All Roads Lead To Mullholland...

Sometimes I struggle, staying on track, remaining objective in the day-to-day activities that make up this life. My life. Sometimes, I worry. Often I worry…sometimes about myself, sometimes about the people around myself. It’s the kind of thing that can spin a person into circles until they yearn for a clear vantage point…one of those views that people talk about, high above, from the outside looking in, beside oneself or something like it.

…

I was at the La Brea & Santa Monica Target on a Saturday, hung-over…probably still drunk or fucked from the night that had just passed, wandering. I was there for something, something that I needed in my life…something about my life but I couldn’t remember. I started to sweat, overcome by the masses swirling around me in their Satanic red carts, their lust for econ shopping, their disgusting excitement. For a moment, I thought of standing in the middle of the pretty white aisles of this great American wasteland, pulling trigger and emptying my remnants onto the slick and surely recently buffed tile.

But I didn’t, maybe because I’m gutless but most likely because what pillar member of world society pulls a stunt like that? Not this one. I focused, decided to forget about the overwhelming responsibilities that had earlier inspired my visit. Suddenly, all that was overcoming was overcome. I picked up 11 DVD’s, two sets of bamboo party lights and left with the same sense of false accomplishment that leads me through every task of every minute of every day of this tip of my sweet fucking tongue life…so familiar by now, I get off on it. And maybe that’s my curse, knowing my great flaw…that nothing will ever be enough.

On the way out, I stepped into the elevator, was followed by one couple, another. The doors were closing when a family of happy Mexican-ish descendants crammed inside…obviously at the end of a Target bender and excited to return to their lands in the Eastern kingdom to bask in the glory of a fresh haul. As the doors closed, the alarm sounded. The elevator wasn’t moving an inch…and the doors weren’t opening. We all paused before the first words came from the lady of the first couple, pointed at the family. “You should have bought some food. We’re gonna starve in here.” Everyone laughed until I obviously misjudged the situation…

“We could always eat the children.”

…

Something’s going down in my life…something surrounding, strangling the parts of me that get off on EA and insisting to myself over and over it was a she who insisted, again and again. Harder, harder. Fuck…

I can feel something boiling through. And this incessant tapping in my feet, fingers, face…between my ears. It’s making it difficult to sit still. I have to leave…to wind through the only wind worth mentioning in this town…Mulholland. Because every time I go I feel a step closer to pinning this shit down.

…

I hope the fog is out tonight. I hope it’s seeping through the canyons, cooling the air. I hope it invades through my window, introduces me to the faces of the bits of soul that escape my breath with every exhale. Maybe tonight, they’ll look me in the eyes when they speak…

Maybe they’ll tell me why they’re leaving, or better yet…what’s moving in.

Return to Form?

I’ve been stewing...don’t know what it is. And get me not wrong, this isn’t a complaint. This, is enjoyment…but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to at least try and put a finger on it. Sometimes, for moments at a time, I worry of the death of my heart…a combination of lacking inspiration and the continual thought and reminder of the hollowing affects of fucking loveless. I’m confused…or about to explode…or both. And the times in my life where I worried that feeling was gone, I recall a need to weep. So to it now, I can only bid warm welcome.

Welcome, welcome.

And yes, F Y fucking I, I have a heart…the sort that makes me either want to snap necks or kiss them so sweet I’d teach the world they’ve been missing much, much of their lives. This heart…it’s a piece of machinery quite emotionally advanced, actually. Not necessarily hearts in general, not that I’ve encountered, just mine.

…

I feel I’ve reached a working crossroads, and I’m alright with that. Basically, because sometimes, I think I have distaste for this new job I took…distaste because hate is such a strong word. And by crossroads, I mean after the summer, I think I need to find a good way to cut my salary in half and do the right thing.

I very recently made a pass at writing a television series based on the first restaurant I worked. It’s not on TV because it’s nothing more than my little secret. Right now, although I haven’t exactly found out yet, I believe I’ll find there’s not a whole lot I can do with it…again, key on yet. So instead, my eyes and ears have recently turned to something that is on TV, a little show called Rescue Me with the genius savage, Denis Leary. The idea is to pick a show whose voice you can emulate and elevate (my words), write an episode and then find out what the fuck what. I thought it was in my ballpark until I saw the 4th episode of season 3…right up until Leary’s character’s rape of his ex-wife turns into the best TV sex I’ve ever seen (because she’s into it, not because I’m openly into rape). Anyway, after I saw it, I knew that even though it took a while to open myself up to TV, if I was ever going to write a TV spec while on hiatus from stabbing at features, this would be the show to eat my time.

…

Do you ever see or read about something and just want to talk about it? Okay, obviously. There’s a reason I’m not in Washington. Most of the time, politics fail to move. I’m not in parts of New York because I don’t “get” business…in cases applicable. And I sure as shit ain’t preaching hypocrisy in the form of Jesus or Muhammad…

I’ve talked about Danny Boyle in the past…even on here after seeing Millions, and I find myself wanting to talk about him again. He’s absolutely on my must list (and not solely due to beautiful Muse overuse) and apparently looking to climb his way to the top of it. But anyway, I’ve been following this thing for a while now, Sunshine. Now I can’t let it go. I can’t help but smell incredible…a scent in the movies I rarely pick up on, especially early, but as a close today, I want to lead any eager eyes to their own close…

Because I’m stewing, like I said…and am going to save emotional resonance for another day. B-Day USA is here and will be covered in stops ranging from Pasadena to Malibu to Santa Monica. Shut eye tonight…not optional.

…

http://www.apple.com/trailers/fox_searchlight/sunshine/extendedtrailer/

Why do I so yearn to be epic?

Borrow Me A Match...

It’s probably comparable to the way a bulimic feels after choking down a bag of Oreos, sobbing, wishing they could stop…determined to finish what they had begun, knowing what will soon follow.

Honestly…take up jogging. What’s a hard body with an eroded smile?

…

I want to watch a movie, an old affirming myclassic like Eternal Sunshine or Vanilla Sky or Magnolia. Something heavy that finds its way to sink back in, to unwind the damage Netflix has done, catching up on the piles of shit I avoided in the first place. Or maybe cheat, just a fast-forward to the last 5 or so minutes of Tenenbaums…or to drift off to the ice dance in Ed Scissorhands or anything animated Brad Bird…

But I don’t…and am not…or can’t. Not tonight, clearly again and late on a late Sunday night, I find myself searching. Instead of movies, I let beats fuck my skull until something comes. What’s playing now? Spitting Venom, a song that almost earlier received it’s own post. Something along the lines of driving the 101 at 80 mph at 2:02 am, nearly getting run off the road by Hollywood’s finest drunk and drugged, on my way home to bed, to see someone…or the idea of it and marking in my mind the rare occurrence of a song I will from that moment remember hearing for the first time for the rest of my life and being one swallow from disappearing tears into the black leather of my steering wheel…

Because it’s a beautiful song…among other things. And baby, that’s a rare thing.

