Writing Notes for the New Posts

Today is a day for working on the blog. I will finish some of the half-written posts that have been accumulating here in the secret regions of this blog in much the same way that the little handwritten notes accumulate around my desk.

The goal with this blog is to write some words for people to read, and to write at least one post a month. And even though I am behind on my one-a-month goal, I will get caught up. So thanks to everyone who keeps checking in, day after day.

Now I'll set the scene. I'm in the writing room. I got my guitars and other instruments in their cases and out of sight. The risk of distraction is too high. Sometimes I can see a guitar and walk away, but I don't want to test myself right now. But I will put on some music, as a way to satisfy the musical part of my mind. I've selected the The Pizza Tapes, which feature a power trio of the acoustic world if there ever was one: Jerry Garcia, David Grisman, and Tony Rice. As I sit here writing, I can see Marley in the hall to my left. The December sun is shining in from the window to my right. The music is turned up pretty loud, but it's coming in clear.

Sometimes it takes some searching to find the right music for writing. Most of the time I like to work in silence. But there's a joyful feeling in my bones today. I've reached a good point with my books where I'm happy to take a break, and I know I won't feel too guilty setting my words down in some pages that are not book pages.

I have already started going through notebooks and photographs and calendars to see what I've done and the order in which it all happened. When I started this process of looking back, I felt shocked: all the photographs and all the missions that have happened just in the last few months. There's many details in my mind and in my archives. But I'm going to try and go through and pick out some from here and there, and then set them down. I'll try to include some photos too, because I've gotten some requests.

Well, time has passed. The posts are coming together. I'm into my third listen of The Pizza Tapes. And now I'll pour some coffee from my vacuum flask and go back in my mind to the happy month of June, when the East Coast lands that I call home were very green, and the sweat of summer was thick upon my brow, and I was doing what many people in the world were doing: watching soccer and thinking about life.

Flowing Through November (And Writing In The Car)

Now the flow has taken me forward again. And I can stop and look back at November. November came and I had to start planning for the holidays and the traveling and the time with family and friends. It's like this every year for me. Between Thanksgiving and Christmas there's about a month. There's a lot that happens in those holiday days. And I get excited, but I have to remember the flow and stay focused so that I can get my writing done and also get some other things done as well.

It's not good to waste too much time. A lot of good can come from only one or two hours. Not everyday can be an all-day writing day, but I've learned to write everyday, even if it's just a little, so that I can maintain the flow and the momentum.

But this November I came up with a new invention: car writing. Now this would not have been possible without my brother's help. Thank you Chris. Around the holidays there's lots of traveling to be done. Drive one place that is a couple of hours away, and that's a couple hours of writing that gets done. Driving somewhere else, and that's another couple hours. This adds up. The pages add up. I am happy.

Now my typewriter was not the right tool for the job. So I used my laptop, which is still quite new and has a good battery life. My writing seat in the car is usually the same: the back right seat. Sitting there I am away from Chris and less of a distraction. When I'm writing, there's the sound of my fingers working the keys, and the expressions on my face, and even sometimes little blasts of vocal delight that come out as I'm writing.

The first time I tried some car writing, it went very well. Of course I took some necessary steps that I knew would help me maintain the flow. I wore headphones or earplugs. I wore a hat with a brim that I wore down low to minimize my view of the world. The trick was not to get too excited about the sunlight and the road, but rather to stay inside that page.

And then there's the beer. The beer is there because I don't want to get motion sick. The hot acidic flow of vomit is not the flow my laptop needs. I do get car sick if I'm not looking around. And I've thrown up on boats before. But then I learned of a simple cure. All you have to do is have a few beers. Two or three is all you really need, unless you're out longer. I always thought the beer would make it worse on the boat, but then I tried it. It worked so well. And I haven't gotten motion sick on a boat since. So before I hop in the car with Chris, I drink a beer or two. Then I hunker down and work.

As for the actual act of car writing, many of my books are about my travels on the roads of America. And so there's a natural and good feeling to be felt when I'm on the road and writing about the road.

And so it goes--flowing through November, writing on the road, writing at home, getting into that warm and cozy state of mind which is the holiday-state-of-mind. You know what they say. It's a good life if you don't weaken.

Safe travels and happy days,

Jeff

Flowing Through October (And Some Words about Writing)

I'm looking back on October. "On October," I say to myself. "On October," the sound of the words. It's easy to get stuck in one thing, one moment, one day. But thoughts can flow, if you let them. And I'm going to work with that, and get into the flow, and write about this past October and some of the things that happened and whatever else I might get into.

October is just the name of the month. What I really want to talk about is what happened in this little chunk of time: 31 days of living. You can do a lot with a whole month. I learned this long ago. You can travel thousands of miles. Or you can write hundreds of pages. But it's hard to do both at the same time. I write as much as I can when I'm out there on the road--and some good stuff often pops up when you're out there in the heat of the moment--but as far as productivity: it's hard to beat a long line of all-day writing days. That's when the really good stuff seems to come.

October was a month for writing and it was also a celebration month. It was one month after I finished my big 100 Days of Writing project. Day 100 happened on September 16. I worked as hard as I could that day and I reached the last sentence of the book that I was writing. That moment was a happy moment to receive in the brilliant solitary quiet of a late night at the end of a marathon writing adventure.

My 100 Days of Writing had been very productive. Now I had all this great writing momentum behind me. I kept writing. I was writing my way into the later half of my third book. Then Jake flew to the East Coast. He arrived on October 1. I picked him up from the airport. He asked me about my 100 Days of Writing while we were driving in the car. And before I knew it, he was recording what I was saying with a video camera. One take. I felt like I got it. But I wondered about my hair. Was it perfect? Probably so, but how would I know without a mirror. No, don't worry about that, just trust Jake, I thought.

Jake had arrived at a great time. We planned a big New York City adventure. It was exactly what we both needed and wanted. There were things to see and write about, and Jake was excited to take photographs. No bikes for us. We walked around Manhattan. We drank beers in McSorley's. There were friends to meet! Slices of pizza to savor! And part of me wished that I was still back in my 100 Days of Writing--so I would be able to write about what Jake and I were up to in the city. And maybe I still will. New York City is a great place to write about in a book. And being the writer, I can do whatever I want. Add some extra innings even after the 100 Days is over. Why not? Or maybe when I look back, it won't really fit. There's different ways to write about moments from the past. It's up to the writer.

What am I talking about here? It's really about the flow. The flow in life, and the flow in writing. It feels good to be so excited about life that you feel like writing about it. I've been alive for many years. And I've been a writer for over five years. Writing, by now, is very natural, just like living. I wake up in the morning and I do it. And maybe I take a break from writing and go to New York City. That's okay. Going to New York City is living, and living is research for writing. That's the thing with writing: it's tied up so closely with living. And why not? The full-time job that you end up working is a big part of your life. It's not your whole life, of course, but it's a good chunk.

And so, today, I'll do what I've been doing, and what I plan on doing for the rest of my life. I will get myself to my writing machine (I'm working on my book on the typewriter right now) and I will write. I will look at where I left off, and then I will continue writing. And I have my mantras. I've written mantras on little yellow pieces of paper that are taped where I can see them on my desk. These words bring me great comfort when I see them and say them: "Tell the story. Go in order." It's very simple and yet it is enough. Tell the story. Okay, I will. What's happening right here? Well, I'm pressing keys that make digital letters appear in a window that Google's engineers have made so that people can write their blogs. And right now, I'm not worried about what I'm going to write next. Because the flow is strong right now. I know where I'm at, right here and right now, and I know where I started. I started--we started--with October and the idea of looking back. And in the looking back, I saw all the writing that was there. And now that I'm writing about writing, there's been a shift (and I'm going to have to go back up and maybe add a subtitle to the title of this particular post).

And now I've jumped down to a new paragraph. Maybe the last one. I'm still not worried at all. If you write with fear in your heart--what good will that do? Readers are smart. Readers can see what's going on. People sense things. Confidence is king when you're laying it down on the page. Move forward with confidence. The typewriter has taught me many things about moving forward and keeping the flow going. The typewriter teaches. The writing days teach. A writer always has something to learn. You never get to the top. You just keep climbing. Steady progression. Look around. Might as well. Let the beauty fill your lungs so that you will balloon up, good and full and inspired, and then you'll be able to see what's going on right now and you'll also be able to see the options that are there when it comes time for forward movement. Tell the story. Go in order. I know this story, the one right now. I know it and I love it, and I will not be afraid to set it free when the time comes. Like I said, writing feels very natural to me, just keep the flow going, tell the story and go in order, tell the story and let it happen. One sentence ends, the next begins. One book ends, start another. Your life becomes your life because you live it. I'm lucky to have a job that brings me so much joy, hour after hour and day after day. Tell the story. Go in order. Okay, there's writing, and then there's joy, and then there is more writing. And then there's love--I've hardly written a word that hasn't come from my great lifelong love of writing. And of course there's the flow. And if you rise up and meet the flow, then the flow will take you where you want to go. The end.

