Yes Grania! Go! Fly with great speed to the north. With every mile our story becomes more plausible and soon our flight from Cuba will be successful. We shall slip into Miami's Bay just nigh the storm if Grania can keep up her fury. When she wants to be, she is quite the speed demon. With conditions right, as they are, she skips gaily through seas. Waves like these, small resulting from a slow-shifting breeze, Grania barely notices; they just transfer a bit of their shape into her dance. Her sea dance - what is called sailing. I dare say she is at her finest when she is on the close reach creating her own wind and singing the song of the shrouds. No, she did not make the song, surely she did not create it, but she sings it. It is not even song for it does not end - it is too subtle for that. She sings the symphony of the sea - a mysterious calling from the distant starboard bow. If I had to, I would describe it as the ever-present softly sounding chime of a green offshore buoy hopelessly fogged and lost at sea. We never head straight for it; no one can ever know where it is. But Grania need be nearer to it, always nearer. Ever and more does she strive for it - look how she has dragged us along in search! The problem, Grania's great sadness is that if you give her a tack, the song lies off the port bow. The symphony of the sea is forever upwind.
Afterword
Grania’s voyage did not end there, but the records do. When I met them at the final stop on their trip in Hingham, Massachusetts it was a haggard site. Physically they were bearded and dirty. Their clothes worn and worn again. Grania’s yellowing sides indicated that she was a boat thoroughly used. I don’t think her crew could smell it any longer, but there was a potent scent aboard that vessel. Mentally they were relieved and proud that they had accomplished what they set out to do. Yet, they were noticeably scattered. Their brains had trouble coping with the fact that they were “home”. Grania did not need to be prepared for the next day’s journey anymore. Weather forecasts would be of no real consequence. All the gear they had purchased to make the trip possible would be garaged. Their link to Grania and the shifting seas would take time to fade.
Patrick’s recollection:
“Our final day was an easy morning motor. Our two friends were aboard providing plenty of laughs and distraction. But in a private moment I remember playing the Talking Heads song ‘Home’ and feeling so strange. It really ends now? Was it enough? Is home where I want to be? I did not know. Our families had arranged a small welcome home party at the Hingham Yacht Club. Not an hour after Grania reached her final dock did a perfectly fine June day turn into a hellacious hail squall. It was a fitting reminder of disasters narrowly avoided. We were safe now. Things would be easier going forward.”
The party was pleasant enough, but I remember feeling frantic as if this could not really be it – I didn’t want to be home yet. Instead of sleeping in my own bed that night I went with my buddy up to Maine to hang out with a bunch of young ruffians in a cabin. I have come to regret that decision. I should’ve rested and reflected. Spent time at home with my family. That would have helped complete the trip. I was restless still. I did not want to admit that to anyone, and I was too blind to realize it myself.”
“The march north felt heavy. The notion that these seas had already been sailed could not be shaken. Closer quarters had gotten to us by then. We were tired. I don’t think we cared anymore. Many times in that last month we joked about the phrase “we used to be passionate” because it was true. After the Caribbean with its poverty and lack of amenities, we were waiting for American lifestyle to provide some sort of release. We took every chance we could get to go out to bars. I sat on various bar stools thinking to myself “this is what we are left with at the end of the trip?” I secretly harbored the hope that some switch in my mind would flip, that the voyage would change things. But by then I knew it would not. Still, there were plenty of good times. Sadly, I won’t be sharing them in detail. We made it home and were happy with our accomplishment. I didn’t set foot on a sailboat for a long time.”
Months after their return, neither Ted nor Pat had acclimated to life on land. Social situations were difficult to blend into. The suburbs were dull and there was no adventure to be had. They found that telling stories of Grania’s voyage was ineffective. Nothing seemed to drive home what had happened. And sadly it became hard to recall what it was like living at sea. The notion that Grania had just sailed 5000 miles had become completely absurd to them.
When I re-engaged with what they had written, their journey came back to life. I realized how far they had come. Ted’s dream and his know-how sparked the trip. And his poise kept them afloat throughout. Pat, who knew not a lick of sailing when they began, was the only one crazy enough to go with him. Together they shared resolve to do something BIG that was removed from the norm. It worked. They got themselves in over their heads.
Some part of me revisits these memories, riffs on their whimsy like melody. A carapace of their reality strolls on while Grania and her crew circle familiar scenes. Those days at sea won’t end soon for those two I once knew. Not in my noggin. And I find it quite comforting that these memories will be suspended in a bottle of recollection isolated in their own world where what happens from now on does not matter. From time to time I think back to them and laugh. They can live in that world, we cannot.
Postscript
At this moment, now in 2014, we are already know that irrevocable changes have been caused by human fossil fuel use. It is now clear that if we continue to burn fuel at anywhere near this rate the effects will be severe and unpredictable. The earth will be make it just fine, but humans very well may not. It is particularly concerning from the perspective of ocean dwelling people that the sea is the main buffer that is absorbing most of the excess carbon dioxide in our atmosphere. This is causing acidification to unknown end.
This trip remains living proof to both Ted and I that a nearly net-zero emissions lifestyle is not only possible but incredible. It forces deep and meaningful engagement with oneself, other people and the natural environment. There is no possible outcome besides adventure filled with high octane moments of fear, joy, friendship, anger, sadness and solitude. I made more memories per day than I do in a month now. Less stuff, less access and less communication does not lead to suffocation it leads to freedom. Energy is forced into meaningful action and diverted from endless distraction. An easy and comfortable lifestyle affords little to no opportunity to rise up to a physical, mental or spiritual challenge. Without strife, humans begin to comprehend their true potential. A sailboat is human ingenuity at its finest. The ocean is nature at her purest. Just this is enough to occupy a lifetime. Yet people watch a two hour movie and think they “get the jist”. Then they proceed to comfort themselves into a sleepy daze they call life.
Raw nature has no limits, and its challenges know no bounds. Living on a sailboat is by no means the only way to live a substantially “off-the-grid” lifestyle, but it is a damn good way. Travel can be substantially powered by the wind and diesel gas needs are minimal. Food obtained from the ocean is diverse and succulent. Energy is limitless and easily captured in the form of wind generators and solar panels providing enough energy for computers, refrigerators, and all sailing necessities. Many people work their entire lives to travel to exotic locations and eat local cuisine for 2 weeks out of a year. We did it every day on a used boat purchased for $12.5k spent a further $10k over 8 months. And we could have kept going. The voyage was not fun and games. It was hard work and toil punctuated by eye opening moments. These scribbles of paper communicate a snapshot of a pivotal moment in two young lives. I hope this story satiates and inspires yet leaves readers hungry and resolute to not live a half-assed life. Everyone falls victim to laziness and their own brands of vice. Collectively we face the greatest challenge human beings have yet seen. Sailor Bob the wise sage we met in Beaufort, South Carolina once told us “it’s not a problem, it’s an opportunity!” MOVE
Appendix A
December 6, 2010
RN495: Wandering w/ Professor Prothero
Boston University
Wandering: Apples and Oranges
I am planning a sailing trip with three of my close friends. We do not yet know the place or time of our departure or return, nor do we have a vessel to sail. But we have high hopes and every expectation that we will be on the high seas for around two years. Trying to understand the complex thoughts we all have surrounding this plan is impossible, but I would compare our sailboat to a sacred vessel. We are surrounding ourselves with the sacred: friends, freedom, opportunity, nature, and a desire to wake up and live life, and exiling the profane life that entwines all those who are settled. Dare I call it a modern Noah’s Ark bringing all that has not been tainted by evil and leaving the rest behind: liquor, women, cigarettes, taxes, and the like? No, I get ahead of myself. From now until departure we have to endure the thickest jungles of secular life, raising enough funds to buy all that seems so extraneous: life jackets, safety harnesses, inflatable rafts, depth charts, weather systems, and all the other crap that unfortunately must be dealt with.