…

I’ve been working a lot lately, splitting time between two jobs that share a similar theme. One is downtown called Blue Velvet. The other is in Beverly Hills, Blue on Blue. And no, I’m not dipshit enough to make that intentional. I work six shifts a week (with room for aggressive post midnight drunks…though not as often as should be required) and make fists of money because I fucking hustle and have implanted into my head that this is the best thing to support the choices I have made in my life…

Past choices like jetting around the world for four months, future choices like jumping a weekend plane to Tokyo or Rio or current choices like spending 500 to fill a living room wine cooler instead of paying down said past debt.

…

Sometimes, I lay on my carpet with my back to the floor, dig my fingers into the soft and look up. When it’s not enough, I move to the porch, light a fire and steal glances at the sky. When that’s not enough, I’ll take the elevator to the roof, find a seat, cross fingers for a clear view of infinity and contemplate the meaning of growing up.

Sometimes, often…every time, I wait for the sort of company that only appears in my sleeps. She’s disheveled, cruel, filthy, unforgiving, brilliant and unintentionally romantic - - post the superficialities that got her into the party, of course. During cycles of my life, I convince myself she doesn’t exist…find out she does…am reminded the definition of cyclical…and laugh to myself…

Then I turn, find some guy in matching grey sweats setting up a boombox on the roof furniture…not far from where I’m sitting. As he begins to ferociously lap the pool, I pick up on his inspiration…”passionate” Evangelical gospel. As he passes me, I flinch, not whole-heartedly excited about the prospect of a “child of God” driving a semi to quite seriously sharp and tetanus laced object into my delicate sternum.

Willoughby & Sweetzer

I don’t remember the feeling exactly, or at least I couldn’t remember the feeling until I felt it again. Being a kid…seeing another kid cry, whether it was eating too much Play Doh or compound fracturing an ankle from excessive and careless Pogoballing. One child cries, they all cry. It’s a strange practice seeing as it’s only in rare cases that one can find pleasure in the pain that precedes a sobbing face. Then again, I suppose it’s about the release.

…

There’s a fruit man that sets up shop one block South and one block East of my Kings Road stomps. I often drive past his bags of Bing cherries, wondering both about his asking price and why I don’t stop on my way to work to pick one up. There are few greater pleasures in this world than spitting pits of Bing across Olympic for my usual 30 minute downtown joyride. Of course, these are the things of my useless daydreams. I often find him nestled between protruding roots of a tree that shades his grass top merchandise mart, asleep, maybe drunk. Quite recently though, as I floated past, it wasn’t Dr. Cherries that caught my attention…

On the opposite side of the street, there was something else. Entirely. Flowers, candles, grief. Two girls sat on the curb; carefree like the gum assuming anyone ever gave or gives a floating fuck about the 4 calories that come in each stick. These two girls…it was as if they were floating…or hopelessly trying to float away. Both their heads hung, one shielded by the wide brim of a Yankees hat. It took a moment, but when the moment came, I felt it for miles…days. They were in pain. Seeing these other kids, something twisted in my guts and nearly ripped me in. They looked up as I slowly passed through the stop sign. My mouth moved uncontrollably, formed the only word I could have imagined forming, “sorry.” Their heads fell as I passed through and all that came to mind…

Whoever this was was loved and now they’re dead and even though we both agree that at times you lack desire to know many or anyone on the face of this world for reasons that don’t trace back to an abused childhood or a struggling adolescence, you never knew them and now you never will and this is an undeniably nasty bite and why?

…

The next day, I took the same route, curious. There was a new pair, this time a He and She. They were strangers...I could tell. He rested a hand on her shoulder as She cried. As I floated through the stop sign, I heard her speak, “His smile just lit up the room.” I cringed, found myself wishing she had instead taken the road less trite…something like “He just wore the best shoes you ever saw, didn’t he?”

But in reality, I knew. Trite is life. What she said made it real. What else do you remember about people when they die early? It's the smile. Always the smile.

…

Tonight, I drove by the scene again, three days after I had first passed. Candles were still burning. I had hoped someone would be there, sitting on the curb, floating. Because for me, it’s the kind of thing I’d do on a Sunday…get out, ask. No one was. Someone had been recently. Recently, I don’t think they’ve stopped coming…and I don’t know what to think about that. My personal revelations are rare but then again, hardly.

…

Life is a view looking down from the top of a very, very tall building. It’s a building I selectively climb and selectively toe my feet to the leap. Since this process can be accomplished upon personal election, I hitch when trying to understand why such a thing would be refused. Often, it is...just never by me...

When the thin wind swirls my face and introduces me to pause, I ask myself how I got there but never why. Then, looking to my left, right, I see thousands...millions of faces until they blind and cease my worries and I remember the lovely view, looking out...even if all around, all the time, people are falling.

Polaroid...

I woke this morning with a tumor in the side of my head. It was a pinching feeling, and built. Enough so that as I pushed my pointer and middle fingers into its mass, it would shift and evade my pressure in a coordinated and collected movement. I had just changed my number to a 323 after two years and began to get this worried feeling about no one knowing my new number and that life had been good.

And then it subsided.

…

I’m living in a new apartment on Kings Road in West Hollywood. It’s a long one bedroom, like a giant shoebox. I’ve got a pool on the roof with a sauna, UG parking and a deck that’ll house a fire pit once I stop dropping 800’s to fix my car. I turned the living room into a theater with a grotesque & beautiful 100-inch screen. I have a bedroom with a desk where productions such as this occur. It’s nice. Maybe a bar eventually, another couch, an Audi, who knows. Everything is working to fall itself into place.

Then there’s this picture. I don’t know what to do with it. I carried a Polaroid that pranced with me as I pranced through the kingdoms of Europe…living proof of a fool mad with love. The fool was me. The polaroid was of a lady and I, wrapped up as I distanced and snapped camera with long arms and stretching fingers. I used it to mark the books I read and as a savior in moments of terrible loneliness, as a reminder of the possibilities that lie on far ends of a perilous journey. In every one of the countries and cities I traveled, to me that picture leapt.

So then…



I was walking La Rambla in Barcelona when I met Masa. I don’t know if it was a first or last name and it hardly mattered. For 80 Euros and over a span of three hours, he sketched the Polaroid onto a canvas. Once finished, he handed it off and stuttered a valve in my heart. With gold teeth leading his smile, he looked to me with an earnest grace and said softly, as if it were a secret, “She’s so beautiful, it drew itself.”

…

Sadly though not as tragically as these things can go, the lady, my Navigator and I have since turned to separate journeys. Still, the picture leans against the wall next to my front door. If I weren’t a culprit, if it were an arbitrary work of art, I’d hang it high and proclaim to guests, “True love, found not sought and frozen in time…but lost.”