On the Bus, On the Road

Well it's about time for a post. I've been a little behind with the posts, as you may have noticed. But my excuse is a good one: I've been working hard and writing a lot. Except I haven't been writing here on the blog--which is pretty much the only place you can read my words right now, as I'm still searching for a publisher for book 1 (if you have publishing contacts in the narrative nonfiction world, please email me).

Anyway, jeez, where are my manners. I shouldn't start advertising before I set the scene. At this particular moment in time, I am on the bus, on the road, literally writing as this bus is headed south from 33rd Street, New York City, to Penn Station, Baltimore, and with the free wifi, and all my writing/traveling energy, I've decided to end another blog hiatus, and write some words for the world to read.

Of course, you must realize that I will soon go back and complete the past posts for July and August. I started a few, but never got around to posting them. So, in the future, there will be new posts that are below this one, which might be a little confusing from a reading standpoint, but I'm not worried. You all are smart and I know you can handle it.

Yes, I'm feeling very relaxed now. Party because of the last three big days of writing in New York City, but also because of the fact that I happened to get very lucky and was able to finish a crazy sprint (with backpack and beard bouncing and all pockets jangling), a sprint across the city, which put me on this bus (the Bolt), just one minute before the driver headed out. I knew it was going to be close, but that was awesome.

The reason for my crazy sprint mission across the city: I had been down at Ground Zero, observing and remembering and talking with some people. Today was the ninth anniversary of September 11, 2001--yet another day that has sadly gone down in infamy.

So, being in the City, I felt I should go down to where the Twin Towers fell and pay my respects. Near Ground Zero, there was a building set up as a World Trade Center tribute/visitor center. It was a tremendously powerful and sad exhibit to walk through--as was seeing all the people, out on the street, and all the uniformed Fire and Rescue people, and the Police people, and all the cranes with the flags flying half-mast on their down-hanging crane cables. It was a special place. I had to linger. I had to buy a beer, and stand in the doorway looking out at the cranes, and sip slowly as I thought about death and life, and life and death, and the island of Manhattan (which means a lot to me and millions of others) . . . and then, I looked down at my watch--oh no! My bus was leaving in twenty minutes and I was so far from my bus! Time to run! Sprint to the Subway, grab the first uptown train, and hope for the best.

And I made it. And I think when I write the whole thing out (which'll be in the book version, of course), and explain exactly how I made it, it'll make you smile. For now, you'll have to trust me.
The city certainly made me smile. I decided on Tuesday night to take the bus from Baltimore to New York City so that I could stay in the City and work. I left on Thursday morning and spent Thursday, Friday, and Saturday (today) in New York City, mainly Manhattan. I got a lot of work done, and now I feel good, especially because this bus has an electrical socket by which I can power my laptop/writing machine. I will be able to write the whole way back to Baltimore. I hoped I could do this. And now I am happy. I picked a seat with a working socket. You never know with buses.

Now is the perfect time to head home. My camera batteries are just about done (I hardly ever let this happen, but it felt right today). My food is gone, no more sandwiches. My cash is gone. I have a little coffee and that's about it. I will hydrate later. I will eat later, and bathe later too. But now, I must write!

(Written and dedicated to all New Yorkers, past and present, and especially all Emergency Service Workers, on this, the 11th day of September, 2010.)

Reclaiming The Dream (My First March)

The day was August 28, 2010. If you know your history, you know that August 28 is a special day. This year was the forty-seventh anniversary. Forty-seven years since August 28, 1963, which was the day of the March on Washington for Jobs and Freedom. Forty-seven years since Martin Luther King, Jr. gave his "I have a dream," speech.

It was a Saturday and I woke up early, very early. They were calling for big lines at the metro stations. The '63 march was being talked about for weeks and weeks. A new march was scheduled. I was going to go and march with my friend Debbie and all the thousands of others. This 2010 march was called the Reclaim The Dream March. It would be my first march.

Another event was planned for the same day. It was a rally of conservatives, happening not on the mall, but actually on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, a bold very move by the conservatives. Of course no one group of people owns the history of America. It's there for all of us. And although I did not agree with the talk and viewpoints of these conservatives, they were entitled to gather and say what they wanted. The conservative speakers who were going to broadcast their voices on this day were not in the White House. I was comforted by this. Times have changed.

But I was worried. The word conservative, taken in a political context, often rings very strangely in my ears. I'm willing to bet that in the 1963 march--as well as in the civil rights movement--that conservative participants were in the minority. Now, on this day, two very different groupings of people were heading down in huge numbers to Washington, D.C. I was worried about trouble. And they even prepped us about this before the march.

Like so many others, I was simply there to honor the memory of Dr. King as well as to honor and consider the great journey toward equality and freedom, which is one of the most important journeys of the human species. Good work has been done, but there is still much more to accomplish.

It turned out to be a good day and a great march. Pretty much all of the conservative rally goers that I saw simply stood there and watched us walk by. I'm not ready to take you through all the details of this day. Perhaps in my 100 Days book I'll delve a little deeper. Right now, I want to thank Debbie and Luna for accompanying me on this hopeful day. It was a day of tearful eyes, crying for pains of the past, and crying for the great beauty of something better. Equality and civil rights are very important. Just like the idea of good health. Equality is connected to freedom, and without freedom and some kind of descent health, what does a person have? Health care is a big business, and people suffer because of this. Discrimination still happens everyday.

And so we must remember love and Dr. King and the freedom that he worked for. We must remember that we have legs to stand up with. And remember this too: we have fantastic minds that allow for solving problems in peaceful ways. I hear Dr. King speak and I am moved to work harder and act kinder. He was a writer and a speaker and a friend to freedom.

But there are a few specifics that need to be mentioned. Debbie and Luna and I marched, but where did we start? We started at Dunbar High School. Dunbar High School, on Jersey Ave., Northwest, was America's first public high school for black students. We marched from there, down through the streets of Washington, under the hot sun, past the museums, past the National Mall, and over to the future site of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. Memorial. (That's right. A new memorial is coming to D.C. One year from now and it should be open.) And there were more speakers at this site, including Martin Luther King III, the son of Dr. King.

And from there, we walked back to the mall. They had a really good exhibit set up on the grass near the center of the mall. I'll post a photo below. And on the speakers they were playing a continuous collection of Dr. King's speeches. Hearing those words in the air in D.C., it was a beautiful tribute to a bygone beauty, Dr. King.

The exhibit where we heard his recorded speeches:

I took these photos too. Scrolling down, they are in order, from Dunbar High School to the future site of the Dr. King Memorial:

A Good Summer Day in The Nation's Capitol

I've been caught up in this big 100 Days of Writing Project, and because of that I've been working extra hard for a while now. The act of writing is usually done, for me, in a place that's inside. Sometimes I can get some writing done outside, but usually I am inside. I've been inside a lot this summer.

So when the call came on my cell phone, late one night, I knew what I had to do. I talked with my friend on the phone and we planned a D.C. bike mission. He had a sleek black vintage road bike that we had revived not long ago. And I had plenty of bikes in the basement. For a city mission, I went with the old maroon Mongoose. It's a mountain bike that I bought from my brother. It's an old bike but it's descent. He got it at college. It works. And I'm not too worried when I lock it up. The thing about a mountain bike is that it has wider tires, and this is actually a nice thing when city streets get unruly with potholes or debris.

It had been a good while since sweat garage. I'd been so deep into my writing that I just hadn't taken the time to go hard and sweat it out. Now it was time.

The night before the mission, I had been up late, writing of course. I let myself sleep in till around eight o'clock. Then I threw some panniers on the bike, packed them with food and water and rain gear, and headed out the front door. I had a couple hours of good sweaty biking before I was even at the metro station. Actually, I met my friend on the street. He was driving in his car. I kept looking for him. He drove down Route 1 and saw me standing at the corner as I flagged him down. I still knew of a good secret free parking spot. I led the way there. Then we both took off on our bikes. "Want some whiskey?" he asked. I took a swig. "Needs ice," i said. We went to McDonald's for ice and water too.