At the heart of this trip is not what we bring but who we bring. Ted will captain the sailboat with years of racing and teaching experience. He has never done any offshore sailing. His crew will consist of Sean, Adrian, and I; our qualifications amount to a small amount of pleasure cruises. Our virtue lies not in our knowledge of ocean, but in our confidence that if four smart high school friends about to graduate from college dedicate themselves to this trip, we can make it happen. It is no small feat to buy a sail boat that will cost up to $40,000 and outfit it with possible $20,000 of essential equipment for four grown men who have never held a job title that does not contain the word ‘intern’. But we all share the view that it is somehow a good idea to save every penny for two years before we set sail and throw every last dollar into the wind. This is the strength of our crew, and I would like to take some time to explore the motivations that justify such an investment.
The assertion that all four of us most vehemently uphold is that it is unacceptable not to take an extended leave from our society where we are expected to join the workforce, go to graduate school, rejoin the workforce and start a family. Some might call this view irresponsible; Adrian’s feeling on the matter is that it is actually irresponsible to join the workforce right after graduation. To do so is to become a drone, a sheep just following the herd. Ted’s largest issue with his field of study, engineering, is that no one actually enjoys their school work. The painful process is endured to get a job. He went so far as to say that the mindset of his fellow engineers is not human. Getting a job is not irresponsible from his perspective, four years of voluntary torture is. “If four years of torture leads to golden paradise, I would have been an engineer, but if someone hates their field of study then how can they expect to enjoy working in that field?” Sean is of the opinion that there will be plenty of time to work, so there is no reason to start right away. “Work is not an issue that we wish to side step, quite the contrary we hope to make our experience in the workforce better through this trip.” But let’s be honest, when people talk about career advancement they do not consider sailing. Although ‘circumnavigation of the globe by sailboat’ should be an impressive addition to any resume, the thrust of the voyage is not occupational. I am after something bigger, egged on by the possibility that we may be going down a very long dead end street if we blindly follow the path laid out by the expectations of our families and society.
Ted’s advisor recently told him that he has potential as an engineer and should go to graduate school, a view that his parents share. Ted admitted that this alluring proposition with the promise of long term security gave him second thoughts about the trip. He will be losing time he could have spent on his career. But then this occurred to him “what do I think I am going to get out of life if I can’t even take two years off?” A trip like this, as we have all come to understand, will take more dedication and focus than any other endeavor we have attempted in our lives so far. It is much easier to continue down a well-travelled road. But Ted, Adrian, and I cannot help but notice that very few kids our age know what to do with themselves and therefore they are afraid to deviate from the norm. Our society gives them a simple and reassuring message: try to make as much money as possible, success and happiness will follow. All of us agree, this is ass backwards; it is a trap. Once accustomed to a steady pay check, it is too hard to give it up. Stacking up provisions sidesteps the real issue: why not strive to get exactly what we want out of life? It is clear talking to Ted that he thinks it is impossible to have a clear direction in life coming out of a college setting which bears little resemblance to the real world. He said that “college doesn’t allow for time to think about anything but work” and he feels constant concern with his own affairs and his future is making him selfish. Keeping up with work is important, but immensely stressful. Going to grad school, though it seems a great step forward, is actually entrenching him in a war he is not sure he wants to fight. Sean’s opinion again is moderate. He decided to come on board with Adrian, Ted, and I because it sounded like an adventure that he could not pass up.
I believe that one way to acquire real focus is to wander. Since wandering is too broad a term for me to define generally, I will share a journal entry of mine discussing my views:
Wandering is a means of getting out of our ‘stuck’ self and to see the world with fresh eyes. Whatever it takes – a twenty minute walk or a year long journey – wandering is a process of leaving one’s routine in as natural a manner as possible. How well one is able to leave routine depends on one’s ability to bring about a ‘Don’t Know’ state of mind while on a wander. This means waking up to the mystery surrounding you in the present while putting aside our instincts for knowledge and control for a little while. Once this is done, a task always accomplished in varying degrees, all the issues of everyday life start to return. They trickle through this filter of mystery and come out the other side with the potential for diverse change. For me, I have not yet been led in a clear direction through this process except towards a state of mind that I know I have not yet delved into nearly enough and I am therefore going sailing.
November 10, 2010
A passage in Natalie Goldberg’s book Writing Down the Bones talks about this type of wandering:
When we walk around Paris, my friend is afraid of being lost and she is very panicky. I don’t fear being lost. If I am lost, I am lost. That is all. I look on my map and find my way. I even like to wander the streets of Paris not particularly knowing where I am. In the same way I need to wander in the field of aloneness and learn to enjoy it …without jumping to the existential nothingness of the world, questioning everything.” (Goldberg, 115)
Walking around, not particularly knowing where one is going is the simplest method to begin a wander. But if we stop short when we begin to get uncomfortable we are not taking the time to learn what the wander is teaching us, nor are we in for much of an adventure. For Natalie, she believes that “everyone has a great fear. Mine is loneliness. Naturally our great fear is usually the one most important to overcome to reach our life’s dreams” (Goldberg, 114). Wandering can help us to both reveal fear and come to terms with it. How quickly this fear manifests (if people really only have one great fear) is a matter of practice. Natalie, thirty six at the time, is a Zen student and a writer, both arts of self-investigation; but an ocean cruise can serve the same function. None of us expect this voyage to be easy to plan, nor do we expect blue skies to greet us every morning that we wake up on our ship. But we all share in the opinion that these hardships are not needless, and that the satisfaction stems directly from hard work.
Pushing ourselves to the limits of practicality and safety are the terms we accept when we board our sacred vessel, but the advantage that we gain, in my opinion, is a type of wandering that opens us up to what Thoreau describes as “a subtle magnetism in Nature, which, if we unconsciously yield to it, will direct us aright. It is not indifferent to us which way we walk. There is a right way; but we are very liable from heedlessness and stupidity to take the wrong one” (Thoreau, Walking). Part of the appeal of sailing is that we are forced to always compromise with weather patterns which infuse our decisions with nature. My hunch is that this ‘subtle magnetism’ becomes stronger on the ocean. For example, Ted sails with one of the best racers on the east coast. The reason that he succeeds, according to Ted, is that he seems to know when and where a change of wind direction will occur. I know from experience that following one’s gut can be a powerful tool not just to win a race, but as a mode of self-realization. The appeal of this method is that it is natural. Foregoing preconceptions, one can rely on the natural world to reveal the ‘right way’, or, as the Buddhists put it, original Self-nature. Along this path of wandering, fears are encountered as manifestations in the physical world rather than abstract thoughts. To take a light example from class, Sara used her wander as an opportunity to go up the ‘rape stairs’ for the first time. Though I have tried, I have found it impossible to follow this subtle magnetism for any extended period of time when living in the city and going to college.
It doesn’t require me looking any farther than my current living conditions to see that a change is required for the purposes of my long term sanity. Every week we do less and less dishes as trash piles up higher and higher because we have run out of trash bags and are too lazy to carry out the garbage despite the fact that seven people live in this “house”. The reason for this is that people are either in their rooms on the computer or watching TV, and if they happen to venture into the kitchen they leave shortly after their meal is prepared and well before any cleaning is done. So they could care less about the cleanliness of the house. It is college, what should I expect? I would like to point out that the TV and the computer are ways in which other people broadcast their experiences to us. Of course, this is an immensely useful tool, but if we as people spend too much time being entertained in these ways, we miss out on our own life.