I’d offer them a drink and pour myself a triple, then slip off to the bedroom. I’d phone the co-star and we’d have a laugh about our last days and my sneaking the picture out of her apartment as she slept. We’d laugh heavy about now, how I had to have it and know why but don’t, its destiny…to always leap, tucked from sight.

Daddy's Been Playing...

Click to the right..."why don't you let me handle the tone."

It'll freshen soon.

"Homeless & Seizures"

It was ingenious and then some. I mean, to find a concept left in this world that glimmers with a crisp vigor. It found me as I was on my way to Grand Lux for the customary Southwestern Salad…resurrection.

She…it was sitting on the corner of Beverly and La Cienega, hunched either against a no parking sign or the wall of a bus stop…so remarkable, details of all this have gone clouded.

We’ll call her Jane. The city of Los Angeles has a fine community of the less fortunate. And Jane’s sign…if you’ll allow me to personify cardboard, brilliance boasted beautifully ragged and spazmatic black lettering, if that’s even personification.

Homeless has been done and done again. Believe me, I’ve seen all the angles. There’s Guy Who Walks Along the Sunset Strip With a Dog That Carries His “Spare Anything” Jar (probably pulls 75k a year). We’ve got Gasoline Eyed Guy Who Dances At the Top of La Cienega With a Sign, “Dance 4 Beer.” We’ve even got Unabomber Who Struts Santa Monica Screaming At Cars and Conspirators (all). Why do I keep writing about the homeless of Los Angeles? I don’t know. They’re there…and the West Hollywood lot deserves distinction from the lot of Hollywood and Highland.

But Jane...

Not only is she homeless, she has seizures. Like getting stupefied but left standing after Tyson’s left hook long enough to eat an overhand right. My, how undelicious does that sound? Not delicious. Not delicious at all.

And it all got me thinking…aside from the already incessant and stalking dialogue…what would my sign be if I had a sign on a corner of this lovely haunted universe?

"Blow me for Pez?"

…

Either and any way, Jane had inspired me. I reached into my pocket but she was sitting, sulking maybe even. Her sign notified me only of a lacking home and an unstable medical condition. She had legs, I saw…(talk about exhausted angles BTW). But inspired or not, what was I supposed to do, frisbee quarters at her forehead? I thought about pulling over…

The light changed. I turned into the Beverly Center and ran into Grand Lux. Thank goodness I had arrived when I did. The dressing was already tossed into the salad and any dilly-dally could have led to a significant loss of crispness in the mixed greens and reds and tortilla strips.

deslin...

It was the creaking drift that stirred him awake. Something heavy in the air…as if it didn’t circulate around his body but rather through his stomach and guts and thought. His eyes opened into seams as he stared off into a blackness lit only by the stars he was passing. Since long ago, the only sensation Deslin knew was that of the drift. It was the plunge, release, pull, release…a dance through the stagnant space that had become as ingrained as breathing.

Someone had long ago set him off in the direction of a faraway place. At least so far as he could remember, that was all that he could remember. Something, something, someone. The flashing images of his memory flickered for moments that lasted long enough to tempt curiosity before another rising force would bury them as they kicked for life.

Space is dark. For those that don’t know, its black is a haven…one made up of the failed sadness and misery of distant worlds and systems. Tip an ear to the black you’ll get a sense of what it means to be alone, out there, in the middle of nothing. Or, you could have asked Deslin. He knew it all too well, too quickly.

…

In space, hours bleed into days bleed into weeks bleed into months. The first twenty hours were the hardest. He sat in the darkness without a single living thought or memory. It was as if everything had been washed clean, as if he had been born into a new world with nothing to lay perception upon. All there was, his only company, a beep from the control room. Though he had long lost any sense of time, Deslin knew quickly the span of its intervals. Beep. Deep breath in, deep breath out. Deep breath in, deep breath out. Beep. Lost in that cadence, he would stare into the infinity of starfields until coming full circle…until he was again, peacefully lost.

…

Deslin woke abruptly from numbness. He had stopped counting the breaths for some time, but was stirred again by the drift moving through his body. Immediately again, thoughts shot through his capacity. They raced, insatiable for anything to place a firm hold upon. Again, they failed. There was nothing.

Beep…

And with it, a memory. Two breaths in, two breaths out.

Beep…

Deslin took a breath, began to breathe out when it sounded again. He took another breath, began to breathe out when the sound cut him off. The intervals were quickly decreasing. An overcoming power surged through his body, something to latch onto…purpose.

…

In what could have been a blink or eternity, Deslin could no longer tell where one beep ended and another began. Then, altogether, they stopped. Light crept in, bathed the cabin of the vessel. The distant, surrounding stars disappeared. All there was, light…so initially blinding and painful, it numbed his sight into an instant state of comfort. Deslin reached for his stomach. His guts weren’t pulling. The vessel had stopped. The beep had ceased. Inside, pearls of sweat began to form on his body. The light encompassed him, trapped him, entranced him. Outside the ship, as the light folded itself around the vessel, pieces of steel began to peel off and melt away. Soon, there was nothing left. Deslin looked around, more than surprised to find he was being held, somehow nurtured by the burning light, alone in the middle of a universe.

It wasn’t a thought, but instinct that made him trust the starlight. He was certain that whatever source he was about to encounter knew nothing of deceit or false guidance. Its light showered him in waves, ripples. He saw a life, his life. Young, smiling. Whatever fear he knew buried itself beneath the surface, tucked from sight. In front of him, through the tunnel of light he saw his life played out, projected. Everything he knew, or dreamed, or loved, wrapped into an instant without pause. He remembered. A choice was made. He left. Something, someone, something.

As the images faded, so too, did the light. Its power converged into a single beam on his right forearm, the residence of his only identification, a black tattoo of his name, deslin. At least, he was always somewhat certain what it meant…a name. In that moment, he was no longer sure. After all, the letters were hardly precise. They ran from his wrist to elbow, jagged, sloppy. He began to wonder if he was responsible for their appearance. He opened his hand…

X…

There was an X in his hand. A marking? It didn’t make sense. He looked closely, distrusting of the identity of the letter. He began to feel a burn from the light. It scorched his skin, burned off excess. He was wrong. The letter wasn’t an X. Devlin saw the y and understood. It wasn’t his name. It was someone else’s.

The star began to slowly let go. The light dusted his clothes, began to take his body when he smiled. His eyes lit.

How sad…he thought before vanishing.

Friends of Hollywood...

It’s like a regular Honeycomb Hideout in the back alleys leading to my apartment’s parking lot. I don’t remember many surefire exacts from my childhood, but one thing I’m certain is that cereal box mythology was deeply branded in my head and heart.

