A Living Magazine - Day 20 - Our Daily Bread, and Forgive? - Part 2

When I got online, it all began...

First, there was no word on the boots. I had stayed here in Redding a whole week waiting for them. I still had Saturday, but vitally needed a tracking number so I could see the estimated time of delivery. Then I heard from Allyson that they had at least been sent and should have been there already. I had no way to know when they would arrived of course (if they did), without going to the post office. So...

I packed up all my stuff and headed back the way I'd come, to the post office. It was really hot now and I was torn between walking fast and sweating, or walking slowly and ending up in a long noontime waiting line. So, I chose to walk fast. I was already on the verge of being disgusting again. But, it would all be worth it to get those boots.

I hit every "Don't Walk" sign along the way. When I reached Churn Creek Road and took my left turn I began to get excited. The decision would now be: Do I keep my sneakers also, for hot road travel? Or, do I donate them and just use the boots from now on? It was a decision I'd been looking forward to making. I walked and walked. And, I thought and thought some more, until I reached a part of the road I didn't recognize. Shit! I'd walked right by it!

Sweating even more now (as I do when I'm anxious), I spun around and walked back, checking the numbers of the buildings. I had just been there the day before. A lot of good that did, apparently. The Post Office was at 2323, and I was at 1901. Thankfully, paying attention more carefully this time, I noticed I was ascending through the numbers. Then, there it was.

"Please, please, please..." I pleaded to the USPS gods, as I rounded the corner and entered the big gray building. The waiting line was wrapped around the lobby like a human-sized, freaky, impatient and colorful snake. Everyone watched as the fluffy-bearded, short, sopping wet guy in the black-rimmed, goofy glasses, big backpack garnished with blue styrofoam noodles duct taped to the shoulder straps, and some dangerous looking stick attached... settled into line. Some of the more respectable people stepped back slightly. I disarmed them with my magnetic smile, and everything returned to "normal."

After 15 minutes I reached the desk. I told the clerk there that I needed to see if I'd received a General Delivery package. She tersely said, "No, Sir, you have to go back out through the lobby and take a left where the window says, 'General Delivery'." I just stood and looked at her, realizing it was my fault that I waited so long, because I didn't read the 20 signs I should have. I squeaked out a tooth-clenched, "thank you," and removed myself from her midst. Following the instructions, I found the window open and with only one person ahead of me.

The clerk was joking around with that customer, who had simply come in to get her mail. I saw my own sweat drip on the floor. It was a water clock, ticking away, while it steadily-dissolved patience. As I tried not to explode, another woman came and stood behind me, closely.

Now, to their everlasting credit, Californians LOVE to talk. It is kind of a custom here, when you're in an awkward place with a stranger to strike up a conversation, ease the tension and make a life-long friend. I've listened to it happen many a times. My innate New England 20 foot spherical radius of personal space usually kept me able to avoid such unwarranted friendliness. I'm just not one of those people. I'm glad I'm in the minority though. The whole world would be a happier place if we tried to be more like them, and less like me. Nevertheless, I was trapped in the waiting line-sandwich of talkative ladies and no escape was possible. At least I was drying off a bit.

"So..." said the woman behind me, no doubt, admiring my fancy uniform, "whattcha here for?"

I cringed for a moment and wanted to pretend I didn't hear her. But - as it is prone to do - my conscience got the better of me. "I'm hopefully picking up some boots sent by General Delivery."

"Oh!" She sounded delighted at the scrap of info she could then use to tell me her life story, or ask me mine. "I see yer bickpack. Are ya a hiking hero?"

I turned to look at her kind, slightly over-polished, late middle-aged face; short-cut wispy died blonde hair and smart little outfit. I had no idea what she meant by "hiking hero." Was it her quirky term? Was it some California expression? Was it some non-profit cause I should have known about? I didn't want to blow her off, but I just was not in the mood for chirpy small talk. "I'm traveling around the country, and now heading up into Oregon, and I mostly walk, so the boots are pretty important."