So how can wandering help us tune in to our own experience? Stilgoe led us in the right direction: look at what is right in front of us. But rather than talking about what seemed to me rather trivial matters like old mailboxes why not look at where we spend most of our time? Going around our homes we see that all of our appliances are powered through pipes and wires, our computers use rare earth metals, and our television sets are filled with the ideas of other people. If we are to investigate our lives, we have to look at what we are dependent upon. I think Wendell Berry is right to point out that any electricity we use, if we were to trace its origin, probably does originate from strip-mined coal or other ugly form of energy production that we have hidden far from sight (Berry, Why I Am Not Going to Buy A Computer). Might life be different if we were almost entirely self-sufficient? This brings us back to Thoreau’s subtle magnetism. When Thoreau says natural he means it, so much so that he took to the woods for upwards of four hours a day. So if we are to perceive this natural magnetism, we must follow the principles of the natural world. Rather than taking Thoreau’s approach of hermit-like behavior, I think it would be sufficient to follow Wendell Berry’s advice: “a healthy community is sustainable; it is, within reasonable limits, self-sufficient and, within reasonable limits, self-determined – that is, free of tyranny” (Berry, 15). The sailboat gives us a means to self-sufficiency while wandering gives us the means to self-determination; free from the tyranny of distractions which cover our natural tendencies. However, this point of view is one of the issues where our group does not have a clear consensus.
The four of us were sitting around having a discussion when this issue of sustainability came up. Ted loved the fact that we could be nearly self-sufficient on the sailboat. We do not need a refrigerator, internet access, a water-maker, etc; fish can be caught by throwing a line overboard, and best of all free transportation. We will use energy only when we run the engine in order to power necessary electronics such as weather faxing or running lights. The bottom line is that this lifestyle could sustain itself for a long period of time. However, Sean responded by saying those are just issues of ‘living’ and are beside the point while Adrian replied “it is not sustainable because no one else does it” and therefore he would never live this way indefinitely. Ted’s excitement about sustainability is not purely fueled by his love of clean energy, but by his disgust with consumerism. I think he would have been upset with everyone who bought something when our class went out for our group wander. As soon as I read Wendell Berry I immediately sent Ted some of his work because they share in the joy of sales resistance. However, when I asked Sean what he is excited to leave behind he responded by saying “I think we have it pretty damn good here already.” This difference is trivial to a large degree. I do not think Ted and Sean would get into a serious argument, but these differences in opinion will amount to concrete decisions in the equipment that we buy for our boat i.e. do we want to pay $1500 dollars for a water-maker or do we want to collect rain water?
We met with the a family from our home town that sailed around the world, the Fitzgerald’s, and the conversation we had helped to put the relationship between the investment and potential rewards of the trip into perspective. The first question the father asked was “how long are you willing to spend on this trip?” This question determines the outline of the voyage as well as preparation time which must take into account hurricane seasons that dictate what parts of the world are sailable during certain times of the year. In the event that we find a really cheap boat we would leave around November 2011. We all realize that this is unlikely, but with this hope in the back of our minds we may not be fully cognizant of the changes that may take place over two years of work. Adrian has said in passing that a girlfriend would be the only thing that could stop him from going on the trip. He said it in jest, but knowing Adrian I think he is serious. This is an aspect of wandering with a group that is troublesome especially because we are depending on him for a fourth of our funds. The next question posed was where will we set sail from? Currently there are three options on the table: leave from Boston, leave from the Caribbean, or leave from New Zealand/Australia. This is where the decision making becomes difficult. The Fitzgerald’s thought that buying a boat and setting sail from New Zealand is a great idea because their currency is a bit weaker and we would be starting in the south Pacific which is the area which we all have the most interest in seeing. Adrian and I seemed particularly intrigued by this new consideration; incidentally, I have a job offer in Sydney, Australia while Sean has a two year offer in Boston. Hopefully, we can work out a plan that will not require anyone to sacrifice a good opportunity for the trip.
The third question is perhaps the most telling question: are we circumnavigating the world or not? They estimated that if we attempted a two year circumnavigation going around the Cape of Good Hope (of which Ted insists in we go this route) then we would be spending one third of the total trip sailing on the open water. Here is where battle lines get drawn. Adrian and I are of the opinion that sailing is more a means to an end rather than a means in and of itself. Ted has dreamed of circumnavigating the world since he was in middle school and sees this trip as his one chance to accomplish the most esteemed feat a sailor can aspire to. Sean also says that the idea of circling the globe has captured his imagination. Here we must ask ourselves what we really want to get out of this trip. If we circumnavigate, we have to start from Boston, and we will have limited time for detours from a pre-determined route. On the flip side we would get to see a greater portion of the world and we would always have a purpose driving us forward. We finally asked about how much he thought a vessel of upwards of 40’ might cost and he said $50,000 for a used boat with a possible $20,000 in additional costs. This number was a bit high judging from some boats we had already looked into, but regardless it put the trip in perspective: if this trip did not require so much dedication then more people would do it.
This brings us to the second half of our conversation with the Fitzgerald’s. They sold their house, bought a 64’ boat and circled the globe over a four year span. They brought their two year old son, six and eight year old daughters, and home schooled them at sea. If our plan seemed crazy think again. After thoroughly discussing practical matters, they brought out their photo albums and began to tell tales as is fit for a family of sailors. It’s a shame that Sean missed this conversation because when I asked him why he wanted to go on the trip his first sentence was “I really like a good story.” I got to ask the parents what they enjoyed most about their cruise. The mother said that “every day it was something different” whether it was exploring an island, sailing a rough patch, or schooling the kids, there was endless variation. The father said that he most enjoyed time on land (they spent 90% percent of their time on or near land) because captaining a ship with his family on board was very stressful. He never tired of the welcoming attitude from people around the world and despite our image in the news their love of Americans. The mother added that they met countless other sailors on their trip sometimes crossing passages in groups. She said they got to know these travelers better in one night than she knows her neighbors, and whenever they met families playtime would immediately commence no matter the age of the kids. Seeing pictures of small densely forested islands off the coast of Thailand cemented the original feeling I had when we first conceived of the idea: if we could ever make this happen it would be the most epic adventure of our lives.
If I were to make a list of all that we know for certain about our plan and that which is yet uncertain then it would become very clear that we are journeying into the unknown. These are the circumstances a true wanderer yearns for. I pitched the following hypothetical situation to Sean and Ted: imagine that we have decided to forego the idea of circumnavigating the globe. We are in the middle of the ocean in the south Pacific aimlessly travelling from one place to the next. Perhaps it is a cold and windy day, and from some recess of the mind frustrations start to mount and questions begin to arise. Where are we going? How the hell did I get in the middle of the ocean? Why are we putting ourselves through this? Why am I on the other side of the planet aimlessly sailing around for no good reason? A crisis is on hand and though these questions all have good answers nothing seems to stop the snowballing of this great doubt. I want us to go to that place and face that fear. Sean’s immediate response was “ohhh, so you want to wander?” I stand revealed. Luckily he continued “if that is the approach we decide to take to take I would be completely down.” Ted also found the idea very interesting. I think that a less structured route is the more challenging route. When destiny can be directed with a turn of the rudder, and there is no plan to fall back on, no home to return to – what happens? Maybe boredom and anxiety, perhaps great peace of mind, or there is the chance that it will spark a mission that we feel compelled to complete. There is no telling; I imagine each person will take their own wisdom from such an experience.