Only the coolest of kids even sniffed admittance. And if you happened to be one of the lucky few, admittance consisted of all the acid infused Honeycomb you could eat and likely molestation charges against the giant and happy Honeycomb mascot which in this case, an animated bee…

That’s not fair. Speculation was mostly all that fueled the acid rumors. But that bee, he was a nasty freak…undoubtedly.

…

I want to tell you about the crew of all stars that live behind my current apartment behind Hollywood and Highland…

Charlize is great. With a style all her own, she’ll often stop and stand in the middle of the alley while I try to pass, extend double barrel mid fingers and mumble obscenities until her inspiration expires. Thankfully, it’s often brief. Only sanity knows of patience. But again, she’s great. With her short riddled hair and crazy eyes, she’s an homage to Ms. Theron’s Oscar winning turn in a little film called Monster…and how fitting. She also enjoys taking shits behind the dumpster.

Wheels is awesome. I had this great empathy for him, and for the longest time. He has these honest, kind eyes. The sort of stranger you pass on the street who will shake your hand if only for the satisfaction…at least, it's what I imagine of his life pre the accident that made him quite immobile and put him in a wheelchair. In the past, I would find him outside the Chevron and place a couple bucks in his hand, trying so hard to make sure he didn’t drop the gift cigarettes he was also so desperately clinging…and yet, he always did. Always does. Sometimes, he slips into my parking lot to freebase a crack type substance and fall asleep with his head resting on the mini Cooper in spot #3.

Dogman is Wheels’ drug enabler. Other than that, there’s nothing much about him that excites me…except for the fact that he has, well, two excellent dogs. I would surely kidnap and rescue them from a life of poverty if the affect weren't so penalizing. I’d have to change his name to Once Dogman, which would sink the one word name motif and tempt me to re-name Charlize to I Wonder How Many People She Has Actually Killed?

Sometimes, the guy who dresses like Spider Man staggers through the alley after a busy day outside Graumann’s Chinese Theater. I imagine the work to be hard...standing on garbage cans and slinging make believe webs. Or maybe the difficult part is squeezing into Spidey suit size: Can't Let Go/Very Dangerous.

I wonder if there’s a loose understanding, that he has a monopoly on being Spider Man. I wonder what would happen if, say, another Spider Man showed up, posted up for the thousands of tourists that come to see the movie Mecca…

I wonder if I own the inspiration.

Butterscotch Aeroplanes, Rainbows...

I had initial trouble coping, coming back to the States.

Because it shudders me to think…the world I knew before I left and the world I know now. Like I was alone, lost in the middle of a lightless forest…convinced a ghost or angry variety gypsy monster was treading my steps. Like I could feel it gaining, 10 steps back…soon 8 to 6 to 4. I’d turn to face it, scream off the fear and yet nothing gave chase. I was alone and would be frozen forever, unable to move…so afraid to continue and face the possibility that it would return.

I would die uniquely, standing, unmoving…either tragically brilliant or brilliantly tragic. These things, as you might imagine…so difficult to discern.

…

I used to wake in the middle of the night in Camps Bay. There was a mirror at the head of the bed I slept. And half asleep, I would turn over and look into the mirror, see my reflection and run from it, screaming, awoken by a doubled heartbeat. It happened seven or eight times before I learned to sleep with a poster of dolphins over my head.

I never punched the mirror and looking back, what a waste of a richly oozing…and pricey…and bloody metaphor.

Though, I don’t think all of the parties sleeping in that bed would have found equal appreciation.

…

It’s not easy. The first night I’ve had with an open mind since returning, the only thought in my head is running the Houghton Steps until my legs shake. I think of easing into the arctic South African Atlantic, letting it seep inside until I’m comfortably erased...

And so I am.

Zimbabwe, Zambia, Zambezi...Niagara Is A Little Bitch and I'm an Idiot...

It felt like playing Edgebrook Saugenash in 9-year-old traveling baseball, driving with our cabbie from Victoria Falls airport to the border where Zimbabwe ended and Zambia began. The first taxi, in hindsight, was a godsend with likely 600,000 kilometers already in the can. Thinking back…at least it was a comfort to see that everyone in the customs line – Americans (us), Canadians, Aussies, South Africans – all had a stash of American dollars. It was the most accepted currency in this country of economic shambles (political too…if I were to speak or publish either one of the previous statements, I would be thrown in jail). Quickly, my mind shifted…there was nothing welcoming about seeing American dollars. More to the point, there was nothing welcoming about anything in Zimbabwe aside from the baboons, vervet monkeys and warthog families roaming the roads…which at that point was anything but a comfort. My Navigator and I buried cameras as we passed a “police checkpoint” (taking photos of any government activity is also reason to be jailed…only to be later freed after negotiating a sweet bribe). Countries of the world, hear this…Zimbabwe is an absolute pillar society. Did I mention getting hit with a 36-dollar check for 2 Fantas and fries at an airport restaurant? You could buy a car for 50 and I’m not even sure if that’s an exaggeration.

We negotiated a cab from the airport to the border of Zimbabwe for 30 (taken). From there, we crossed the border, hopped a cab through no man’s land for 5, passed over the Zambezi bridge -- home to the world’s 2nd highest bungee jump...



And began to work our way through Zambian immigration while 2 steaming cabbies fought over the fare to our final destination. When we came out, the bare footed and ultimately defeated of the two cabbies was screaming…

“Pirate! Pirate! Look at the car, he painted it blue. He’s a pirate! He’s robbing my fare!”

Though he had a point – it was obvious that our driver had thrown buckets of blue paint over his car and let gravity do its duty (blue is the color of the “official” taxis) – our bags were already in the “trunk.” We pulled away, chased by screams as the winning driver attempted to settle our minds…

“Your first time in Africa and this is what you see. This is your impression, the impressions you take back. He’s drunk, look at him. That man’s not even wearing any shoes!”

I assured him that first impressions really weren’t that important, that I already knew of Africa’s beauty when my Navigator began motioning to the empty bottle of Castle sitting on top of the parking break. I offered all I could…

“At least he’s wearing shoes.”

…

Zambia is a country of beautiful, kind people…all the way through. I also think it would be irresponsible to not defend the people of Zimbabwe – a land run by an “infantile guerilla” who fixes exchange rates and sinks the country into frequent tailspins. Maybe someday soon, he’ll be gone and a national identity will have the opportunity to reveal itself.

...

The Zambezi is mighty. Anyone that tells you different is either blind or special. It has this little generator behind it that goes by the name of Victoria Falls – a vision I took in with a setting sun, as the perpetual mist surrounding this wonder made for a rainbow so flawless I wanted to sob all over myself and nearly did.



But as mighty as the sight itself was, I couldn’t know what it was capable of until I rode it.



We took rafts out on the 3rd day – two days after my Navigator suffered from a flash illness, one day after I rode a horse named Wheaty through Zambian farming villages – and it was on the 3rd day that I have never felt closer to death in my life. We rode 10 rapids with a native, deadlocked guide named Simba. The first three were a wild trip. On the fourth, I remember paddling into a swell, already out of breath when I found myself under water – trapped in swirling black without any hope of a sense of direction.