"Oooo, Around the country, huh? How's that been working out fer ya?"

She didn't even know that she didn't want to really know. And, my paranoid and darkening mood was suggesting to me that she might be making fun of me--and maybe she was. This wasn't helping me decide on a reply. Finally, the attendant and the first person in line had exhausted their little chat, and I was let off the hook. I simply said, "Well, it would be a lot easier with a pair of boots." Then I moved forward in line.

I told the clerk the situation and she checked out back. "Nope, sorry nothing yet." So, I asked her if they could be forwarded to the Post Office in whatever town I get to next, when they came in. She pulled out a Change of Address Form and slid it to me. "You need to fill this out." I told her, I wasn't changing my address, just wanted it forwarded to the next post office's address. At that time I thought I'd be going to Ashland.

She looked over each shoulder as if someone was watching her and scribbled out a note that it be forwarded. I found out later that the official means of forwarding General Delivery packages is by change of address--the most inefficient and illogical possible means of doing so. A change of address could take weeks. The request might even get lost. And, those General Delivery packages themselves - quoting the clerk I spoke to the next day - "go into 'the black hole'..." They are neither scanned (to show their current status online over time), nor are they organized. They are simply, if figuratively, dumped in one pile somewhere around the Los Angeles area. All I can say is... It must be an ENORMOUS pile.

What this clerk was doing was going above and beyond, because she knew I really needed these items. She was trying to help me avoid the "black hole." I thanked her and promised to be in the next day to give an address. I thanked her.

With the situation largely still unsettled, I walked back out into the blast furnace of the heatwave in this area and looked down at the concrete below my feet. I thought for a moment that if it weren't there, I myself might fall into that black hole--a lost package with good intentions, paving the way to an eternity in the forgotten warehouse of obscurity.

I didn't want to walk back to the library (3 miles). I'd already walked 10 miles and the day was only half over. But I did. Up to that day, I'd been resetting my pedometer and taking the reading each night. I was - even when not traveling - walking a minimum of 15 miles a day--every day. I think even people in the "normal" world of middle class domesticity would be quite surprised at how far they travel by foot each day. I suspect even the laziest sluggo out there is pulling in 5-10 miles a day. Mow your lawn for 1 hour, and you have probably walked 3 miles. Buying the week's groceries? At least a mile. To and from your car? Maybe 2 miles, etc...

Back near the library, I walked into the parking lot and saw some guy run out of the front doors, chased by the library cop. The cop called in the troops and 2 police SUV's drove up about a minute later. I hung around listening to the situation. Apparently, the runner had taken something. While I listened, I heard the distinctive sound of the police chopper as it appeared overhead, sweeping the area in small circles...

Serious police action, with all toys involved, to find the library burglar. 

Somehow this town could afford the latest police toys, but had a homeless population five times larger than the police force. Most of the cop cars were just sitting in a parking lot, awaiting the zombie apocalypse or something.

Accepting the situation as typical around here, I made my way into the building and up to my favorite table. I got online, wrote and publish the day's post, while I searched out trains and fares for getting my ass to Oregon as soon as I could. I'm a planner and when plans fall apart, all I can do - besides bitch and moan - is pull up the next template and plan again. I'm also a worrier and when I worry I work 3 times as hard.

The planning is a good trait of mine. The worrying, not so much. It was taking me over--a feeling I was very used to, but despised more keenly each time it happened. I see all these Facebook greeting card-type messages about letting the little things go, and such. No one does that. There a re people who use their disappointments to improve upon the decisions they make later, and those who package up their disappointments in the paper wrap of mental denial and store them in carefully constructed vaults, where the mind's oyster encases these unresolved issues within pearly rounded shells. Neither method is "letting things go."