At this stage of planning, the differences of opinion I have cited between the crew members are just wordplay. I am sure that when real decisions have to get made our true colors will show. Only once we are out on the sea will our hopes start to crystallize and our misgivings rear their ugly heads. Nevertheless, the motivation is real in all of us to wander away from everything we have known. The motivation is so real that we are willing to invest what will most likely amount to four years of income and hard work. I’m sure we will get a few good stories out of it if nothing else. But I figure if we are going to muster everything we have to make this trip happen then our intentions should shoot for the stars. Physically journeying far away from home is just the first step. From there we must question, for lack of a better word, everything. Then we must allow this questioning to be our compass and to test our intentions with that of the wind and the waves to see if we can find a happy medium. I think these are the steps that allow wandering to give us insight into our lives. At the very heart of wandering is the allowance of enough space to allow nature to have its say in our decision making. This is ultimately what I have in mind for the trip, but it is meaningless unless abstraction meets reality. Natalie points out, writers should “be specific. Don’t say ‘fruit.’ Tell what kind of fruit – ‘it is a pomegranate’” (Goldberg, 77). At this point I can only say our trip will be a fruit; it is only once we are cruising that I will be able to say if it is an apple or an orange.
Works Cited
Berry, Wendell. Sex, Economy, Freedom & Community: Eight Essays. New York: Pantheon, 1994. Print.
Berry, Wendell. "Why I Am Not Going to Buy a Computer." This Domain Has Been Registered by BT. Web. 06 Dec. 2010. .
Goldberg, Natalie. Writing down the Bones: Freeing the Writer within. Boston: Shambhala, 2005. Print.
Thoreau, Henry D. "Thoreau's Walking - 2." The Thoreau Reader. Web. 06 Dec. 2010.
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Appendix B
Professor
I.
The first day of class a man hobbled up to the podium. Every seat was filled and the room was still and quiet. He set down his cane and took out a large stack of note cards. He droned on quietly and incomprehensibly without introduction. Only the occasional word could be made out. Five minutes wore on, ten. Even the serious students gave up pretending to follow.
Just as the tension in the room was becoming unbearable the teacher picked up his pile of notes, bent them in half and let them fly. He slammed his cane on the desk, BANG, and began to yell questions in rapid succession.
“What is the meaning of this cane?” BANG “Why are any of you still here? What are you trying to learn???” He went on like this but the class was in shock. Professor paused but no one answered. He frowned and turned to the blackboard. Gumptionology he wrote. A brand new class in the 2012 course catalog read: an examination of affective, cognitive and psychomotor blocks in the perception of Quality relationships – 3 cr. MWF. Students were lured in by Professor’s reputation.
He turned to the class and explained his special use of the term. “A person filled with gumption does not sit around dissipating and stewing about things. He is at the front of the train of his own awareness, watching to see what’s up the track and meeting it when it comes. That’s gumption. Like riding a Great Wyrm.”
A student shouted out “you mean like a dragon?” There was nervous laughter.
“I have no idea what it is! And I’ll show you why.”
The students were told to write down as many distinct structural elements of the hallway outside as they could - no people, conversations etc… Professor asked students to raise their hands if they got at least 5, then to keep their hands up if they listed 10, 15. One student found 23 distinct features. The kid wrote them on the board then the rest of the class volunteered elements he had missed. The total class list came to 49.
“To return to your question, you can call life a dragon, I can call it a Wyrm, she can call it a breeze, and he’ll say it’s a germ. I only chose to call it a worm because it slithers back and forth changing all the time.”
He wrote this sentence and left the room:
“When you really understand dynamic reality, you never get stuck”
This lesson aside, his teaching methods were most unsound. He often took to leaving some piece of absurdity on the board and leaving the room for long unannounced breaks. Sometimes he was tame and just left phrases like ‘Realisticity’ or ‘That everything is included within your mind is the essence of mind.” Other times he would rage. He hung a painting with a glass frame on the board, pondered it for a minute, reached behind his podium, grabbed a sledgehammer and smashed it. Each student received a fragment of glass and spent the rest of class writing about their shard.
These breaks were both respected and warranted. His time in the classroom was relentlessly wild. Sitting atop his desk he would often read a little tale and illustrate with screams, cane cracks, and uproarious laughter.
“So follows an account of the Chinese monk Lin Chi:
The master ascended the hall and said ‘Here in this lump of red flesh there is a True Man with no rank. Constantly he goes in and out of the gates of your face. If there are any of you who don’t know this for a fact, then LOOK! LOOK!’” Professor looked up with wide eyes and a serious yet goofy face reminiscent of Kramer.
At that time there was a monk who came forward and asked ‘What is he like – the True Man with no rank?’”
Professor singled out a student in the front row and motioned him towards the front. The student approached cautiously. Professor leapt off his desk, grabbed his student by the collar and said “SPEAK! SPEAK!”
The student’s mouth opened wide but no words came forth. He pushed the child back into his chair exclaiming “True Man with no rank – what a shitty ass-wiper.” In the stunned silence the master calmly returned to his seat, reopened his text and read “The Master then returned to his quarters.” He closed the book and left the room as the crowd jeered and howled.
II.
One night some students happened upon the Professor in a bar. He was already roaring drunk.
“You kids are from my class? Well good for fucking you. I’m going to let you in on a little secret: my secret hole.”
His students were repulsed thinking it was some sort of sexual remark.
“No, it’s not like that – far worse. Have you ever questioned the source? Of course not, how easy not to! The human mind is such a little slut. It’ll whore itself out to whatever comes by. Forget gumption. Forget everything. What is the source? What is it? Without the source, gumption’s a God damn treadmill.”
He mustered up one sober look for each of his listeners, finished his drink slamming it down, and headed for the door yelling “Bassuiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii.” The kids cheered his name as he stumbled out.
In late October he wrote “Drifting is what one does when looking at lateral truth.” On the blackboard.
He acted out such drifting before the class by stumbling about for a few minutes. Then pretending to find his cane shrieked “Eureka! I’ve found it!” and marched right out.
When he returned the sentence had been modified to read drinking is what professor does when looking at the hallway.” The class broke into giggles. He took center stage and gave a deep bow announcing “my performance ends here. The more you look, the more you see.” He turned around and left the room.
III.
The Professor was taking a leak. A fellow urinator facing the opposite wall of the small bar bathroom ripped one and proclaimed “Second best feeling to blowing a nut!”
Professor mumbled “that’s what it sounds like when you nut?”
“No, that’s a fart.”
“Why did you save it for the restroom?”
“Who says I haven’t been ripping them all night?”
“I do.” They turned stare each other down. They were six inches from each other. An odd friendship blossomed out of the cold tundra.
These two didn’t usually go to bars looking to talk to dudes, but Professor had managed to make an impression. So he met young Bob Waters, a herald of the Southern Renaissance. He recently graduated college and took to skiing Jackson Hole by winter while patiently waiting to fly fish in the summer. He was back in Beaufort, South Carolina to visit his parents and procure a large shipment of drugs.
“What are you doing here?” Bob asked prompted by Professor’s grizzly face.
“Getting lost.”
“What for?”
“Looking for the source.”
They saw mutual recognition in each other’s eyes.
“Have you ever tried DMT?”
“No, why?”
“Don’t ever turn DMT down.”
Professor gave a puzzled look. “Why, do you have some?”
“No.”
“I don’t do those things anymore. I’ve had my share of experiences though.”
“I respect that, but I’m dead serious. Don’t ever turn down DMT.”
“I don’t see your point.”
“Ok, what are you doing here man?”
“Fuck off. Do I need an excuse?”
“C’mon what are you doing here?”