The metro ride to the city was a delight with cold drinks to sip on and this crazy AC unit that was just pouring condensation onto a nearby seat. It was another good sweat garage day and this poor AC machine needed help. No one sat in that seat. Water puddled on the vinyl seat cover and even dripped on the carpeted floor.

It was a weekday, not too many people at the National Zoo. It rained hard and we got soaked, but it was so hot it didn't matter. It felt good. Summer rain coming down, with me looking up and smiling as water hit my face and fell in my mouth. The hardest thing was keeping the camera dry. I had a system of plastic bags, with a folded up paper towel in the innermost one, which acted as a desiccant.

The zoo was cool. A girl was going to meet us there, but she never did, and we were both okay with that. From the zoo, it's a long fine downhill road toward the National Mall. We rode this downhill, no rain, and stopped near 7th street NE. This was a popular street I knew and liked. And we could get food or drinks or coffee if we wanted. Then over to the National Galley of Art for another visit to this art exhibit that was one of my most favorite exhibits ever, an exhibit titled "Beat Memories," the photographs of Allen Ginsberg. (I would end up going to this exhibit about four times.) I looked and smiled. There they were, looking so beautiful in black and white: Allen, Jack, Neal, Gregory. There was even a photograph of Bob Dylan. And Allen had great handwritten captions for every one.

After good exercise and whiskey and art, everything else was just cake: outside the art gallery we hid under a tree for another big downpour, then over to the mall, bike west, keep flowing straight to the Lincoln Memorial, one of my favorite places in D.C. I always feel good on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. And I keep coming back. Part of it is because of the great freedom moment that happened there on August 28, 1963, when Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. spoke the words "I have a dream" in his mighty speech. This great event is marked right there: a few words carved into the marble on the landing near the upper set of monument stairs. It's a special place.

The Lincoln Memorial was the last main stop on our D.C. mission. We stayed there for about an hour, sitting on the steps, talking, looking East, watching the sky change with sunset light and of course having to take some photos. We experienced a beautiful sunset that night.

Greetings From The Sweat Garage

Sweat garage must be documented. Sweat garage is a state of mind and it's also a condition. Sweat garage is what happens when you work on your car outside in Maryland in the heat of summer. This happened last month when I was working on my sister's car.

Go outside at the hottest hour of the hottest day and the sweat will flow--just by standing there. If you're working, the flow thickens. Now this wasn't my first sweat garage. There have been others. Travis was there for the very first one. We wore two of my old baseball hats and filled the hat fabric with sweat.

If you spend time with me, you may have heard me talking about the sweat garage. Sometimes when things get good and sweaty, I will reference the sweat garage. Tribute. Respect. For everyone else, please enjoy this sweaty concept, one that was born on the hot summer streets of America and has since found a special place in my heart.

Before I write more, let's get some photos going here:

Sure it might be nice to get up early and try to get the work done before the sun is up there in the power position. But some jobs take a while. A couple rusted bolts can take hours to break free. Then you get into the heat of the day. I've gotten pretty good at dealing with the heat. If it's 105 or below, I've trained myself to think it's warm. Hot, for me, starts above 105.

Now on this day it was 103 in the shade, much hotter in the sun. This was the first time I used a sun shade umbrella in the sweat garage. I figured it was hot enough. (I held the umbrella upright by clamping it in a bicycle repair stand, worked great.)

And when I was crawling around on the ground and walking to and from the house for tools, I could feel my heart beating good and hard. I actually worried a little about my brain. I kept drinking so much water and juice. And the sweat! Oh boy! I hadn't had a good sweat like this in years. It woke me up. By the end of this day I had soaked through several T-shirts. And when I would get down on the ground--and especially when I was on my back--my body weight would squeeze the sweat from my clothes and make a wet spot on the hard pavement. A sweaty kiss between my body and the earth.

But with the right attitude and the right pacing, a sweat garage can be a happy place. Call it sweat garage and it seems more fun. It's a concept of embracing. You get into the weirdness of the heat. The sweat flows. The work gets done. And a cool place to rest at the end of the day never felt so good.

Thanks for visiting the sweat garage.
Have fun and safe travels,

Jeff

Party Time

Last weekend was a great party weekend. It all started on a Friday evening. My brother Chris and I got in the car and drove over to the party. We got there as the sun was going down, and the first lightning bugs were just getting started in and around the sparkling forest.

The party started that night, which was when the great cooking mission began. There was keg beer, colas, sodas, and water to drink. People set up tents in the backyard. I started with beer, but then switched to coffee. I had to stay up all night and help watch the pig, which cooked all night. Around four o'clock or so, with everyone else sleeping, I did some writing with the paper and pen in my pocket. I had to. You see, I'm engaged in this big writing project and I had to keep the wordflow going. Even if I just touch pen to paper for a few minutes, that counts.

And on Saturday, the pig came off and the guests arrived. A bluegrass band came and played music for everyone. This was a beautiful thing: to be in the backyard, with the summer green of Maryland woods all around, and friends nearby, eating and drinking and talking. Chris and I created a vegetarian bean dish, and I ate those garlic/cheese beans out of an empty bean can. And it was about this time that Chris reached for my camera so that he could take this photo:



And I was feeling happy in my green shirt in the summer sun with the music playing. The U.S. soccer team was playing Ghana. People were hopeful, happy, the party was going strong and the music sounded great.


One of our friends couldn't be there. But we had a piece of paper with a likeness of his face, and people went around with the paper photograph, keeping his great party spirit alive. In addition to the paper likeness, there were crayfish and green trees. This photograph shows these things:

The Oil Is Still Spilling

President Obama spoke tonight. I watched him on TV, on one of the basic stations, totally free, with our special digital antenna picking up the signal. He talked about the problems in the gulf, the problems with offshore drilling, and the oil spill that has become known as The Deepwater Horizon Oil Spill.

This Deepwater spill is a sad and ugly thing, as all the oil spills are. Nothing good comes from polluting the world we live in, this planet we call home. But this kind of dirty business goes on. Oil companies have their greedy drill bits buried deep into the modern world and the American way of life. The U.S. is the country which consumes--by far--the most oil. Using 2008 numbers from U.S. Energy Information Administration, the U.S. drinks down about 19 million barrels of oil per day. (China is the second place consumer, guzzling about 7 million barrels per day.) We use a lot of oil, which means we have to manage a lot of oil: physically get it, refine it, move it, ship it, import it, pump it, pour it, and so on.

Looking at the Wikipedia page for "oil spills," and then the page for "list of oil spills", I see that this most recent Deepwater Horizon spill is only one on a long list of oil spills. Billions of barrels of oil have been spilled and burned and wasted over the years--hundreds of spills--and Deepwater looks like it'll go down as one of the big ones.

Oil spills keep happening. Why is this? Well I am not an oil spill expert, but my ponderings have me pointing my finger at: gravity, entropy, carelessness, flaws in containment, and accidental occurrences. And there doesn't appear to be any end in sight with respect to oil spills. Perhaps we'll have to wait until we burn it all up and there is no more oil left to spill.

As I write these words, the toxic black gold keeps leaking out into the gulf waters. We've all seen the photos. Animals covered in black goo. People in clean-up suits doing the slow work of cleaning. Nature takes a lot of abuse. And it seems that a good bit of such abuse stems form the species with the name tag: Homo sapiens (or Homo sapiens sapiens if you want to get more technical). Our numbers keep growing and our problems never seem to end. But the good people are trying.

I think about New York City, the biggest city in our fair country, and yet it's a place where approximately 54% of people don't own cars and public transportation is widely used. I think about a friend I know, buying big bags of organic grains and riding his bike around all the time. I think about other friends I know, keeping their homes cool in the winter and warm in the summer because it's better for the environment and their wallets. A bunch of little things can add up and help. Of course a bunch of other little things can add up to do some harm. But the good people of the world know deep down what they have to do.

And all this Deepwater ugliness will be fixed, although it looks as if the spill has the potential to drag on for some time. And I hope that in this country, and in this world, people will move toward fuels and energies and machines and that are safer, more efficient, and less harmful to the environment. As for right now, I think I'll raise the thermostat a little higher, sweat a little more, and then go out for a bike ride, a little nighttime road meditation to cleanse my mind of oily thoughts and to ease the weight of the world.

Into the Sparkling Forest

I just got back from the sparkling forest. It's a special place. I know this and I feel it too. Man, it's the kind of place that sticks with you until the end of time. Let me tell you a little about this place.

The forest is a real place, and I know exactly where it is. It's actually here in Maryland. But the Sparkling Forest is also a state of mind, a combination of the right things at the right time--everything is perfect on a perfect night. And I've been there before, when it wasn't sparkling. You'll see what I mean.