Our raft had tipped and I was gulping water for air. The brain has a breaking point beyond calm where the body – in what felt like an involuntary reaction – thrashes for its own survival. I felt it for what felt like an eternity before I came up, tried to drink down every last drop of air in Africa. I remember gasping, satisfied for a partial second before gulping more of the Zambezi, going under again, getting trapped under the boat when suddenly, the water was calm and I was trying to figure if and when I had blacked out.

And the worst was yet to come...



They call it Gulliver’s Travels, rapid #7 (which would be closed the next day after an upgrade to 6 – impassable). The longest and roughest, our raft was turned by the halfway point. Any sooner and we would have been in serious, serious trouble. I had learned my lesson from the previous encounter, got it far worse than anyone else and kept my mouth shut aside from one line of advice to suck deep wind before hitting the nasty stuff. Though, it’s one of those things you can’t know until you know. This time, everyone tasted the same nightmare. When I finally came up for air, we were nowhere near calm waters. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw as the burly Scotsman that was paddling right middle hit and caromed off a boulder in the center of Gulliver’s most daunting stretch. The water spun me around as I spotted the emergence of my Navigator, trailing 20 meters and nearing a rocky coast that would ultimately prove scarring. I tried to swim, but the current pulled us apart and all I could do - hope for a universal smooth fate, heads above water.

Eventually, our vests brought us up. Eventually, the 7 of us were back into a raft void of trust…broken down, ailing, afraid. On that day, the Zambezi had drowned my body, my strength of mind. The final rapid could not have been more welcomed. My Navigator and I got back, kicked back in the sun and launched ourselves into a reflective and aggressive poolside mid-day drunk with Mosi and Red by our side…with a new appreciation for air and serenity.

…

I didn’t sleep much the last night. It had nothing to do with the heat or the mosquito nets on the bed – I had grown accustomed. It wasn’t even the Temple of Doom millipedes I had earlier seen, worried would be a feast for the Lariam still lurking in my head. At 9 that morning, I had an appointment to jump off the Zambezi Gorge Bridge, the 2nd highest bungee jump in the world---

Yeah, I know, same person haunted by vertigo. Same person sent a check for 10,000 to appear on a TV show (never aired) exploiting my fear of heights (arrogance, charm, beauty…among other things). If there’s something I am or have been trying to learn in the most recent stretches of my life – fears are gifted…and what a tragedy it would be, coasting through life never facing them.

That morning, I didn’t eat, forgot to drink any water. Actually, I felt sick and a little hungover – but this was to be expected. After all, nerves can be powerful little beings.

Strapped and prepped in a blur, I toed the platform drenched in a panic sweat, trembling uncontrollably, adrenaline driving every inch of my body. The numbers 01 had been scratched in large green marker on my right forearm. The spotter, Danny, must have read it in my eyes. He spoke fast…



“Okay, okay…eyes on the horizon. Eyes on the horizon. First jump of the day, okay, you got it. I need you to do something for me, for all of us, for these people behind you. I need you to wake up the Zambezi, show her your pride. Yell, let that shit out.”

I screamed beyond capacity, so fueled and outside myself, it damaged my throat.

“Again!”

I did. And if you were listening closely from any part of the world in that moment, I’m convinced you could have heard me. From there, I dove off, came around to face a jagged ground below that would otherwise been eager to deal end life. And it was in this strangest of places that I found silence and a snapshot of a moment in suspension – as peaceful as anything I’ve ever seen and as afraid as I’ve ever been. Beautiful.



I spent the last day in transit, suffering from what I was worried to be the initial stages of a Yellow Fever tempted from an earlier post. Though, I’m pretty sure it was just dehydration…maybe exhaustion…maybe one of the thousand Zambezi parasites I had inadvertently swallowed while fighting for life.

...

It’s 10 in the morning, my last morning in Camps Bay and I'm still feeling remnants of sickness in my body. Today, I leave for Heathrow...tomorrow, Chicago. After trying to replicate small percentages of the comforts of home in 15 countries and countless more cities over the past 4 months, I’m finally going back to the home that grew me up.

I can’t explain exactly what I was after when I left…maybe because I don’t want to or because understanding would be a gift too generous. All I can say…

May every day break me, every turn blind me, never a moment escape me.

…

Oh, and fuck the world…it’s mine.

Kruger...

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Cape Town 4...

Flight booked. December 22nd, it’s time to return to the States...for now. After flirting with expatriate-ism for what will be 105 days, I can speak for the first time with a real sense of authority that I'm coming home to Earth’s greatest and most enigmatic country. And I’m looking forward to it, at peace with where I am at…maybe because good times are still far from cease beating.

Today, finally, I started in with a hacked prescription of Lariam. It’s only 1 pill, actually…and I only get to take it once a week for the next 7 weeks, but dear friends my oh my, how delightful the prospect of those 7 weeks are going to be. For one, I won’t catch Malaria…at least the probability will decrease. In most parts of the world, that’s a good thing. I still have to get a shot to protect from Yellow Fever. Though, the chances of my follow through are slim. Part of me enjoys too much - real life Oregon Trail. It's just like I used to play on shanty computers in early grade school, watching helplessly as my family would perish away from these very ailments as I guided us towards a better life in the joyous splendor of the American frontier.

But let us get back to the Lariam and my enthusiasm. Kindly note the coming abundance of quotations…wouldn’t want anyone to overlook that this is DIRECTLY pulled…

“ “ “Lariam can rarely cause serious mental problems in some patients. The most frequently reported side effects with Lariam, such as nausea, difficulty sleeping and bad dreams are usually mild. People taking Lariam occasionally experience severe anxiety, feelings that people are against them, hallucinations (seeing or hearing things that are not there, for example), depression, unusual behavior, or feeling disoriented. It has been reported that sometimes, in some patients, these side effects continue after Lariam is stopped. Some patients taking Lariam think about killing themselves, and there have been rare reports of suicides. We do not know if Lariam was responsible for these suicides.” ” ”

Next Wednesday, I’m hopping a flight to Johannesburg, picking up a little bitch Ford Focus...probably white. Sorry, uncalled. I speak ill only because of my foresight…reeling from separation anxiety after parting with Jameson, my struggling ’77 stud VW. From Jo-Burg, it’s a 5 hour drive to Kruger - an African national park that’s the size of everything east of the Mississippi. Note: previous statement likely not factual…but it could be. Kruger is a monster full of beautiful monsters. That part is true.

“Don’t go to Zimbabwe.” “So seriously, my friends just got back from Zimbabwe, don’t go.” “Africa is sweet, dude. Dude, don’t go to Zimbabwe.” “Stay out of Zimbabwe. It's totally fucked.”