“I’m testing a hypothesis. The track of Quality preselects what data we are going to be conscious of. In other words I’m researching the Occult, serendipity, synchronicity, rainbows, God, and Love.”
“Ohhhhh my God!” He looked up with a pained smile and clenched fists. “You need to try DMT. You know what it is right? It’s the same chemical your brain releases when you’re born and when you die. All arguments aside, how could you deny that having a test run in the middle of your life would be like nothing else?”
“You have a point there. I can’t think of any other way of having such an experience if your parameters are true. But do you mean to say that everyone who hasn’t taken it has lived an incomplete life? That’s Bullshit.”
“I know it sounds that way, but try it and then tell me that. You just can’t know until you’ve seen it. You’ll realize your subconscious isn’t your own but shared. It’s the highest form of consciousness tourism. After a Phish show, I blasted off four times in a row lying in the grass.”
The professor, thought he should have been able to find a way around this logic, was entranced by this circular reasoning. Maybe drifting about was all wrong. How better to get at the source than to attack with a feat of human engineering – a chemical rebirth?
Professor was happy (and drunk) he had met a teacher, the first he had had in many years. On the way back to his motel room, he passed a club. He took a seat in the corner and laughed with glee at all the young booties shaking with drunken ingenuity. All the while he wondered ‘what was the source of all this?’ and laughed some more.
IV.
He had come to Beaufort for no particular reason. Hanging willow trees with grey boughs suited him well enough. The aristocratic mansions got a free pass from his judgment because he was still enchanted by their novel beauty. But a Laundromat was more his style and he had a pile of his own stench ridden garments to tend to.
“Hey man, you wouldn’ happen to have a corter would ya?”
This guy was a stink All-Star. He pronounced his words with a careful mix of gentlemanly southern drawl and a slight drunken slur (for it was still only noon time). This allowed the specter of intelligence to creep into his persona.
“Sure do.”
“A thank ya kindly sir.” Pause. “You uhhhh wouldn’ happen to know the whereabouts of the grocery store would ya?”
“Unfortunately not. I’m not from around here.”
“Well of course you’re not.” Then he whispered, “Nor am I” and gave the Professor an intensely inebriated glare. He backed away slowly. A smile overcame him, his arms shot up and he shouted “Let’s get a drink!”
Professor smiled knowing trouble of some brand was in store. He welcomed it.
“If you say so.”
So he met his second Bob of Beaufort. There is no better and no worse way of scouting out a man’s personality than by day drinking with him. Heavy drinking can really bring out a man’s traits. The problem is that they’re always covering something up; the things they are not willing to face up to.
Professor thought why not get an early start up drunken mountain. The view on top was too alluring. As for the valley on the other side… hopefully the descent wouldn’t be too steep. He begged himself not to bring his heavy burden today. However, in the back of his head he knew no one can stay atop the mountain forever and that the shadow of the valley, according to the Taoists, was more akin to the Mother of ten thousand things.
Professor didn’t think it was the drink that stirred him but rather the excitement of a chance meeting. Wandering is an art. Too much of one activity disqualifies a wanderer. The obvious exception is, of course, traveling. He had been on buses and trains across the Midwest, Northeast and East coast and he had found nothing that excited him more than the sort of encounter he had had the night before with Bob. He felt that meaningful encounters with strangers put him in a category of travel more refined than tourism. Sadly he had not had much luck prior to Beaufort, so he had to resort to the more solitary pleasures. Not those of the profane and dirty but those of a man whose every act is subservient to self-inspection. When done around others, this activity can be as awkward as masturbation. The professor never understood why this was and it annoyed him. To make his feet slaves of introspection, to question every step as to its reasoning in relation to his mood, surroundings, and needs was a sure-fire pulse check for the teacher. More importantly it was the best way for him to be a student; to step into nature’s classroom.
“Well Bob, tell me who the fuck you are.”
“Aw Christ! Is this some ‘Who am I bullshit?” He signaled the bartender and asked for Knob Creek bourbon. “Look, I don’ even give a damn what your name is nevermin’ your history. So I’ll just call ya Fred, Thirsty Fred.”
That got a laugh out of the Professor. “You know you are right. You’re half as well kempt as a moose and enjoy an afternoon drink.”
“You’re God damn right. I’m a sailor now so I can drink whenever and whatever I please.”
The bartender came back. “I’m sorry we don’t have Knob Creek. For whiskey we have Jack Daniels, Jim Beam, or Wild Turkey?”
Sailor Bob stared at her with disgust. “I’ll have a beer.”
“Sure. Miller Lite, Yueng Ling, Sam –”
Bob waved her off. “Just get me a beer.” She returned with a sternly serviced brew.
“Well Fred since you’re so concerned why don’ you say who you are?”
“I used to teach at the University.”
“No shit. My son goes to Duke and my daughter to UPenn.”
“Good schools.”
“Yeah. I rode ‘em hard. My girl was real upset when I tol’ her about my little excursion.”
“Whys that?”
“On account of my lack of sailing expertise. Hey Fred, you didn’ happen to serve in Vietnam, did ya?”
“I was too young.”
Bob was apprehensive to delve further into the topic though he clearly had a strong compulsion to at least broach the subject. Bob shook his head and ran his hand through his hair. “Why not let the skeletons lie in the closet” Professor suggested.
“I know. I know. Hey look is there anything I can do for ya? I’ve got some shrimp back at the boat.”
“Sounds great. How can I return the favor?”
“Shoot me.”
V.
They decided to have lunch on his boat that was tied up a short walk away at the day dock. Sailor Bob cooked an impressive shrimp and noodle dish. He explained how he managed to purchase the shrimp from fisherman along the waterway and how he had separated the shrimp from their bowels. Professor also felt that he was being ‘deboweled’ as they had continued to imbibe and reason no longer held much sway. They attempted to incur more passing boaters into their revelry, but their invitations were far from cordial. Their party would not grow the day wore on. They had developed a curious affection which Bob intended to honor with a gift. He fumbled around under the bow of his sloop in what appeared to be piles of trash and returned with an orange prescription bottle.
“I don’t usually do this… ever. But a lil’ while back I was in an accident and badly hurt my back. They gave me Vicodin for my pain but I noticed the accident had caused me a greater hurt. Something was preventin’ me from returnin’ to the life I once had. One of my buddies said he knew what I needed. I don’ know much about em, but wow do they do somtin’! Your welcom’ to a couple pills if ya like.
Professor felt a rush of fear and excitement and his heart accelerated. He accepted graciously. Their meeting ended. Professor began to brood heavily on a plot. He left Bob to ponder his lonely fate on the sea.
A nap was required and nothing more. He had decided to take the acquired concoction in the shamanic style – at night, alone in nature. Beaufort, nestled in the lowlands of South Carolina offered marshland, swamp and occasional refuges of forestry. He rented a row boat crossed the river that flows to the east of town, and beached on a mud flat.
He trudged into the swamp consciously reckless. An impending feeling of enormous stupidity stalked him, but he did not allow his step to waiver. He intended to march straight into the belly of the Beast and pierce its heart with an injection of potent drugs.
At length there appeared a ring of old trees, the kind with grey boughs hanging from their limbs. He climbed one and swallowed the pills. He took deep breaths exhaling to total limpness hanging belly over a branch.
Ten minutes passed with the moon betwixt his legs. The blood rushed to his head. When he righted himself he got a woozy feeling and right before he passed out he wondered ‘What have I got myself into?’
He was swallowed whole lying unconscious in the damp swampland he was swallowed whole and disassembled for parts. Carrions received his eyes exposing his brain to land crabs that cleared some space for the worms and the maggots to venture down his esophagus to his entrails.