It all started when I drove over to my friend's home. There was work to be done that night, and fun to be had. We had to bury a jug of wine for a party that was coming up. It was this tradition that was started a while ago, and we had to keep the tradition going. So anyway, I got in the car and headed over to my friend's home. And when I got there, everyone was drinking beer on the back porch and getting ready for the mission. The big jug of Carlo Rossi was sitting there on the deck.

Then, after talking and more beers and some snacks, it was time to go: out through the screen door, down the wooden stairs of the deck, then down the green grass hill in the backyard, (but I didn't feel the grass because I was wearing pants for this mission--worried about ticks and ivy). And on the edge of the yard is where the forest began.

We went into the woods, my two friends ahead of me, with headlamps and flashlights to see the way. The journey into the woods was part of the fun. Moving into the night. Tall tulip poplars all around, these huge trees. And the fireflies were blinking. "Watch out for all the shit," said someone. We had crossed over the fence at this point and were now in a forested part of a pasture. But the cow pies were easy to spot, and the poison ivy was not very prevalent, and so the walking was good.

This was a forest wonderland that I knew and loved. But that night was fresh and new. And the risks were real. There were rumors of a bull, a big beast we did not want to meet, especially because we had crossed under the electric fence and so a quick get-a-way might be hard. So we keep listening and looking around. A crazy screech came down from the forest darkness up on the hill. A fox? A cat? A new breed of East Coast jackleope? We didn't know. But we aimed our lights and saw two glowing eyes. It was far away, but I still felt the fine twinge of fear. The stick I was holding in my hands felt good.

But the screeching beast went away. And I knew we'd soon be gone too, after the work was done. But we were in no hurry. Some things can not be hurried. We walked on, until we found the right spot for the wine jug. Then we dug. We had brought shovels. We dug it deep and tied a rope to the glass loop on the jug so that would help with the unearthing.

Then we keep walking, back under the fence, across a small stream--still moving away from our home base. We left the forest and walked out into a huge grassy hillside. And up on the peaceful flanks of this hillside, we all paused to rest and listen and enjoy the night. The reserve beers were opened and we toasted the wine jug mission and the night. And it was on this hillside, looking back at the forest, that I came to see and know the sparkling forest. The long curving wall of trees down in front of us was sparking with the light of thousands of fireflies. The luminous creatures seemed fond of gathering near the outside of the forest, so their light was easy to see, especially against the black backdrop of the forest. And even though the night sky of Maryland was full of city light pollution, which obscured many of the stars, I didn't really mind. We had the sparkling forest.

United We Watch

I watched some World Cup soccer today. I watched my home country play against England. I heard some nasty things being said about the English team (I was in a bar). It made me sad. It's just a game. The beautiful game, after all, which is something to remember. The players play because they love to play (and it's how they make their money). And people watch, all over the world. And people say things. And suddenly, millions of people are experts when it comes to soccer, or football as it's often called.

And so I drank my two-dollar beers and tuned out some of the more stupid comments. And I enjoyed the powerful quiet--perhaps even some milliseconds of silence--because there were actually quiet moments in the bar, moments which tended to happen in between the Big Plays, which were the ones that often required cheering.

There's really something interesting that happens when fans watch a game. It's a home team love and focused sporting excitement that drives many a fan (and some people even have money riding on the games, which adds another level). But for me, most of the time, I don't really get into the game like those around me. And so this makes it easier for me to observe everyone else. I like to watch the people watching the games. They get so into it. It's amazing. If they could only see themselves, and hear the things they are saying. Some people take the games very seriously--with their crazy eye TV screen watching, and their trash talking, and wild cheering, and cell phone score checking (because there's so many games to keep track of). The Serious Fans have really demonstrated just how deep the obsession goes. I'm not saying it's good or bad. I'm just saying that after watching some World Cup soccer in a Maryland bar, it's safe to say that fans can really get into the games.

Now people in the stadiums love to cheer. I knew this. You can hear it in the background of certain televised games: an almost constant cheering drone that lasts for most of the game. And cheering at a game kind of makes sense. You cheer for the team you want to win, and hope the cheering drives them into athletic brilliance and then victory. But what about the fans who scream at the TV screens? It's hard to say what their goals are. Probably just a energy release or outlet, a demonstration of what's on their minds. And as I was watching the people around me yell, I found myself thinking: the TV is not a microphone, no matter how loud you try to yell.

But who am I to say that their yelling has no power? Has such a thing ever been studied? Energy is a powerful thing with mysterious connotations. And maybe someday every bar room and living room will have a microphone and a direct line into the stadium or arena of the fan's own choosing. And in the ceilings of stadiums, there will be thousands of little speakers, high quality/high power speakers, so that when the dedicated fans yell, the players will actually hear and receive the energy. Players will of course have to wear special high-tech thousand-dollar ear plugs so they can block some of the tremendous noise that will be hitting them at every angle, vibrating their athletic bodies like some sort of strange exercise machine from the future. Stadiums will also have to be built with very high standards to handle the sonic bombardment. And fans will have to sign wavers so they can't sue over hearing loss. And every stadium will have to install a giant soundproof shield over the stadium, otherwise the noise of a game would disturb every home within ten miles. And for those roofless stadiums, the Sound Shield would be the roof, as well as being a fixture where all the speakers could be mounted.

And when such systems are implemented, and I get my financial cut for inventing the True Voice Fan Intercom, you might find me in some famous bar in America, buying a round for the house. And then I'll get up on the bar and give speech, instructing the screaming fans to maybe just take a break. And for a minute or so, we'll pump a round of pure quiet into whatever stadium speaker that bar is broadcasting to, and that little pocket of silence will rain down onto the field, and maybe, just maybe, for one glorious moment, some sweaty player who's chock full of exhaustion will be able to zero in on that one speaker and hear the quiet hum of a silent bar which is the stuff that angels sing of.

Local Libraries and Free Music

If you love an artist's work, by all means, give him or her your money and/or support. If you're not sure about your love, then it might be a good idea to go to your local library and see what you can see. And even if you are sure of your love, it's still a good idea to head on over to your local library.

I love my local library. I go there all the time. I know the librarians and they know me. I've memorized my fourteen-digit library card number--I did that years ago. Sometimes I even let my items go overdue, just so I can give the library a few dollars. They need my money. They need my support. You've gotta pay for these privileges, and tax dollars alone might not enough these days. Budgets are tight and places are closing.

Libraries are a great thing, a tremendous tool that our country has brought into being for the betterment of all. Don't forget them. And don't forget what they stand for: knowledge and freedom and learning for all.

On our library's website, they say: "opening the door to discovery and diversion." This line really makes me smile. I also like how they used the singular version of door. They could have said "doors," which would have meant something a little different. But they wrote "door" which means that diversion and discovery are accessed through the same portal, which makes for an interesting thought. The beauty is in the truth. Sometimes it's about learning, and sometimes it's about relaxing and having fun. But both learning and fun are connected.

As for the free music, I'd like to mention the awesome website known as: archive.org

You can go there and access many different things, freely and legally. I usually go there to get Grateful Dead shows, but I also discovered that there are many Warren Zevon shows as well. And for this we must thank Warren's son Jordan.

A direct quote from archive.org:

"On April 7, 2005, we received permission for Warren Zevon shows to be hosted at the Archive:

Subject: Warren Zevon

Please allow the exchange of unreleased live material from Warren Zevon on your website.

Sincerely,

Jordan Zevon"

I've downloaded about fifteen Zevon shows, and there are many more out there, and this brings me joy.

Let the music play! And long live the libraries!

Fondly,
Jeff

Doing Good

Zevon lyrics blaze on with poetic power in my mind: "Everybody's your best friend when you're doing well, I mean good."

Yes, thank you Warren Zevon, wherever you are.

It's no secret that I enjoy listening to the music and words of Warren Zevon, the late great American songwriter. I listen and I enjoy. And even when I'm not listening, I'm enjoying. His words come back to me, in my mind, when I'm "doing simple things around the house," as Warren said it so perfectly.

Tonight I was in the kitchen, making another sandwich--enjoying another sandwich--when the words I mentioned above hit me. I had just left a phone message for my friend Whitney. And I was making some food: one of my crazy sandwiches, with humus, peanut butter, raw garlic, and sriracha, spread on bread and corn tortillas. I'm always mixing up flavors. Pizza sushi is one creation I'm very proud of. But that's enough weird bragging for one day. I must stay on topic: I was in the kitchen, mixing, eating, and thinking about Warren, and really just feeling good.