The following Saturday, I’m hopping a flight to Zimbabwe. This little thing that’s supposed to be a sight, Vic Falls, sits on the border of Zambia and the country of previous mention. I’ll split time between them, two places where meds of previous mention slip beyond the borders of optional. Things will ensue.

…

Snake bites!

Of course. And dealt from the sorts of snakes that stomp in deep Africa…certainly fatal AND in compliance with Oregon Trail treachery, especially if you fuck with their babies...which, I imagine, would be the cause that leads to my effect: lecture from a butch park ranger named Cleoa and more meds to combat the poison partying it up in my veins.

Perhaps I'll vaccinate after all. Perhaps.

Cape Town 3...

He was sitting along the side of the divide, droned by the ocean as I ran into the winding placidity of Victoria Road, 4 kilometers South of Camps Bay. This was a man I had earlier named Dewey…only to later fall back on the literally inspired Spitzengiggle. Recently though and likely forever, he’ll remain Jupiter.



Jupiter sits on a crate at the corner of Camps Bay Drive and Victoria, a hair to the left of Pick n' Pay’s front entrance. He carries a cane that conforms to his upper arm, walks with a limp on his right side. His clothes dangle over a hungry but distantly famished dark, dark skinned body. The first time we made eye contact, he stuck out his tongue and blew spit through rickety teeth and a warming, gapped smile. If I didn’t instantly think he was insane, the deal was sealed as I crossed the street…chased by his rabid howls.

Our following encounters were brief. At times I would pass, notice his distant stare into an ocean view too perfect to be uncalculated. To me, though, he gave nothing. No spit, wink, howl...not even a grin. He never looked up. What had I done? I thought back...maybe he had initially offered something that my coldness rejected. Or, perhaps Ockham deserved his due – my credit was escaping too freely.

Days later, I was picking up laundry when a racket caught my attention. It was Jupiter. He was standing and yelling, jabbing and thrusting his cane into the air. Something had agitated his cool. No, someone. Jupiter was in a justified hot boil. I realized, quickly…he was defending the only kingdom he knew – Camps Bay and Victoria. He and a remoresless Invader began their dance. Jupiter would chase off Invader, who would retreat and stop when Jupiter turned his back. Once privy, Jupiter would give chase up our steep hill. It went on for a few rounds, this mid-day disruption at the corner of paradise in Southern Africa. Eventually, Invader left the scene in a slow and mocking retreat. After witnessing first hand, a Camps Bay street corner political struggle, I couldn’t help but cross the street and lap the victor. He had already settled back into his crate as I was passing. When he didn’t initially look up, I stopped, motioned an unsympathetic hand in the direction of the man he had chased off. He raised his glare and was at first, taken back by my attention. His arms flew tirade as he began to spit and howl in a dialect that wasn’t Afrikaans or English. It was Jupiter, and I got it right away…

Now into his 70’s, Jupiter has been on the corner of Camps Bay and Victoria for a long, long time. It’s his post. Every now and then, as I had witnessed (apologetically by Jupiter), some young punk tries to waltz in on his rightful property. They wander into the beauty of Camps Bay; think they can strong arm a “crazy old man” out of his prime, prime beachfront stomps. He said it’s a generational thing. The kids have no respect for anything (one of his major concerns for our aging world, by the way). He confessed to doing it many times in the past, reluctantly foresaw having to do it many more times in the future…that is, until he no longer has one.

As he began to shift the crate, I knew he was moving away from the glory of his late adventure. He smiled, welcomed me to Camps Bay. I smiled, thought twice…stuck out my tongue, blew spit like a child. He slapped his knee, burst into laughter so violently careless, it melted my remaining guard. His face grew squinty before dishing a timid thumbs up (half tucked behind a coiled pointer finger). Crossing the street, I found myself graced again by his now comforting – homey neighborhood howls.

I go into Jupiter’s Pick n' Pay almost every day, come out with 5 Rand, sometimes 10. Though it’s not much, it’s always for him. He never asked, not even in Jupiter. After his acceptance, I get a thumbs up, a squinty smile, a howling accompaniment every time I cross the street. Every time I say goodbye, I stick out my tongue, blow spit in his vicinity. Often, he returns the favor. Yesterday, I came out with 5 Rand, handed it to him with tongue fully stretched. He pulled my hand with surprising strength, kissed it, held it to his head. It took me by surprise. Something had changed…something between us. Real or invented, it was a connection I’ll not soon forget.

Crossing the silent street, my mind drew a line to the moment I passed him on that coastline run. I don’t know what it was exactly, seeing him so far out of town…sitting out on the rocks, looking out onto the mighty ocean. He was alone, maybe. Or maybe, simply, he just looked so peaceful I wanted to stop and talk forever until the sun settled and he left to return to the star that calls him citizen.

Maybe he would tell me everything - a world in his words, in Jupiter. Maybe he would take me there, away…show me.

Cape Town 2...

My navigator and I tied knots in our seatbelts and left after dawn, compass reaching for southern lands. We were headed for Antarctica but settled mind, instead, on the Cape of Good Hope…likely the closest we were ever going to get to the frozen, black continent.



Strange lands are these…landscapes, sandscapes. The abundance of grandeur in this country is daunting. By nightfall, after all that’s been seen for the day, my eyelids gruesomely stretch head to chin. Inescapable winds blow everywhere, and like Hell. Yesterday, they dusted our ’77 VW Beetle across the 2 lanes of Chapman’s Peak Drive as the lawnmower engine in our car shudder and popped its very own roadie soundtrack, “Gruntstruggle.” The car – all white with a rough 16 dozen dents, scratches, and minor disappearances (left rear view mirror) – appropriately seems to me, recently named after a delicious brand of Irish whiskey. Though, don’t ask me to defend appropriateness.

Baboons are dangerous. Or, so they say. I say their asses are unsightly. If fed by humans, especially on a regular basis, they adopt unhealthy habits. In extreme cases, they have to be put down…something ballparking a forever injection of sleepy time to a blindsided skull strike with a rusted shovel. Apologies, but I find range of definition to be a fascinating and educationally progressive practice.

…

I was easing Jameson around a sharp bend where the traffic was stopped and confusion was breeding on the side of the road. I down shifted into 2nd, tried to ease Jam into passing with a mechanical grace that he had likely lost in the late 80’s. My navigator and I rumbled through the fray of ill-parked cars, caught stares of an extended baboon family re-union on the side of the road. We parked facing the wrong direction, grabbed cameras and got out for a closer look. Adults hung in the shade, ill-inspired by admiring visitors. Babies were jetting about with careless abandon - jumping rocks and eating plastic bags that would likely later get trapped in their baby esophagi. If concern filled my veins, it was soon silenced by Squadron WBC. My initial thought - how dare I ever judge babooning baboons, minding their business. It wasn’t until commotion found our African roadside scene that I began to think otherwise.