He regained consciousness. That was just a tasty appetizer before he passed into the blackness of space. Fading away… Down and down… A straight free fall into something much greater than the earth. A sinkhole impossibly deep, a chasm where battle with the Great Beast awaited. A snippet of conversation from a Bob zapped him. “You have to GRAB your mind and hold on for dear life like you’re blocking for your QB on the last play of the game!” He took hold with his favorite query “What is the source?” and sat upright. Everything vanished from sight. All there was was the chorus of insects forming one massive mantra. This buzz cut against the brain grain producing huge bursts of spark. The phrase “that everything is included within your mind is the essence of mind” returned producing great fright. The sparks had found kindling. The source he sought was everywhere. He burned in the fire of intense realization.
Much happened that night that cannot be written. It’s no business of ours what really goes on in another man’s soul beyond this point. Or at least it is his tale to tell. But rarely are the tales of the dead discovered. He had ceded himself to Nature who kneaded his dough of fate well before letting it rise like a pocket of hot swamp gas. His last yells and screams, excrements and deeds were muffled easily by his swampy crypt. His body became the bread of buzzards.
Note
Some phrases, ideas, and anecdotes have been adopted or taken from other sources which have been included in the endnotes. I owe particular debt to Robert Pirsig who said that he would like to see a Gumptionology course in a college catalog.
Appendix C
104 Pesos
Hopped on the bus with 104 pesos. Knew nothing about the destination except its name, Santiago. Everyone and their Latin brother shares the title and so don’t 50 other towns. Its good that way, keeps the head fresh. I didn’t wanna know a damn thing about it unless it came out the mouth of a homegrown Dominican. Luckily, I was in the backseat with 4 of them. I guess ‘bus’ is the wrong word. They are called guaguas. They are among the smallest 4 door cars you can buy. The smaller the town, the smaller the guagua. Their capacity is determined by necessity not size.
I didn’t mind the squeeze. I’m young, I can take it. It’s actually an efficient way of curing tourist disease. Travel like a local. Smile at them and they’ll smile back. But they won’t let you in much farther than that. Go watch a baseball game. They play in pristine pastures and behind the outfield there are mountains. I’ve been to Fenway Park more times than I can count. It’s old and green and historic, but it doesn’t compare to where these guys play. If you take a seat quietly you can watch. It’s not just a game because the scene is more. The players and spectators aren’t so separate. Everyone seems at home and there. Community is still alive here and a diamond in the field makes it thrive. The play wasn’t so good but it was exciting. The game felt fresh again! Every pitch, every throw mattered and I didn’t know a single player.
If you approach one of their more sacred fields, the ones far down dirt roads, you’ll become a disruptive spectacle. Riding a motorcycle doesn’t help your cause either. I don’t know what goes on there in the fields from heaven where the outfield doesn’t end.
∞
Believe it or not, amidst cows and palm trees someone has the nerve to stick billboards. One of those someones is my prospective employer and presidential candidate Llego Papa. His shining face is on every third, his competitor the next third and the rest I don’t even know. The expression is supposed to appear presidential, like he’s a visionary. Fortunately, purely for reasons of personal entertainment, I think it looks like he just won a long battle with an oversized turd. I plan to picture all of his flunkies in the same way while they interview me. I need a leg up on people. That’s just the way I am and I’ll go low to get it. Some people are, of course, very worthy of respect and honor. Papa’s crowd won’t be deserving of such things. This makes me happy – that I’m signing up to join a bunch of bastards.
So I have to take note of my surroundings while I am still witness to the throes of the common man. A grandmother is in the front seat with a little girl in her lap. Wow! These are noble beings. The older one actually looks wise rather than impotent; her stern demeanor exudes acceptance, not expectance. The youngin’s got pig tails and the brass to stare at each of us in the back seat for as long as she pleases. Nothing seems to erase her innocent happiness.
Here in the back we’ve got seasoned vets peacefully resigned to our pleasant ride. Work boots, jeans, and baseball caps. All systems go baby. I’d roll with this crew any day.
∞
Now that you know where I am, my intentions, and my team, I should complete the context. This past pains me. I hope that sharing may release me from memory’s sting. Now it is easier to see that this is just one of many occurrences already finished, and that the end is yet to come.
Let me delay to say I sit waiting for transfer in Imbert. The town is just a crossroad, or at least that is all I’ve ever seen of it. Every time I pass through I can’t help but remember cycling through with five other young lively white kids on the way to an attraction called the 27 waterfalls. Nor can I forget that the falls were administered strictly by guides rather than freely by nature and at high cost – 700 pesos. Yeah, there was a buffet and that I can rarely pass up, but I would rather have had pork hewn directly from a roasted carcass vended on the street.
We often pass with mechanical persistence on perceptions of the great gap between luxury and primitivism. It proved a ruinous oversight.
Fred and I, men of the sea for just about 3 months were residing peacefully one night in our floating studio apartment. Thanks to wizarding gadgets we were on the internet laughing at photos, giggling at videos, taking care of never ending computer business. It was lonely, sure, the forest played its night chorus, and the setting sun outside had just about completed the day’s final painting, but we didn’t care. On a sailboat such things are as routine as the nightly news. We had outs. Music, movies, games – their ease was too tempting.
Office Space was the choice that night. So funny. Take a break from media then go back a couple months later – you’ll see. Somewhere in the middle – at the height of Peter’s lazing dominance, the winds began to howl. We had warning they might’ve been coming. We ignored it. Thunder approached which just got me excited about sitting through the storm safe and sound in our cabin. It came alright, with its friends Gail, Rayne, and of course lightning. The boat began to shake and grind. I didn’t think too much of it until the wind wrenched our American flag out of it holder. Glancing out the cabin hatch, land seemed closer. But that sort of paranoia has its say all the time and I didn’t want to be electrocuted so I stayed below. Not two minutes went by before worry nagged again. The boat was really shuffling now; the sea was all whipped and creamy. And I thought to myself… hmmmm did we really anchor this close to land?
∞
I went on deck to check on the anchor and noticed the line was slack so I gave it a tug. There was no resistance! The line came right into the boat with a gnarled and chaffed end. I yelled for Fred to start the motor while I ran back for our second anchor. Fred cranked and cranked, but the engine was making its monotonous “I won’t be starting anytime soon” noise. Meanwhile life jackets, gas tanks, ladders, and fuel additives were flying around the cockpit as I dug for a new anchor. Then a horrific noise came. I could call it a clunk or a thud, but noises on a boat, one you’ve known intimately, are very distinct. So a bad one makes your heart sink because you know immediately. The timbre of a boat-shaking fatal wound is something that cannot be reproduced, but also cannot be mistaken. Nor is it just noise – the vibration is worse. You are physically there on the rocks. Your once floating cozy vessel is totally compromised. I won’t recount the deeds that ran into the night. Imagine them. In the morning we were left on a Dominican beach with our silly inflatable dinghy. An old song comes to mind:
I sold my house on the river blue
For a house on the cliffs with an ocean view
I sold it all, I sold it all
Yes I sold it all and then I started anew
∞
This is the part I love. I’m on the final transport – a more comfortable guagua about 20 minutes from the city. The cool part isn’t getting there – it’s the feelings you are challenged with on the verge of a new world. They are nothing special… and that is amazing! Just lookin’ around. Kwik-e-mart there, barberia, zapatos, poor people selling fruit. Its 4 pm in the third world and I have no idea what I’ll do when the wheels stop turning. That’s it though. They can’t. When the guagua stops I start. I’m a human with needs. Security, shelter, sustenance. To get these is not just a relief but it’s the beef – a prime cut at that. Let’s hope I find a way to screw this up and make it interesting.
