy their native company. Eventually, we talked about our fears. With the locals. But, the thing was never the same. How I went into it was not how I was into it, not anymore. Like a soldier in a foreign land, everything about them SO WEIRD, I just wanted to go home. I was having fun, in some strange adrenaline-based way, but what began as a ceremony quickly became two Americans and three Mexicans eating fruit under the stars, anxiously waiting for the sun to arrive, like it were some, you know, train that been like super-delayed. Like that. Bodhi went back to giving the ceremony, worrying a little less. At some point, he went on about his mother and father in Spanish, about his elders and everyone else. He cried and flailed, kicked dirt into his own eyes. he even put a coal in his mouth in what amounted to the more over-the-top parts of his shtick. Grids. Everywhere grids. Breathing rocks, animal sounds. No beaches. The man on the bike eating fruit like it was the last on Earth, like the stuff made you cool, just by eating it. Seriously, to this day, when I’m eating fruit, I do it, especially if I feel like it, just like that dude. What began as a dangerous situation became a good time with a bunch of people having mostly the same age.

AGE, AS A VESSEL

GIVING LIFE

TO ALL THAT CAN HAVE IT

Once again, I hated the stretch between the fun and the sight of the sun, along my eyes. It would, after all the coyote noise and STRANGE SHAMANIC BEHAVIORS, rise and hit our eyes, would facilitate conversations of having gotten that whole two-week thing wrong. I had to leave like the next day, at latest some two or three days out. But, given the scary, I was headed out. before, and in-on those hours to follow, B, we discussed what made us happy, how we envisioned our lives moving forward, how exactly we would overcome those things holding us back. We felt like we could take on the world, according to our words. We seemed like kings, bathed in the expensive lights of feudalism. We were revolting against safety, our former selves, against all that Hunter S. Thompson wrote. Once again, there’s the story and there’s what happens to us. Both are stories, it’s just that one is more accurate than the other. Here, the story is that two men, beginning somewhere in Los Angeles, California, set out to have/take part in a ceremony, in Mexico, with Actual, Real-Life Mexicans. That night was long, something like the length of a whole week’s night. Like seven nights at once. That was THAT night. The ceremony was largely the same as the one we had that night along the Salton Sea. The differences were all related to location and safety. Bodhi cried the same, and said virtually the same things. I guess his Mexican Ceremony is about the same as his US-Based-Californian Ceremony. I guess what soothes Mexicans in a ceremonial sense is about the same as what soothes Americans.

I WAS JUST MADE FUN OF

AND SO PLACED A NOTE

READING: “Kindness >> Judgement.”

LOL

Now, lest I begin to sound or become TOO OFFENSIVE, let me move on. You get it. We went to Mexico to spend two, no one, weeks, writing an album, having ceremonies, only to have one, just one, ceremony. No albums. Lots of fruit, some Mexican dogs of the street variety. A bunch of other Mexican things. Adventure. In spades. Essentially, I drove all the way to Mexico, to spend a few days in danger, danger of the most misunderstood type. Bodhi, for all I know, spent the next year of his life there. Last time I checked, he had made his way back to Cali, had experienced some trouble to follow. What a bummer. We were so elevated. Things were so promised. Things were also amok and emotionally unstable, but it was life and so we understood the bargain. Some things MUST suck. Leaving Bodhi in Mexico bothered me, especially considering that, as I left, Bodhi said “I feel sorry for you.” The implication being that he felt sorry for me for not being to mend-remedy things with someone I didn’t really get along with. Dangle. Yet again. I don’t know what HE felt as I left, but I guess that doesn’t really matter. As I type this now, I realize that I have not been discerning enough in my choosing those with whom I have spent my life. Friends, partners, all of it. It’s easier to keep things as they are, even when that means things aren’t going anywhere. Life, generally speaking, is about moving forward. And, sometimes, this means cutting some ties. Leaving some people behind. Recognizing bad fits. Seeing through those that HAVE serious fits. It’s not hope we should leave all this to.

HOPE

ah, fuck it.

I’m still cursing. I still can’t find a job teaching. I’m still playing guitar.

YES!

Either way, how in the hell do I end this? Where really does my life go when it’s close to over? AKA, where the hell will I be?

I’ve essentially told the story of two dudes driving to Mexico.

Call it STORY 151. INSERT STORY 151.

How pointless. We got there so quickly, to spend so little time, at such a great cost. Still, it was beautiful. I learned about what a looking glass is. I saw my own issues in Bodhi’s conduct. Not any of the wild shaman stuff, but the more normal mental health issues stuff. For some reason, that phrase litters my writing. I guess I really have had some problems. As I have written about my life here, I have learned so much. I’ve gleaned a bit about where I’ve been, how that made me feel, and, if you’re lucky enough to read between the lines, where I may be headed from here. This last part being most important to those who wish to destroy. as such, don’t. If you’re seeking to destroy ME, then perhaps you too should take a trip with a random stranger, should learn to leave others behind without making too much of a mess, to see yourself accurately. Projection, recall, is an admission. And some people can see it. I can see it, even when I know I should walk away from it. Just like this series, I MUST leave it behind. I MUST write about something else. And that leaves me bittersweet, and ambivalent. I’m always so up in the air. In the event that you were hoping for some giant 4th of July story here, let me dissuade you thusly. This is life, I’m writing life. And so, we go to Mexico, deal with a few minor issues, write about certain parts of everything, and put the best bow we can, atop. We climb atop our former selves, in an attempt to NOT EMBELLISH TOO MUCH, and take a stab at the past, all in a manner reading nicely to others.