The largest of the group strolled casual across the street, likely beginning with Jameson…the first in the line of parked cars. Lucky for my navigator and I, our doors are old and difficult to open…and so he moved on. I didn’t see this, only imagined after later witnessing his methodical practice. I was focusing on a shot of two babies dangling over their parents when I heard the banging. An older man was slamming his fist on the trunk of his car, yelling. Though, I assure this was no scene of senility. Instead, there was an 80 pound baboon sitting…no, kickin' it in the back of his Ford. And he wasn’t going anywhere…



Later that day, I found myself taking sun in the under-run sands of Boulders Beach just outside Simon’s Town. Kids belted screams of chaos as they jumped from rocks into the icy ocean. Parents sat in the shade. Europeans wore Speedos. African penguins collected on the rocks, weaved through swimmers’ legs when the day called for a break in the monotony.



It was a second scene too bizarre to initially cope. Naturally, I opted for escape, couldn’t help but think back to the likely fate of the car invading baboon…

A tour bus came to a stop in the middle of the road. Through the tinted windows, I could see that everyone quickly stood, moved to the side owning optimum POV. Out of nowhere, a man darted across the road…likely the bus tour guide. He pulled the belt from his pants, rushed the car twirling it over his head like a cowboy madman. As a machine gun of flashes snapped through the windows of the bus, I knew in that moment that that moment was his…the reason he wakes, steps on that chariot far too often and says the same shit over and over and over again. I couldn’t deflect the rushing pity from invading my mind - never had I seen a “hero” willing to reach so far over the top…but why? I could only imagine the feeling of walking back onto the bus, met by a roaring wave of applause for “bravery” in the face of danger. I could only imagine what it felt like to be lusted after by a docile (though, willing to let it fly) pack of golden women. Upon reaching the car, Savior dragged the buckle of his belt against the paneling, launched into a tirade combo of territorial yelps. The baboon retreated…and quick. All was again right in the tourist kingdom.

In hindsight, I’m pretty sure the baboon was watching as Savior jumped back into his bus. He stood there, watching as we all did…the bus pull away. The moment Savior rounded the bend and vanished, the baboon opened the door, jumped back into the car. Now well advised, the Fordman quickly began rocking the car and yelling (unconvincing and quite amateur after the earlier display). It was obvious to me, he wasn’t going to accomplish much…not without much improved conviction. In the end, it was the rocking that did it. Nauseate the animal…FYI.

I don’t know when the moment struck, but it certainly did…realization, what the hell were we doing out of the car? A flash began to run across my periphery, another…another. 3 cars and a tour bus quickly became 7. One family of peace loving monkeys turned to a legion of crazed anarchists. They began jumping on cars, running across the road, pulling on car doors. When I came back around to face my navigator, the car loving baboon was now on top of the Ford…likely feeling sick, perhaps slightly emotionally ruptured. He was standing between us and Jameson and the only thing I knew for sure - I had no interest in crossing his step.

When he made for a shrub on the side of the road, we circled around a car of 4 crammed surfers. The scene had them giddy, beaming through their cheeks. We walked slowly…calculated and calm…

“Gents, be good…I swear, if you piss that thing off…”

We pulled Jameson’s doors and jumped inside, watched as the baboon filed down the row of parked cars. He stood on his feet at every one, pulled on a locked door, moved along. At the last car, he fell back on all 4’s, retreated into the bush.

Jameson purred like a leopard in stage 5 of throat cancer when I turned the ignition. As I drove the bending road, into 2nd gear, I saw the call go out on dispatch, “Renegade baboon, sector 4 outside Cape of Good Hope. Strike three, Norman again. We gotta put him down.” I threw it into 3rd, saw Norman on the run...aided in his fugitivity by the bat-eared foxes and rock dassies intent on keeping him alive in the African Wilderness. As I pulled Jam back into 4th, I saw it…Norman’s last stand, surrounded by men holding rusted shovels. They closed in as he pretended to cower, accept his payment of death. Though, what the men in uniform could not have known, what few men have ever known about the animal kingdom was that in those approaching critical moments, a great wild saving splendor was about to take place…

3 – The infinite, surrounding bush begins to crackle and shake.
2 – Masses of birds call out in unison, form stirring clouds that blanket the innocent blue sky.
1 – Silence grows deafening, a true calm before the storm. Just as a grin floats across Norman’s baboon lips…just as the executioners catch a fleeting glimpse of Norman’s blood stained teeth -

Beach…stretching and empty, miles of it. I looked down from the high and winding road and it was magnificent…so mysteriously abandoned. This continent, so overly untouched, still. Africa had me punch-drunk again. Again and again…

What were we even talking about?

Cape Town...

It's a state of confusion, I suppose. The first day I spent in Camps Bay found failure in placing the feeling...likely, because I'd never known it - the sight of clouds spilling over the side of Table Mountain. I walked out my front gate and looked right - liquid apocalypse - white mist bleeding over the Twelve Apostles. It felt like the end of the world of my imagination. One of serenity, forgiveness...of beauty sends us reeling, falling on heels. How tragic it is, a chap trapped with ideals that every day fall farther into the minority...


Again, I self daunt…usually for the sake of. Some claim it poor form – sharing a property line with nail biting or public masturbation. It’s a habit, yes…though I will to the day I die, dispute their judgment. It’s like a Slurpee of flavor life rejuvenation – self daunt…in case I lost you.

If I want sushi, jazz or movies that only work in South African DVD players, I step straight out the front gate, try my best to remember everyone in this country drives on the sinister side of the street. I cross, give it anywhere from 12-50 paces. Convenience, though lovely…hardly inspiring.

To my left sits (sorry, life knows little of fairness) the most beautiful beach I've ever set foot. And allow my reminder that these feet have found many, especially lately. The water is clear, blisteringly cold. Wind shoots across this land like a crazed criminal, dusts the cove before its prowess is absorbed...eaten alive by the ocean.

Between it all…Rikkis, Black Taxis, white clothed lawn bowling. There’s a charming gap toothed, tongue blowing, cane donning corner poster (who will certainly soon speak here in exclusivity) I’m going to call Dewey. The sun is sweet and the season is starting. Worries swirl seldom. At times, I forget who I am. But it didn’t take long, in this place so far away, this place that will have me for the next 6 weeks…this place became my home.

Welcome.

Athens 2...

To all my pre-marathon advice enthusiasts...

Nipple guards, crotch lube? For your lacking mentions, severe penalties are being paid. Thank you. Elaborate? Certainly. I lost half of each, magically frayed into the unknown.