The lyric above is from the song "Genius." And, as a fellow writer, I love the way Warren works with his words. Now, there are some people that love to rub in the grammatical correctness of "doing well" and the incorrectness of "doing good." But writing (just like speaking and living) is way more than just following the rules. Writing is about freedom, and saying what you want to say, and doing it your way, day after day. Sure, the background rules of writing are necessary. They help us writers tell our stories, and make it easier for readers to follow along. But the writer gets final judgment. And hearing Warren sing, "doing well, I mean good," just makes me smile like crazy, because I know he knew the rules, and that line is such a nice calm slap in the face to all the grammar-crazed people who are missing the point and getting way too bogged down by the rules.

Now I don't want you to worry here. If you go around saying "doing well," that doesn't mean I'm going to feel opposed to you. I say "doing well" sometimes. But if you're a Zevon fan, and if you say, "doing good," well then it's very easy for us to be on the same page. In the world of art, there is no right and wrong. Only different preferences and different perspectives.

Tonight, the work is going well. And, as all you fellow workers out there know: that's not always the case. But when it's good, that's something to enjoy, just like the hardness. I dig the blues. Maybe I'm happy because I'm getting to the end of another draft, and that's always a nice moment. I don't want to speculate too much here. I'm just setting down some words in the midst of some other words. The writing will go on, on into the night, on into the years of my life. . . . And along the way I keep living, and I keep thinking of my family and friends, far and near.

And summer is coming soon, time for more sweating. Sweaty shirts at backyard parties. A little more body odor in the air. Are you ready to sweat? Yes, I've made my peace with the heat and humidity. It's getting warmer. The earth, still circling, still tilted. It's all about the angles.

Well Marley just came upstairs to get me, which means he wants water and he wants to go out. So I might as well sign off here. Have fun, safe travels, and I hope you're doing good.

The Power of Thunder

It's raining now, a thunderstorm. I'm sitting in my room, writing, working on my laptop which makes me feel good because even if we loose power, I can keep going. That's one of the nice things about laptops, the automatic power backup that comes built in. But I don't want to dwell on such trivial things as laptops and computers. No, the power of this storm is what prompted me to log on and add to this blog.

The rain is coming down hard. Tons of water--those little drops really add up. I look out and see the rain coming down sideways, just for a time. Now it's falling mostly straight down. Marley doesn't mind at all. I hear him drinking downstairs. Noisy laps from his bowl of water. We're lucky he's not the kind of dog that freaks out when it storms. We're lucky for many reasons.

It's nice to be able to write in the rain. A home gives protection, something we all need at some point. I guess I could still write in the rain if I was outside in a tent. Tents are good portable shelter, and I've spent many hundreds of evenings and nights curled up in a tent. I've written hundreds of journal pages during my tent time. Tents are good for writing because you're outside, hearing and smelling and seeing, but you're still protected. Although tent walls don't really stop the sound waves. Thunder is much louder when you're in a tent.

And now, if you'll excuse me, I need to step away from the computer for a few minutes . . .

. . . Well okay, I'm back in my writing room with a wet head and back. I had to help my mother bring some young seedlings inside. They were on the back porch, getting some sun, but the rain was too hard for them. Why punish when you can protect?

Philip called me this morning (this is turning into a journal entry here) and I was thankful for the call because he was just in Yosemite--and so we talked about that--and I mentioned how I was just polishing up some Yosemite writing myself. It's good to be connected.

Well, that's enough for this post. I must channel some of this storm energy and keep the wordflow going.

Peaches in the Summertime

Aloha.

June is here. Twenty-some days and it will be summer. You can always count on the seasons. As long as the earth stays tilted and keeps going around the sun, summer will come. Then fall and winter and spring. In the Southern Hemisphere, they are gearing up for winter, but the order is still the same: winter, spring, summer, and fall.

It's transition time, getting away from the gentle greenness of spring and into the humid wonders of summer--at least that's what it'll be like around here. This year I'll be experiencing summer East-Coast-style, with plenty of heat and humidity, things I've come to know and enjoy.

And there's music too. Many songs and lyrics have touched on the splendid season of summer. But right now I'm thinking of words from the old folk song, "Shady Grove," which goes: "Peaches in the summertime, apples in the fall, if I can't have the girl I want, I won't have none at all."

Yes, summertime, the season of peaches and other fruits and vegetables, juicy edibles that come from the earth. Summer is also the season of Sweat. And it's a good thing that I like to sweat. I'm sweating right now, sweat dripping down off my face. I just got back from a walk with Marley. It's warm and humid out, hot enough to draw sweat after about fifteen minutes of walking.

Today I did my normal walk, and I saw the cherry tree on the edge of the forest, and the small red cherries that are just beginning to grow. And I smelled the air--it was slightly cooler--the air of the forest, so good and so right. And I was happy to have a little neighborhood side street so I could walk in peace and breath some decent air. There was this one little place on my walk, where the smell reminded me of Yosemite. There were some white pines there and also some eastern red cedar, and perhaps it was those trees, and the dried leaves on the ground, baking under the hot sun, that helped to concoct a wonderful, warm, and spicy aroma that took me right back to Yosemite. For summer in Yosemite carries a fine smell that I know and love.

And now, with Yosemite on my mind, I will move away from this blog, and get busy with some other writing. Thanks for reading, and don't forget to hydrate on the hot days that are ahead.

This Blog Is Up To Date

Well I finally got the old blog up to date. It took a blog marathon to make it happen. And now I'm just about done. I still have one more post to finish--this one that you're reading right now--which is for the month of May, or as much of it that's gone by. I try to do at least one post a month, sometimes more if that's the way things go.

When you love to write, any excuse to write is always good. In the last two days, I have written, edited, and posted many thousands of words to this blog. I think about ten thousand words. I know that's a good bit, but don't worry. You can take your time. I posted them and now they are there. You'll meet them if you read on. Sorry for the delay. These things happen sometimes. And thanks to Chris, Debbie, Kyle, and Kimberly for checking this blog often and keeping after me to update it.

Yes, it feels good to be up to date. I guess it's kind of like when your email inbox is empty or very small (how I like to keep it). It's a temporary satisfaction, but it still feels good. It's all temporary when you get down to it, I guess, so I shouldn't worry too much.

So the blog is up to date and now it's May. Wow, May--that's four (almost five) months into 2010. And it's also one year and four months into President Obama's term. That reminds me: in my lazy blog days, I've forgotten to delve into the Big Issues of health care reform and the financial regulations. But I'm not ready to get into all that right now, so I won't.

May is shaping up to be a pretty solid writing month. I'm closer to my publishing goals for book 1. I'm ready to continue on with book 2. I'm staying busy with full-time writing and some part-time work at a local bike shop. My numbers are going up (that means more money--it's bike tour lingo from Chris and Kyle), so that means more travels, eventually. For now, it's family and friend time, writing time, and a bit of money-making time.

So thanks again for stopping by. I appreciate it.

Have fun, and travel safe.

Jeff

Writing Days and Then Back to the City

April has been a good month for me. I've been getting a lot of writing done, which always makes me happy. At this point, I'm working on editing and checking over book 1, slow and tedious work, so in order to keep my writing mind in shape, I've taken to working on book 2, which has been a lot fun.

Then, on Friday April 16, after an excellent meeting with Andy Baldwin in College Park, and then some time with Travis and Mary, I went to the airport to pick up my brother Chris. He had been in Peru. It was great to see him, and to be the first to welcome him back to US, and hear about all the incredible things that he saw and did on his South American adventures. Peru sounded beautiful and amazing.

And on that car ride home, Chris and I were planning some more adventures. There's always more adventures to plan. Yes, indeed. Time for a New York City mission--two brothers bound for the City. We had both been in touch with Kyle, who had moved his base camp from Santa Cruz back to his hometown borough of Queens. Originally, Chris and I were going to visit Kyle in May. But May was getting hectic. And Chris just started a new job in Virginia. And I just started some part time work of my own, so we had to take action. The mission was planned for the following weekend.

I left for New York on a Thursday morning, caught the bus in Baltimore. I had been up very late the night before (a crazy travel tradition I seem to always be continuing); I was packing and getting things in order. I had my Lonely Planet NYC book from the library. A good book that I was going to buy for myself as soon as I had some money to spare. By this point in the friending mission, the budget was very tight. I had lots of food in my backpack. I also had one of Travis and Hilary's folding bikes. It was packed neatly in a big black duffel bag. (The other bike was packed and ready for Chris, so he could grab it and go.)