I'm of the former bent. I want to deal with problems until they are solved. Naturally, in a world ruled by the uncertainty principle, many of the repaired plans are crushed as well. I guess it is just easier for me to feel like I'm trying, than to ignore things and have a pile of pearly ignorance building up--and filling me up.

While reviewing schedules and checking Google Maps, I received a Facebook comment of advice about how I should forage more for food, get "jobs" picking up brush in the towns I'm visiting, fish (!), and basically pick myself up by my bootstraps. On top of all that was happening, answering such a suggestion (after having done so a thousand times for the last 5 years) was pushing my blood pressure up.

The library was getting very loud as it does in the late afternoon. When the sun was starting its descent toward the horizon, I just had to get out. As the weeks and months have passed, I just feel more comfortable outside than in. It isn't exactly claustrophobia, so much as it is a simple desire for open spaces. I don't need then, but like the forgetful beta fish, living in a cup sized-bowl, I just know that a bigger space would always be better. Mix in 30 other fish, and going outside the bowl becomes a done deal.

With the deal done, and the choices of the streets to go back eastward upon me, I decided to indeed go all the way down Churn Creek Road (the road with the Post Office on it) and see the big box store section of town. I resolved to get a couple new pairs of underwear and some more equate wipes at the Walmart out there when I could afford it. So, I thought I'd go and look around. I'm also constantly on the look out for a cheap solar trickle charger for the laptop.

Walking by the city hall lawn, I saw the library burglar lying down under a tree in plain site. I had to laugh. Probably $1,000 would be spent of the top of the law enforcement budget looking for a man who was resting right next the courthouse itself. Ha!

I stopped outside a Starbucks and got online for a moment. The comment about how I needed to ask around towns to pick up brush, etc... was on my mind. And, I was stewing over it.

I posted at Facebook that I planned to make a FAQ page here at IWALLK to cover these recurring questions. To that, one of my good friends surprisingly agreed that they were "good questions!"--implying that he had them too, and I'd never made myself clear about the answers. This is a guy who I thought would never question my judgement about method etc. on my own project.

I was genuinely - if unfairly - outraged by this. I wouldn't have been on an average day, but it was just too much. I felt like the convicted "witch," condemned to die by suffocation. As they piled stone upon stone on top of her, trying to get her to admit her guilt--to "save her soul," she only had two words for them: "More Weight." Sometimes I too would rather just be crushed.

I deleted the thread and had a private message conversation with said friend, who apologized. But I knew he didn't agree with what I was doing and would rather see me give up my goals, call the project a failure and "head back to Maine asap." I will certainly keep all of this in mind as I complete this journey and step off the Amtrak Downeaster at the Portland, Maine station next year, successful and exonerated.

I believe in myself. I know longer care whether others do. But I don't need public debates about this thing I'm doing. I had a secret Facebook group of 50 advisers who were kept privy to my entire plan over a 4 month period. He was among them. So, the time to make suggestions was now long-passed. "Let it go"? Nope... Not until I've re-addressed things. No protective pearls will be created in MY mind.

I will say this, with what I hope is a ringing reminder attached: I DO NOT discourage people who try to exceed themselves, who attempt to do extremely challenging things, who dream big... NEVER--EVER; especially my best friends. So, I don't accept that kind of nay-saying and criticism about what I'm doing, publicly on my profile page.

At about this same time, 20 or so days into the Manifest Destiny journey, I'd received what I can only describe as a series of hate emails; telling me I was a fraud, a panhandler, a fake, lazy, and would fail. So, at that time (back in November of 2014), I implemented a policy at my Facebook Profile page whereby criticism, debate and trolling there - during this journey - would not be tolerated. What I'm doing is not up for alteration with other people's ideas or agendas. This is not a democracy. I don't need the hassle of having to defend what I'm doing out here, while I sleep in fields and ditches, can't shower, often can't eat right, need to produce a post a day, walk extended distances and have periods where I am unable to reply to public attacks.