Well, to hell with that. I came, I saw, I wrote. And this too, you should do. Your role in all of this has been to learn about yourself via my stories. My attempt has ALWAYS been this. The sun rose, at some point, and, happened to, made every day’s next. Make? I have no clue. When the sentences get too weird, there’s no telling what’s right. A sentence, upon its own energy, could end up anything. We begin with a letter, make a word, next a sentence, overall a story. Story: Bodhi and I went to Mexico, had a ceremony, saw adventure and misery, dealt with both dangerous and non-dangerous natives, all in the same people. Thus is perception. We get so much wrong, and that all becomes what we see. We see what isn’t there. We leave Bodhi in Mexico, per his original request, because we just couldn’t get along, but mostly because I felt that that was the best way to leave the situation. Had we traveled collectively to the border, again, we may have had an ACTUAL FIGHT. And that wouldn’t have been SO COOL. Hunter S. may NOT have approved. Wait, that dude THRIVED on conflict, as with all free-thinkers. So, he probably would have taken Bodhi along, might have tied him to the top of the car, ultimately as part of the bargain, whatever that means in this case.

So, what’s the point? What AM I writing about? Me. That’s it. And in this, I cannot make any promises of coherence or linearity. And this, of course, is how I will choose to end this entire series. With a whimper. The cold, stupid whimper of a Whoopee Cushion. Dear FBI, try better. Do better. Leave me alone. If you don’t have any good intentions, then say, and do, nothing more. if your mere existence makes the world worse then perhaps consider staying in bed. Consider NOT getting in the way of others. Leave behind, instead of making too much of your weaknesses and projections. If life were made of less friction, then we might just end up happy, as a matter of protocol. No one would need to ask me about why I’m so entertained, how I’m so content. It’s called happiness, and it’s possible in EVERYONE. I should know. Because my life has been shit. And because I always seem to find people like the ones sitting next to me now. Christians, full of judgement, almost completely lacking in ALL kindness. It really IS easier to hate than it is to understand. As such, I have chosen to ignore these ignorant [SNAILS?]. Well, mostly. And, in writing this piece, I have come to understand that I wasn’t necessarily THE DEMON in my relations with Bodhi. We didn’t get along. I didn’t HAVE to do as he said in order to be RIGHT or HAPPY. As I found in therapy:

I don’t need my abusers to get better in order for ME to get better.

I really can end up better than those that seek to drag me down. I really CAN do better. Can, learn from it all. And this is what I hope you’ve done here, in reading this series. I hope you’ve learned SOMETHING. ANYTHING, that CAN make your life better. Maybe it was that one thing I said that I don’t even remember saying at this point. Maybe THAT changed your life, caused you to be more like yourself, different, a writer. At the very least, I hope you’ve come to understand why I might be the way that I am. Sandra see this series as a memoir and I cannot really reject that null hypothesis. In writing about my life, I have accidentally started writing about my life. And this is: COOL.

Guilt. Insert guilt, at not finishing this the right way. Is there even a right way?

Either way, as I type here now, and as with all similar things, I feel compelled to write forever, if only to keep this feeling alive. it MUST dawn on me, though, at some point, that some things are best left where they are. Sleeping dogs should be left to lie, as (and for) they couldn’t tell the truth if they tried. And so we should leave them to be. I should leave Bodhi in Mexico, once and for all. Take what’s been learned, and leave the pills in the drawer. Move on. Goes, also, for ALL RELATIONSHIPS THAT HAVE ENDED. Move on. Maybe it’s just guilt, at anything, that keeps us in CERTAIN THINGS. I should have dumped Maria #1 in April, that one year. I should probably have NOT spent so much time listening to the ramblings of BAD PEOPLE. What did I learn there if not that people CAN SUCK. And I already knew that.

By the way, I have written something like 15 pages already today.

Maybe I’m just afraid of death?

Or, it COULD be that I, much like the baboons writing their name on those Parkway signs, entire boulders, inside caves; my will is merely to keep existing. And so this I will do. If I live fully and leave the right stuff behind, I might just stand to maintain/exude happiness, in an amount suitable to do the same for others. I can see it. END SCENE.

THIS goes out to anyone who’s ever lived.

Now fuck off.

PS — before doing so, please note some things:

You’re: beautiful, unique in places, and worthy of THE BEST life can manage.

YOU’RE BETTER THAN YOU CAN EVEN RECALL!

DOUBLE, WHAT WHAT, BLING BLING AKA PS^2:

I love you. Well, as much as I can without taking a trip to Mexico with you 😉

Proof Details: Less than 5 minutes. Hell yeah. Life is good.

To heck, with perfection.

AND

duh.