The bus rolled north, to New York--a city which I discovered late in life, but one that's gone straight to my heart and right to the top of my list, right up there with sweet San Fran. And while I'm listing cities, Washington D.C. must get an honorable mention too. D.C. is very close to home and very powerful and important and full of many incredible places, which I really should write some more about one of the days. . . . when the time is right, Jeff, when the time is right.

New York is so close! A few easy bus hours and I was there. I ate the first of my pb and j sandwiches (it was the one with sriracha on it) as the bus was rolling down one of the Avenues, down to 33rd street, I believe, where we stopped and everyone got off. I put the bike together and I was on my way, riding north up 8th Ave. I didn't even need to check my map. I was feeling cocky like I had been living in the city for years. I knew about the avenues and the streets because I had walked the length of Manhattan and also because I had spent a long time just studying NYC maps. I had a love for New York, that huge hulking American city, and I was happy to be back.

I was soon in Central Park, sitting there by Sheep Meadow, which was our agreed upon meeting point. Kyle was biking in from Queens. I was happy to sit there and rest. It had been a late night and an early morning in a string of such days. Going hard and fast with the books, trying to get a lot of work done so I could feel good about taking off for a few days. That's one problem when you love your work: it can be hard to be away from it. But little breaks are good, and excuses are easy to give in to. And once I reminded myself that I was in New York for research, well then I had nothing to worry about. I pulled the notebook and pen out from my breast pocket and started writing. There's always something to write about.

I sat on the benches at the west side of Sheep Meadow, right by West Side Road, just watching the Parade go by. And it was a fine parade and it wasn't even Saturday. Kyle knew all about my parade lingo and descriptive theories because he had read a draft of my book, and he always liked to sprinkle those Jeff quotes into daily conversation which just tickled me and activated my smile hinges. And Chris too, he knew. Kyle and Chris and I shared many days and nights on the road, bike-tour-style, and that does something to a friendship. It roots it down deep, deep and solid in the nutrients of life and time. And soon Chris would be there with us--I couldn't wait!--and we'd be riding the streets of New York together. Brothers and friends, out for a jaunt or two or three, in one of the most amazing cities ever dreamed up by the hearts and hands and minds of human beings.

But it was Thursday and Chris wasn't arriving until late Friday night. So I met Kyle, and we rested in Sheep Meadow (where there actually used to be sheep; the Old Days are very interesting), and we made our plans: we had a big day of biking around the city. But first we had to go to the John Lennon Imagine Memorial in Strawberry Fields. There's just certain places in certain cities I have to go to every time I'm there. Simply have to. In San Fran it's Haight St. and Golden Gate Park and The Golden Gate Bridge. In New York, it's Central Park, Strawberry Fields, and Greenwich Village and south Manhattan too--and the Upper East Side is always on my mind thanks to Warren Zevon. I told Kyle this and he understood. There's so much to see in New York. And after a little whiskey toast ("To you and me and New York City," I said), and then some "Eyes of the World," we were ready to move.

Over to the Lennon Memorial. Just one word: Imagine. One word with a million and one possibilities. It's a powerful place. The current flower arrangement was looking beautiful, some big red roses and also some pink and yellow petals spread in a Peace Sign formation around the IMAGINE. From there we headed west, to the bike trail along the Hudson, and we followed that south. South for a while. Then we cut over on Perry Street and into the Village. Washington Square Park and then lots more riding: over to the bike path along the east side of Manhattan Island. Then south. We took the Staten Island Ferry--why not?--and enjoyed the free ride. They had bike racks, but the view was better outside, so we took our bikes out with us, but then we got scolded and they said we couldn't have the bikes out there. But the views were great; we saw the Statue of Liberty from many different angles, and the tall buildings of Manhattan, looking good.

After the ferry ride, we stood there, outside the Staten Island station, watching all the commuters flowing by. Another grand parade. We drank water, good cold water from the fountains inside the station. I broke out my last pb and j sandwich and Kyle and I split it. It was the one with coffee beans in it. The beans had softened a bit, and it was good. Kyle liked it. I did too. I love to mix weird flavors, spice it up, keep it weird. Food, bread, so good! Later, some dollar-slices, bought on the street, a good snack, but I was really looking forward to Dani's House of Pizza, a place I had been looking forward to for almost eight months. Dani's was coming. But first: more biking, riding in the bike lanes, on the busy streets and the side streets, then the bridges, Brooklyn Bridge over to Brooklyn, then back on Manhattan Bridge. Then north through Manhattan Island, Kyle leading the way on our Journey back to Queens. We crossed the Queensborough Bridge, and at this point my body was getting sore from that bike with one gear, a new bike, a bike I wasn't used to riding. But soreness is good; it means you're out there working, moving, living. Kyle led the way back to his home, a great night ride. We took the scenic way. And then a stop at Dani's House of Pizza, where the pizza was better and sweeter and more incredible than I ever imagined. I ate one slice. Each bite was joyful perfection. And then another slice--I had to. And then a few blocks back to Kyle's, up the stairs and into his apartment where I emptied my pockets and got ready for some deeply-needed rest. Slumber came and I didn't mind the city sounds for they meant me no harm.

Friday morning and some noshing and then we were on our way. Another big day. First riding west to get to Ozone Park and make a stop at the place where Jack Kerouac and his mother had once lived, in the little apartment that's above a flower shop. It was easy to find with the Internet. I loved being there, loved every second and minute of the whole occasion. And Kyle humored me in my goals and desires--the sign of a good friend. This would be the first of many literary/artistic stops that I planned out. So many places to pay tribute to in New York. Then we rode east toward the ocean. Me cruising on the folding bike, which I enjoyed even though it was just one gear (something I wasn't used to). "One gear. One city. One love," that's what I kept saying. Just a little mantra to help me up the hills of life, which weren't that bad; they never are. And Kyle was riding his regs, his A-rig, the bike he had ridden across the country the previous summer with my brother; the rig now had big "mamacitas," large tires that Kyle was quite proud of, good tires for riding pretty much anywhere. It's good to be proud of your rig, whatever it may be. We switched bikes and enjoyed the different feel of each other's rigs. Rockaway was a great place to get some sitting and looking done. Just sitting on the boardwalk and looking out at the waves and the surfers, and Kyle knew all about the breaks because he had surfed there many times. But his board was back in his home. Which is where we headed. We needed to get more food and prepare for the evening mission.

I had a big list of famous people places that I wanted to see: Kerouac, Ginsberg, Hunter Thompson, Bob Dylan, and some other famous bars and buildings and places. So I got the addresses online and plotted a course, a big loop which would start somewhere in Chelsea and take us south, into the Village, then north back toward 33rd Street, near Madison Square Garden where we were going to meet Chris. But after already riding twenty or thirty miles, we decided to leave the bikes and do the mission on foot, which was fine with me. It can be hard to be on a bike, taking photos, reading maps, looking around, drinking beers and all that. So we got our beers, Ballantine Ale (which I was very pleased to find at nearby Joy Fruit!), and boarded the Subway. Kyle knew where we were going, but I checked the map anyway. I had to learn these things! And you must study to learn! My cold beer was gone before the ride was over. It's easy to drink cold beer when you're thirsty and hungry for the wild world of the city! And I was ready to walk. Up the stairs and into the night! Early night which I love so much because there is still a blueness to the sky, and if you work the camera right you can capture this great blue sky, which I tried to do. And the city lights were coming on fast and strong, but it was hard to focus until we found a bathroom. So we dropped into the closest Starbuckian Dynasty and used the one-room bathroom. And then we were off, following my map.

I don't know if I'm ready to tell about all the places we went, maybe not right now--"Not this one, Claus," as Kyle, Chris, and I liked to say. (A little Wes Anderson quote there, for those keeping score.) But in the end it was a great walking mission--so great!--and Kyle and I came upon the High Line, which we of course had to walk on. And at McSoreley's we got some beer and met some girls and our time there was so fun that we almost lost track of time and so we had to zoom north like crazy birds to meet Chris. And we met him and he had already put his bike together (the other folding bike that I had borrowed from Travis and Hilary) but I had the tools in my jacket to finish the job and attach the derailleur. "What's that smell?" asked Chris when I was standing near him. "Probably all the garlic I ate earlier," I said. I forgot to mention that Kyle and I split a whole head of garlic with dinner. I don't know, it was like 8 or 9 cloves each, a rather large head of garlic. Kyle is a man who's not afraid of his food, and neither am I--so this kind of thing was just bound to happen, and we didn't really even need to explain this to Chris. Raw garlic consumption was a bike tour tradition. Yes, it does burn. But it burns less if you're used to it, and if you have the right state of mind, and of course it's good for you, which is the bottom line. With only 2.25 dollars and the right Subway knowledge, we made it back to Kyle's. The end of another day. And . . . more Dani's Pizza! Yes!