Unofficially, I crossed tape - lost my 26.2 mile virginity in the 3:46 range. It's difficult to tell until they publish the results. People traffic didn't let me start for about 2 minutes. Though it didn't take long to realize winning was out of the question(Kenya), I did find solace...eventually, in the self developed claim that if runners were bracketed into weight classes, I would have definitely finished in the top 10 at 200 lbs. Sure as shit didn't see anyone else lugging two chariots like mine up and down the relentless fucking Greek hills.

There are endless things I could write. Endless. If you go to battle for 4 hours and come back without a tale, check pulse.

I could write about the moments I was struck...struck by the last two months of my life. They hit at kilos 8, 13, 26, 34...I recall exactly. You would, too. At 40, I pulled my I-pod, let it seep through a thick, thick skull that this first epiphanous leg of a whirlwind journey was about to find an epic form of closure.

How revolving it is, power in life that made these eyes shine. Over and over.

...

Currently, Europe is finding its way to the left side of the stage. Tomorrow, after 622 hours of flight, South Africa's intro begins - an apartment on the water in Camps Bay in Cape Town. Headed to live, work, find out about a girl...

Though, order of importance, however speculative...yet to be determined.

...

Oh, life.

Athens...

It's so cold I want to eat my face. Though, I wont.

They let Smith into the marathon. I took a 70 minute tram that stopped every block and a half, arrived at the Athens Fencing Complex - initially used to house competition for the staggeringly talented world swordsmen during the 2004 Olympics - wondering all along how someone could go through so much trouble and personal anguish to beg another someone to let them run 26.2 miles in the freezing cold.

But I did. And tomorrow, I will.

How does a climate drop 30 degrees the day I arrive and pick 30 back up the day I leave? Ladies and gents...I present to you the question of the afternoon.

...

Sticking the playlist under the comments section...for any eyes eager.

Santorini...

It was my first night in from Athens, fresh off a 7 hour ferry ride, that I found myself alone on the back side of this volcanic Greek island. From the port, they drove me to a quaint and quiet place called Villa Holiday Beach. I was given a private room, steppings from beaches of black sand and was told to pay upon check out - 15 Euros per day...distant cries from the 150 they fetch in swarms of peak season. I locked the door, dropped my stuff in the middle of the room and collapsed into the comfort of MY own bed in MY own room...luxuries I've long forgotten.

It wasn't until 7:30 that I woke from a 2 hour drift. Outside, night had come, and with it, the fury of an island storm. The streets were empty as Earth's ceiling strobed incessant warnings that lit surrounding mountains, the marshmallow and rushing sky. Nothing was open. No cars, few lights. The Perissa side of this island was a ghost town, I was convinced. Quickly, the streets became lonely and daunting, especially as the thunder began to tumble with such a power, I could feel it creeping through the pads in my feet. Drizzle quickly turned to a pour and I found myself wondering why I had drifted so far from the hotel when I knew - absolutely knew - this was going to happen.

My hair was soaked, my shoes, pants to my shins, torso. Drops of water formed on my brow, dripped as I would blink through gazings down the long, dark and empty road ahead. I was completely alone, a moment powerfully realized as the might of the storm showed no signs of letting up. It was growing, and with a continual balling fury. With nothing left on my body to salvage, I began to urge her on...sent my triple dog dare through the telepathic satellites of our universe. As she raged, my steps slowed to a crawl. I raised my hand high into the air, fist so clenched my knuckles ran past white to transparent...as if the whole of my hand no longer existed. And in the blackness of the streets and the blackness in moments of the soul, I begged for the storm to show me her might. I wanted to feel her charge through me. With every flash of momentary hope turned to denial, I shuddered deep - a shivering in the bones - with certainty that something, somewhere heard my every thought...an arrogant dare that wouldn't soon be forgotten. I lowered my outstretched hand, picked up a quicker step...jogged home to the first of three nights, shrouded in nightmare.

...

By every form and turn of the imagination, Greece is exquisite. And even on its most faulty days, Santorini is a postcard. This country is a perfect end to the beginning of a long journey. I left Athens after 2 days under the Acropolis to hop islands. In two hours, I leave port to return...mostly to tie up the one loose end I have left. News of note : I've decided to back out of the originally planned, "Run the Same Solitary 26.2 Miles We Now Call A Marathon Run By Some Ancient Greek That Died From the Very Mentioned Happening." Instead, being the Baron of Good Destiny / Dipshit Asshole that I am - there so happens to be an official Athens marathon this Sunday, the 5th. It's the day before I leave for Cape Town.

Though I've encountered some resistance in trying to register past said date, "Registration closed, no more applicants to be received," I can assure you that in one form or another, those 26.2 miles will be graced by these two feet on this particular Sunday. I'm going to run it officially, with a number on my chest. Life, I've found, doesn't enjoy being crude in cases where it need not be.

But if for some reason it...or the organizing members of the Athens Classic Marathon choose to be, then you better count on at least 1 renegade runner blazing a trail, ass on fire...riding off (running) into his last sunset (mid-day glow) of Europe.

Pompeii...

Soundtrack of the afternoon: Guero
Theme: "Missing"
Scene: Pompeii, the city leveled by Vesuvius back in...way back when. Why Beck? He's whimsical, playfully genius and musically profound...like square dancing to Mozart.

Walking the streets through resurrection, I envisioned storms of blinding ash drifting sans warning. I envisioned roaring waves of magma swallowing (quite unlikely and likely impossible, imagined nonetheless) every brick. And I could see the people. They weren't running or afraid. Quite the opposite, actually. They were soaked in laughter...as if playing a children's game. I dubbed it - Run From Magic Melt You to Your Bones, Orangewater - though in hindsight, a name that would likley fail in finding traction. Morbid, I realize...simply found the moment too sweet to let go. But I've seen it before, should have known then as I've witnessed forever. All happy and fun games must come to an end.

I was halfway through the appropriate "Farewell Ride," exploring salvaged pots that spoke loud and clear - clearly the Pompeiians (?) scored high marks in dept. Arts & Crafts. They were stacked shelves upon shelves. Pots...vases...sculpterous endeavors that resembled cowering, deathly afraid people - people ready and accepting of their coming death...encased in, lava ---



The needle jumped, the soundtrack stopped. I saw their faces...this was no game.

...

The bus dropped me off at the base of Vesuvius. As I began to climb, I could feel but chose to ignore a fear that was tracing my steps. After a brisk and steep 30 minutes, I turned to my left, looked down into the face of this once mighty and merciless, now dormant crater. It was so vast and I was so high up, the first thing my body came up with...vertigo.



It came hard, fast. I quickly knelt, dusted my right across the gravel and dirt path as a means for correction. When I stood, the world was steady. My mind, though - elsewhere. There must be things in existence certain people find impossible to grapple. Maybe I had found one of mine. This terror, once capable of a wrath and rage so violent...beautiful, stunning. Contradiction like I've never seen. And in its days of glory? The things I'd give to see it spit, just once...to see the faces of the ancient and God fearing Romans...

Dude, the fuck did we do?