∞
Morning in a bed. I might’ve chosen a nicer place; somehow I can’t pass up a cheap deal. Cockroach. The porcelain of the toilet has handled too many heavy loads. The shower is comical. I slept peacefully. What else can you ask for? What’s a little dirt matter? As long as it doesn’t cover up my white skin. I’m not trying to impress anyone. That’s why I spent last night with a bunch of whores. It wasn’t even close to as raunchy as it sounds. Except for one incident where a real ugly one sat on this guy Ed’s lap and chanted ‘Bambino, Bambino, Bambino’ while shaking a nearly exposed tit in his face. He played good defense with a toothpick.
No I didn’t solicit a whore. They were just the only one’s hangin’ out at the bar past 10. I searched and searched. I’m in the middle of a big city: where the hell was everyone? I got lonely and returned to the prostitution ring – at least they served Presidente. They’re quite good conversationalists really. When business is slow you can teach ‘em how to play cards while eating fried chicken. Trust me, there’s no shortage of laughs.
Tomorrow, I get to meet with the sewer rats – Papa’s crowd. I’ll dress up with suit and tie; show up with a lit cigar. I’ve got to pick up some pesos so I can buy stand hot dogs all day.
∞
My buddy John is showing up tonight. A nice late arrival. He can see how exciting the place is at night. He’s going to hike Pico Duarte with friends of his. Wish I could go but I’ve got a meeting with the devil.
I’m wondering if he’s already got me. The glow is subsiding from the country. People are friendly sure, but they look at me on the street like a cash machine. I’ve got more than they’ve taken out in all their lives. The magical pastures, cow heaven is fenced off. I can’t get in. I’m a foreigner and the only strangers that will give me time are women of the street.
Today I’ve wandered, seen the poor and begging in all the nooks. Once you’re off the beaten path you wonder how many are crooks. Then, when I come across a strip of life, the Dominican Republic’s best impression of America greets me. Malls half finished, streets converted to blue tarp tent markets where black Red Sox hats and rip-off jeans trade hands. The occasional white folk can be spotted near the casino or with a McDonald’s McFlurry.
Such was my thought but 10 minutes ago until I made my way to the crown of the city. A monument marks the top and an entire school is visiting for a field trip to its museum. I haven’t gone in. The real museum is land and people. Miles of valley framed by distant mountains in every direction. Where these kids grow up. Look at their energy! They’re bustling, their clever, always moving and laughing. Those sitting for the view, whose backgrounds somewhere in the valley are likely quite trying, enjoy it effortlessly. Not till now have I ever really pondered why a parent gives endlessly to house one of these special beings. They are still pure enough to hold the reins of life with humor and wit. They’re still close to the source that brought us all here to begin with. They spread the lightness that keeps the world afloat. They sustain the will to steer the boat. For this I am grateful.
∞
What if all our paranoia was justified? The very craziest would far outweigh the everyday matters, would they not? If the planet plunged into the waves, if the government put chemicals in the toothpaste, if we already had a cure for cancer. Then what? Llego Papa.
Huh?! Oh, the come down. Remember it’s a come down. Relax in the park. Don’t pay attention to the poor people and don’t think. Picture Papa’s suit clad thugs questioning you from the toilet, their faces contorted in stress as you impress.
∞
It seems we’ve made fast friends. I’m posted up in a luxury accommodation at Blackbeard’s Resort in Puerto Plata. They didn’t have many questions for me. A few tough looking guys dressed in black shook my hand and I was off to Puerto Plata with a guy named Manny. I got my own motorcycle. We stopped at a Burger King for lunch.
He asked me where I was from. I told him Massachusetts. He was from Andover. I tried to sound interesting and respectful. But he was having none of it. I was interrupted mid-sentence
“Do you know what it feels like to have your asshole licked while your dick is down a girl’s throat?” He took a bite of his burger and stared me down.
“That doesn’t sound physically possible.”
“Yeah, but it sounds amazing, right? HAHAHA.” He burst into a cackle so long he could barely breathe. By the end he was sweating and gasping. I couldn’t help but laugh due to absurdity.
“You are an alright guy. Wanna go to some fuckin’ dive?”
I smiled.
He brought me to a street with a bunch of these so called ‘dives’. The entrances are designed to keep the sun out. You walk around a caddy corner and inside you find a dark room where women whisper into men’s ears along the wall. I didn’t care to enter.
“None of these broads good enough huh? Let’s try the next spot.” They were all exactly the same. We hopped back on the bikes.
We got on the highway leaving the city. Up and down big hills – 75% of traffic is scooters and cycles. It’s damn fun. No countryside. Small stores and houses lining both sides. People everywhere. Things started to thin out when we took a right towards the ocean. We rolled up to a guard post. No discussion was necessary, they opened the gates. This I thought strange. Soon we saw a couple white families – moms and kids in bathing suits walking to the beach. Two minutes later we pulled up in front of a resort with a frog fountain outside. White walls surrounded the Blackbeard villa.
Their blackboard read ‘Bikini Contest’. We had arrived with ten minutes to spare. Scattered about the pool were various middle aged white men sitting in white plastic chairs reading books or at tables with drinks watching golf. They pretended to be occupied, but all of them were waiting for the mid afternoon sport in a mockery of discretion. There were no white women, only contestants in their sweat suits. A rather corpulent spectator was exchanging red lollipops with a few competitors in exchange for smooches and flattery. Then the girls cleared out. An ugly wrinkly bastard grabbed a mic and pointing across the room to a man on crutches said ‘Hey peg leg can you hear me out there?’ Clearly he was heard but he repeated. I interpreted it as an announcement that spectators need not worry, management is just as slimy as they are. Judges were introduced and the girls came out. The suburban dads were all excited. I couldn’t help wonder “who are these guys? What companies do they own?”It was actually quite a boring affair. Each girl circled the pool and gave the judges lap dances. The only source of entertainment was Manny’s lewd commentary. “She’ll suck your dick for 500 pesos.” When he saw one he liked, he would rave, stand up and take pictures. I managed to keep my sense of humor, but the whole time I knew I had entered the sewer. It makes me sick. I can fake it though. I can put on a smile of innocence that they’ll never see through because they’re too busy being vacation sluts. What keeps me going is that I think it’ll get a lot worse.
∞
Last night I stayed in my room and tried to read. I didn’t knock off many pages. Girls kept knocking on the door. I told a few no thanks, but they kept coming. I stopped answering. Occasionally I’d glance out the peep hole. Their numbers started to increase. Three then five then nine. It was absurd but I didn’t want to start answering; I couldn’t imagine what they wanted.
I did manage to doze off, but was rudely awoken by the whole gang of them tearing my bed covers off. I was so startled. The first thing I could think to do was sprint out of my infested room. A few body guards had blocked the entrance to the compound. They found it quite funny. I did my best to dodge all the giggling bikini clad girls. Most of them were hefty so it wasn’t that hard, but all the scarier.
I finally hopped over a wall and ran into the darkness. I followed the roar of waves to the beach and there rested. I cleared my head and re-affirmed some basic principles. I don’t sleep with whores and I don’t surrender to gangs of women trying to rape me.
I slunk back at a late hour and all was quiet.
∞
In the morning Manny knocked on my door. His moustache was unmistakable even in the peep hole. I opened up. His demeanor was apologetic with a hint of disbelief. “Hey… ah looks like our business is done here. They got you going to a place called Hotel Luperon. I can’t come with, a van’s waiting outside, hurry up.”