Saturday was our big day of biking, the only full day that we were all going to share. Chris and I had tickets to leave the next day. So Saturday was the big day, which started with a big meal--great bagel noshing--and I was so excited about getting out there and riding. We met one of Kyle's friends and rode with him into Manhattan, going through Queens and then Brooklyn. It was a great and sunny day, and Kyle and Chris were singing a bit of reggaeton, which we had heard from a passing car, happy bouncy music, music which was also a foreshadowing of the mission that was ahead of us: I figured we might as well ride the whole length of Manhattan Island, from the south all the way up through the Spanish barrios up north. I walked it, and now I wanted to bike it. It seemed like a good mission, and on the way we could see all the places we wanted to see, and spend some more time in Central Park.

So that's pretty much what we did. We went down to Battery Park, on the south part of Manhattan Island, which was pretty crowded on a sunny spring Saturday. And I enjoyed the way I could stand tall on my bike and look over the crowds of people. Chris could do this too. We called it high-tower mode, or tallboys. It was fun. Rolling slow through crowds of people, moving quick through the open gaps, then hitting the breaks for more slow-moving people negotiations. That's really a word I like to use in my city talk and writings. Negotiations. At this point, Chris and I had switched bikes. So I actually had a few gears in the back, and it was Chris who had to deal with "One gear, one city, one love." But he could ride--man, could he ride! All that pent up cycling energy being unleashed with trademark CM power! I didn't have to worry about Chris. And Kyle's friend could ride too; he was on a racing type road bike. And after a little Wall Street exploration, we started riding north, up through SoHo, then across Houston, and then the cross streets were just flying by. In many places, we were faster than the cars. There was all kinds of weekend traffic that we maneuvered right through. But we passed an accident scene and saw a man on the ground, bleeding. A big reminder about safety. Enjoy the flow and the velocity, but BE ON GUARD. So that's what we did. Over to 8th Ave. where we flew north in the bike lane on the left side of the road. Then into Central Park, where we said goodbye to Kyle's friend and did some more backpack noshing--really just a little snack nosh. The sky was looking like rain, but I got the team inspired. "We're in the 70's now, so we only have like 150 more streets to go! Let's go!" And we went. Over to the east side road in Central Park. Then north, Central Park miles being very fast and easy and I was of course reminded of Golden Gate Park which is similar in many ways to Central Pk. The top of Central Park was 110 St. "We're halfway there!" I said. "Only 115 more streets to go!" At this point I took the lead; I knew the area better than Kyle. And we rode. Over to Broadway and then north. I knew Broadway was the road for us. A big Saturday night concert at Columbia University drew us in. And we stayed there for a time. But we still had miles to ride, and it was getting later. And none of the bands had the power to ensnare us. North! Broadway! Into the great barrios that I remembered walking through, Spanish neighborhoods where all the signs were in Spanish. Kyle found a good HIT (hole in the . . . wall) and we stopped for food, exactly what we needed to finish the mission out. More city night riding. Cars on the road, pumping out the raggaeton into the night. I worked my camera hand whenever I could, but the riding was serious and I put the camera away. Our taillights and headlights were blinking. I had some neon green on the back of my rig. We were visible and safe; it's the only way when you're following the Code of the Road.

And then, eventually, we hit the top of the island: the Harlem River. We crossed the river and rode into the Bronx and stopped at a fast food place for bathrooms and just general mapping and whatnot. I was so happy to be there. I waited outside with the bikes. I could wait forever on the streets of New York. I felt at home there. From here on out, we made various negotiations: Subway back to midtown, then back to Queens. The next day, some more time in the city and then Chris and I were on the bus, bound for Maryland. But right now, I think I want to leave ya'll with a photo that I took on the Henry Hudson Bridge, at the very top of Manhattan, after we had just gotten there, and we were all relieved that the mission had worked out. It was a great mission! As the cars were rolling past and vibrating the bridge, I set up my camera and took the following photo. Thanks again, Chris and Kyle. It's not everyday that you go on a great city jaunt with your brother and a fellow road friend, and ride the whole length of that splendid island known as Manhattan.

Vernal Equinox 2010 - An Early Morning Day

Well, first of all, Happy Birthday to Janice.

Today is the first day of spring, and I got up early for once, 6:30 a.m., which I haven't done for a while. I've been on a late night sleep schedule: go to bed around 4 a.m. and get up around noon. It works for me and my writing days. Dinner is like my lunch.

But now I'm up. I forced myself out of bed and got moving. That's the trick when it's early: keep moving. Don't sit or lay down--that's instant sleep. Movement is key. Showers are good too. And of course there's coffee.

For me, there's a weirdness to being up early, especially this morning--strange memories hearkening back to my newspaper delivery days and all those sleepy school mornings that were only made palatable by the redemption song of summer.

But school days were not the only days that started early. Oh no. I've started many a traveling day at sunrise. You gotta maximize daylight when you're on the road, biking or walking or driving around and across the country.

Yes, sometimes you have to get up early. It makes things possible, like getting a lot of work done before the evening comes. I have plans for tonight, a party with my friend Ilyse, so I woke up early today, which is rare for me. But life is full of surprises, and I've learned to embrace them. It helps keep me nimble.

Marley looked a little surprised when I came down to walk him at 6:40. It was getting light, but no direct sunlight--that came closer to 7:00, which makes sense. The word equinox has Latin roots and means "equal night." And today we'll be having equal periods of daylight and night. Sunrise a little after seven. Sunset a little after seven.

Well, the clock is ticking and the sun is getting higher in the sky, coming in through the back windows of our home, filling the kitchen with lovely morning light, something I don't always see. Time to get to work--back to book 1--I'm writing a story that you probably won't be able to read for a while. Book time moves very slow. And publishing is still a long ways off, but it's getting closer everyday, and that's a nice way to think about it.

Mahalo.

Jeff

Spider Walk

So I'm staying with my father for a few days, in Virginia. I've been writing during the day and visiting in the evenings, and today turned out to be an interesting day, mainly for the events that happened while I was on my afternoon walk.

It's March now, and today was a really warm and sun-filled day. I took a break and went for a walk, just around the neighborhood and the surrounding lands. I hopped a fence and started walking on this paved path. And as I was walking, the sun was shining, and I caught a shimmer of something in the air. I didn't think much of it the first time--except that it was interesting. And then I saw the rainbow shimmer again. It looked like a long strand of spider silk. That's really cool, I thought. This spider web has some interesting reflective properties. I stopped to consider the matter further. There were some trees nearby, so I thought it was coming down from one of the branches, so I backed up and waited for the light and the silk to line up and create the shimmer again. But the shimmer stayed with me. It moved with me. I soon realized that a long strand of spider web was attached to my beard! This made me smile and cheer inside.

Now I had walked through spider webs before--we all have--but this was different. The web was stuck to me, and I was walking down the path, flying a long thin banner and telling the world of my spider pride. The wind was behind me--I should have mentioned this earlier--so the spider silk was blowing in front of me. It was a funny and beautiful sight. I kept walking, smiling, just marveling at the way things float and move around in this world. And I was a little sad too, worried that I had broken some spider's work. But I didn't remember walking through a web, so maybe the web had just blown into me. It was windy. And such things could happen.

I couldn't keep the web on me all day, but I enjoyed it while it was there. And then I gently pulled the gossamer line off my beard and sent it flying in the wind. No spider seemed to be present. I checked. And that's the story of what happened to me on my spider walk.

Another Trip Across

Well I'm back from the mission. It was a success, a good and safe journey. I got to spend some time in San Fran, and then I got to help my friend Chris Kobus drive his truck back to Maryland. We got back a few days ago, and now I'm looking through the photos.

Fifth out-and-back cross-country trip: I wanted to get to San Fran quickly, which would give me more time there, so I flew out west. There's some cheap one-way flight tickets floating about on the Internet, and I snatched one up. From BWI to SFO with just a backpack and the clothes on my back. Then a BART ride into the city and then I was on my feet walking--roving those streets and feeling the weight of the pack on my back and the sweet air of California.

I met Jake and Caitlin on Market Street and we started walking, back to the Green Tortoise on Broadway, where I set my pack down for a few minutes and rested and ate some food and drank a little coffee. I was happy to meet Caitlin, after exchanging emails for the past few weeks. And it was great to see Jake again--the last time he and I were in San Fran together was nine and a half years ago.

From the Tortoise, we went over to the magnificent realms of Golden Gate Park and Haight Street. There's always new things to see, and I enjoyed being back in one of my favorite areas of the city. We bought some scones on Haight Street. A guy about my age, who was standing outside Amoeba music, asked me for one. I gave it to him. Then into Golden Gate Park. We kept walking. We climbed to the top of Stow Lake Island, and from there we could look out and see the Golden Gate Bridge and the Pacific and city buildings and homes.

And from the Park, we walked across town to meet Matt and Lauren, which is where I made my base camp (thanks again, friends!). And from that day on, Jake and Caitlin and I had our adventures in the daytime and our parties in the night with Matt, Lauren, Philip, Whitney, Jamie, and Phil Lang.

And then Kyle came to town. He made the journey up from Santa Cruz. Jake and Caitlin and I met him outside the Trader Joes over by Geary and Masonic. We were on our bikes, and Kyle was on his. We got food and went back to Matt and Lauren's for a feast. Matt's Achilles injury was getting better, and he was walking without his crutches. A beautiful thing. And we talked about my crutch days, which Matt knew all about because, like Jake, he was there for them. The wine was cheap and good and I knew I had to bring a few bottles back with me--Cabernet Sauvignon by Charles Shaw, my favorite vintage of the two buck chucks. I talked with Kobus who was making his way down from Alaska. We'd be leaving in a few days. Jake and Caitlin had to head out, and I said goodbye to them after many great days of hiking and biking and city traveling and all the living room parties--so many great times, sitting around talking, listening to music, maybe playing a little music with me on guitar and Philip on violin, maybe a little "Business Plan Breakdown" just for fun. Always for fun.

Then there was a trip up to Tahoe, a wonderful weekend adventure with Matt, Lauren, Kyle, and Kiersten. We hit some cold rain and snow up in the mountains, but the lake was looking great, and I was watching my gimbal as I watched the New Orleans Saints win the big football game on Superbowl Sunday. And I was just thinking about going to New Orleans and what it would be like there.

Back in San Fran, Kobus showed up, his truck packed with things to move back to Maryland, his mind full of Alaska stories and stories from a hectic last couple of days. And then we were off. I was excited at the prospect of going the whole way across, from my dear sweet San Fran back to my old home place in Maryland. And Kobus was excited to get back to Maryland and see his family and friends. And after a winter in Alaska, he was just happy to be somewhere warm.

So we drove, the windows down, the lovely wind whipping its warmth around the car. February in California felt like spring or fall. Kobus loved that warm wind, and although the noise of the wind started to bother me with my sensitive hearing and all, I had a hard time denying him his pleasures. So we compromised, as friends do, and this certainly helped us on our journey across the country.

Across the big steel of the Bay Bridge, then through the green hills, riding the fast interstate highways. And then south on the 5, down through the San Joaquin, with the afternoon sun setting, and my playlists playing. And I was getting ready for a long night of driving. I was driving slow and steady, with rain on the roads and even a little snow at the higher elevations as we went up Tejon Pass. We hit the north part of LA, deep into the night, and kept going. And then, somewhere outside of Joshua Tree National Park, we found a hotel and got a few hours of sleep.

We were up early and on the road, cruising east on 10. 10 would take us all the way to New Orleans, which was our goal because Kobus wanted to see Mardi Gras, as did I, and I wanted to see my friends Brian and Sara. So everything worked out and that's what we did. We said No to the temptations of Las Vegas, and kept driving east: California, into Arizona, then New Mexico, then into Texas, riding right along the Mexican border and when we looked to the right we told ourselves that we were looking into the lights and buildings of Mexico. I drove us through the night, really a wild drive for many reasons, but I felt good and kept going. And then a few hours of rest in the car. It didn't even feel like Texas, but that's where we were. And in the morning I kept driving--first light equals more miles! Another all-day drive which put us into Baton Rouge around ten in the evening, just in time to meet my friends Brian and Sara! Thanks friends! It was so good to get there and rest and be still and let the road vibrations work their way out of the body and the mind.

We took a day in the Baton Rouge area. I was happy to be in Brian and Sara's home, a place I had wanted to visit for a long time. They had a beautiful home with some great old southern trees nearby. But I felt bad because they gave me a key to the place, which I just happened to drop through the wooden planks on the front deck. And so I got down and looked underneath. And Sara came out and said "Jeff, what are you doing? We have a snake down there." And I said I didn't see it, but I believed her all the same, and got the heck out of there. Then I sat in the living room and had a fine visit with Sara, after a really good sandwich, and young Maddy was running around and having fun and smiling like only a three-year-old can. And I was reminded of the philosophy of youth, and how great everything is when you're young, and also when you're old. Those amazing moments are always there, closer than we think. Seeing and seizing is the key.

And then the next day was Mardi Gras time. We headed down to the city, and drove toward the party area, Bourbon Street and the French Quarter. Traffic wasn't too bad. We found parking on the top floor of a garage and looked out upon the early afternoon madness, which wasn't too crazy yet. Brian knew his way around, and we had some maps, and of course it was easy to just follow the flow of people. Some great side streets, hitting each other at right angles. We saw more and more people. I asked "so where is Bourbon Street?" And Brian laughed and told me I was standing right on it. I hadn't seen the sign. I bought a big beer in a little store--a 24 ounce can for only $4. Being able to drink on the street, I was reminded of the Strip in Vegas. Total beverage freedom, just walking around and looking at all the people and partygoers, and taking big sips of cold beer. Parades going by. Beads being worn and sold. I didn't have any beads yet. But I wanted them. And the desire is what counts.

Yes, lots of desires floating through the crowded air on Bourbon Street. We walked the street, evening sun cutting across the faces of buildings and people. I waited with my hand in the air, as the others did, waiting with the people down on the street in hopes that the people up above on the balconies would throw some beads our way. I learned that if I waited long enough, or if I gave the bead-holder a good dose of the holy stare, that they would drop some beads down. And if not, I just moved on. It's a buyers market on Bourbon Street. I was feeling good and so were Brian and Kobus and we were having a great time just walking around with our beers and whiskey drinks and looking at all the people. We saw the Naked Cowboy, the New York City legend. He had his guitar and cowboy hat and boots and some white briefs on. A big crowd around him. Observing the cowboy, I fell behind, so I had to run to catch up with Brian and Kobus. Bourbon St. was full of beautiful people and silly people. I felt silly too. The beads piled up around my neck. The sun set and the air was cooler. We walked all over. Down to the Mississippi River where the great river boats were parked. All around Jackson Square where various palm readers and street performers had lined up. Kobus was on a search for crayfish, but everyone we talked to said we were just a few weeks too early. Then back to the crazy nightlife of Bourbon St. I finished the last of my raw ramen. My money was getting low, but that was okay. I was almost back home.

My beer can had long been empty, but I was still carrying it around. People like to see other people drinking. I had so many beads that girls were asking me for them. I gave one girl some, but the beads I gave her were tangled with the beads around my neck, and for a half a minute or so, the two of us were tied together, which was kind of cute and awkward, and it made me wonder how many times this kind of thing has happened. Surely many times. Those beads could easily tangle. But they were fun to collect. I liked my pink beads the best, the pink and also the blue. Of course I liked collecting them for the sake of collecting, but I also wanted to amass a neckload because I anticipated giving many of them away when I got home. Beads gathered honestly from Bourbon street had value in my mind. And I kept snatching them up every chance I could. We were having fun. The bars were rocking. A young Army kid and his friends got real excited about my beard and wanted to know all about it. He was proud of me. He kept saying that. Another girl walking by just grabbed my beard and gave it a little tug. And then she was gone. The crowded streets made it hard to move. Craziness. Drunken people. People holding big bright religious signs and yelling/arguing through their bullhorns with the drunken masses.

We made one last pass along crazy Bourbon Street, BS, and then it was time to leave. It was coffee time. Time to drive. I grabbed a few more beads. My neck was sore from the weight of the beads I was carrying. I took off my beads and felt ten pounds lighter. Brain left in his car, headed back to Baton Rouge. And Kobus and I headed north, a twenty-hour drive back to Maryland, where the proof of multiple blizzards was all over. So much snow! A new winter record for Maryland. And so much snow that I'm sure it'll be around for a long time to come, melting slowly and reflecting the sunlight like only snow can. I am home now, happy from the travels, thankful for the safety and the journey, and ready as always to do some more writing. Back to the books.