I did as told happy to be back to business so here I am viewing golden pastures. I never tire of cows. I’m thrilled to see all we pass. How glorious it would be to graze here; and how hellish back home. What’s wrong with eating this beef? It lives better than the people do. They populate the best land I’ve ever seen.
To another hotel. Maybe I can meet Papa. I want inside the belly of the beast. Hopefully last night’s shenanigans weren’t seen as ungrateful. Today we’ll surely talk substance and I’ll do well. Politics are my pleasure. You could never catch me if I were set loose in that field, but the best strategy is to play dumb so they heard your right into the pen. There you can feed ‘em sour milk.
∞
We drove in through the town of Luperon. Typical small town in the DR. Half of Main Street is a dirt road. Guagua drivers hanging out in the park. Motorcyclers hangin’ out on a corner trying to rent out their bike to tourists for the day. Skinny ladies selling roasted corn even though they haven’t eaten all day.
We drove through a grand arch labeled ‘Hotel Luperon’ five minutes out of town. We drove up a greenway and round a rotary. A few cows had posted up in the middle. When we finally approached the hotel, I first noticed how well landscaped it was. The buildings were pristine as well. Quickly a second impression overcame – there was not a single person to be seen in the whole complex.
We pulled right up to the main entrance. I was ushered into the lobby by the driver and his friend. Not a soul frequents this ghoulish la-la land any longer. The receptionist’s luxurious desk is stripped of all amenities. You can sense where pictures and their frames once hung. The bar still has decorative musical notes painted on – one of the few items that could not be removed – but it is eerily devoid of drink and mirth.
∞
Back again. 3 hours and going. I don’t know what else to do with myself. Shortly after I last wrote Llego fuckin’ Papa walked in surrounded by 6 or 7 advisers arguing around him. He did not participate, but kept his head high and his eyes locked dead ahead. No one noticed me mouth agape, neck craning abashedly.
Before I caught my wits they had passed into the unlit complex. I set out not 5 minutes after, but confusion got me lost. I was unable to track them. Inside featured musky darkness, but outside was sunny perfectly manicured lushness. Following the breeze to the sea, I discovered a giant lonesome beach. Waves crashed in a staggered line out to 100 yards offshore. The wind is howling today. It does not relent.
Two men approached me. A silly old hippie and his Dominican chauffer. White, grey hair, bulging stomach Key West native Jerry approached and inquired about the nearest bar. I told him that I wondered the same and that the resort was abandoned.
“Yeah… What?! What are you doin’ here then?”
“I’m stranded.”
“Ever been to the keys?” The man’s brain is a one passenger train that only occasionally interacts with its surroundings, but is more often bumbling through a jumble of the psychedelic past and groping desires for a hazy future.
“Actually I have. Thought it was sort of boring.”
“Huh? Why? It’s a party town. We used to cause some serious havoc.”
His chauffer was a young slim bald black man, well-dressed. A younger version of the cook from the Shining. I couldn’t help but notice him because he was jittery, looking around quickly and was growing frantic.
“Where the hell is everyone man? Where are the girls?”
We ignored him. He was only talking to himself.
“I did see a great rendition of that song ‘I am woman’ sung by a burly muscled man while he humped a saucy cross dresser bent over on a stool in front of him.”
“Right. Cool. This isn’t a bad beach I guess. Nice palm trees.”
“What are you guys doing here?” I asked.
“Cruising around man. My friend here works for an airline.”
“Shoulda flown to Santo Domingo. That’s a party spot. Where the fuck are the girls? I was expecting pussy. This is creepy… Theres no one here!”
The Dominican’s brows had furled giving off an angry vibe. I couldn’t quite understand it. Something was really bothering him. Some people take female hunting too far.
Old Jerry after hearing this also became visibly weirded out. “Let’s go and find a bar.”
“Yeah man lets bounce. See ya later kid.”
“Bye.”
They walked away and I was left with the lingering air of dubious doings. I do not feel good. I am writing hoping to flush it out, trying to take in a bit of nature’s refreshment, but I can’t break through. The ocean crashes and growls without any sign of softness. The wind blows steadily in my face at 25 knots making me cold. The sun is lost behind a maze of cloud with no end in sight. I’ve been compromised, willingly have I charged into their lair. I didn’t stop once to consider a plan B of any kind. DAMN IT!
Get back to the lobby and act pleasant. Swing your legs like a 2 year old. Overwhelm the place with innocent happiness. It’ll work.
∞
How clearly have you ever seen your worst fear? It’s not a foreign thing. Spiders, snakes. They’re a decoy. They’re unfamiliar. That is why we fear them, but they are only pieces in the puzzle of great fear. I’ll tell you what I can of mine.
You are on stage and the most beautiful lattice work of tone is coalescing in a stadium all masterminded by yours truly and his team of carefully selected creative co-workers. It’s perfect – I’ve seen various scenes of it happening throughout my life. The groove is irresistibly cathartic – simple, well-constructed left with space. The fear comes as this presence starts to bubble. Once you’ve hit on the central nerve core the present moment starts to rip you to shreds. Past memories attack. Unimaginable pain of the whole population of the planet. The ridiculously large super structure completely veiled in ungraspable mystery. I want and need to share. And my nightmare is that it overcomes me in my moment of glory. It’s the singularity of my fantasy world – my greatest fear.
I’ve gotten myself here – a circumstance only I can fill is bursting forth. A puss wound. Take the sting, chew on the bitter medicine, rush the QB on the final play in pure ferocious bloodlust. It’s different than I expected. This is what makes reality so fucking real: standing up and challenging El Lodo.
∞
I was collected in the lobby after a time and lead to the basement. Everything was dark except for the ring. El Lodo is the pride of Mexico. 6’9” carpet of black hair, wearing a brown one-piece short shorts suspenders number. An underground wrestling circuit exists in the Americas, which he has dominated for most of eternity. Observing him, it is difficult to reach the conclusion that he is human despite how improbable it is that he is otherwise.
I had noticed, while watching him crush challengers in the dungeons of the resort, a hint of something other than brutal rage in his facial features just as he grasped an opponent for a decisive pin: a pity for the bones that he does not mean to crush. A storm summoned by the whole of my life’s transition which I have attempted to put into words forced me to test this subtle perception at the risk of my very existence. Once you are over the edge you can only enjoy the ride.
When I raised my hand as next challenger, the announcer, predatory entertainer that he was, broke into sadistic uncontrollable laughter whipping the crowd into a frenzy. I stood my ground. White tee, blue jeans and an unflinching glare of perverse confidence. Perhaps minutes passed. Laughter had slid into excited staring from all eyes. Finally Llego Papa stood up and motioned me to the ring with his forefinger. I entered with a calm gait, eyes fixed on El Lodo. He was shuffling around his corner, kicking invisible pebbles. Lodo was not engaged in regular preparatory grunts, and met my gaze with only an occasional mean glare. I slunk my skinny ass betwixt the ropes, and practiced roundhouse kicks and furious rounds of punches from horse stance complete with guttural HYUUU’s and HYAAA’s and HEE and HHUH and YIIIT GYah. I lost myself in it and when I came to. My competition was leaning into the ring, both hands on the ropes with a flushed red face streaming with tears. He was repeatedly sobbing a series of grunts that I discerned upon the 5th repetition or so: “no quiero morir” I don’t want to kill. I was overcome with compassion and went to console him. He grasped me in a bear hug and yelled ‘Vive! Vive! Vive! Live, Live, Live! He unknowingly smothered me. Apparently, when he let go, I fell to the floor passed out with a huge smile plastered all over my face.
Supplemental Art Work (More to come)
By Irene Manian
By Irene Manian
By Kate Worley