I'm also particularly averse to preachy moralizing about my own behavior or my reactions to situations that I write about. I KNOW I have flaws. And, I know well what they are. I also know how to handle them and don't take kindly to social - sometimes religious - ministry from other flawed human beings.

I morally support others and believe in their ability to think things out for themselves, without presuming to preach patronizingly down at them. People know what is best for themselves. And, if they don't, then they should still be afforded the dignity of being given the chance to try and fail if need be, before asking for help.

I will be reinstating that Facebook policy soon.

And, in case people reading here are interested? The results of dogging me and trying to hurt my efforts, at Facebook, will result in an unfriending, without comment or warning, and a removal of their comments. If the textual big-mouth then continues on the public threads, he or she will be permanently blocked. There is no return from that. I will consider them persona non grata, and summarily end all communications with them indefinitely. I am putting my life on the line out here. Any unapologetic person who attacks me in this weakened state is a coward to begin with, a betrayer, and he can bet his bottom dollar (because it usually is the self-satisfied people with the dollars who offend in this way) that I WILL write about what he does to me.

There are two kinds of people who donate and contribute to my journeys:

1) The sincere supporter who gives without the slightest need for influence over me. He/she trusts my judgement and knows my work.

And...

2) The (usually-well-off) self-described "supporter" who gives IN ORDER to get something in return, or have influence over my plans, doesn't keep up with what I write and sees me only as an opportunity to manipulate me and have an undeserved voice in what I report.

Consider those few paragraphs a rant if you'd like. But, they will stand up over time.

My battery had not fully charged at the library and now it was giving me warnings about the situation. time to walk again. I wasn't getting begged as often now that the locals had already been there and done that. We simply nodded hellos to each other as we passed on the street. All the way down Churn Creek Road, and over a highway pass I ventured forward. Then at the top of the bridge I saw Best Buy-Walmart-Olive Garden-Lucky-Barnes and Noble-Joann Fabrics---burg. As impressive and depressive as all the other concrete, over-commercialized, homogeneity I had seen in a hundred cities over the last 9 months. With plastic and neon arms, it welcomed me into its warm, blizted-out thingdom.

The first thing I wanted, and had a couple dollars left on my PayPal MasterCard for, was a large cheap juice that I could bring back to the nest and drown my sorrows in. I went to a grocery store that I can't remember the name of; the typical eight football field wide kind that tries to compete with Walmart. I dragged myself around the isles looking for the best deal, finally settling on a Minute Maid blueberry lemonade. I couldn't wait to crack that sucker!

I stood in the 20 person line so long, it seemed, that new fossils had formed from the wildlife I had seen when walking in. And, this was a self service isle.

The time arrived when I could buy my fruity delight. I scanned it, and swiped my card. There was no credit option. Suddenly feeling absolutely no emotion at all just for a moment before then having that acid-feeling of thirst and adrenaline-fueled anger soak into my fragile state of mind, I heard the attendant ask if I needed help. I said, "So I can't just pay for my $2.00 juice with a credit card?"

"I'm sorry, sir," she replied blandly, "we only accept debit, checks, EBT cards and cash. This was the case with about 60% of the stores and markets in Northern California. Frankly, I think it makes them look they are light years behind the East Coast, along with the absence of AC power outlets and Wi-Fi in restaurants.

I was at the end of my frayed and weakened rope. I said loudly, "How convenient! Thanks so much for your valuable help tonight!"; left the juice on the waiting kiosk and walked out.

I was boiling. If things come in threes, then someone made that three an exponent for the day. Cubed with disappointment and anxiety, I began the dark march back to the nest, without my juice. I had a lukewarm, unopened bottle of water there. It would have to do.

I stopped at the first of a dozen walk lights. When it turned to "Walk" I began to walk forward in front of a man (or a very ugly woman) in an old rusty Honda Accord, who was riding the clutch in and out rearing and bounding forward as he (she?) texted something. When I standing exactly in front of his bumper, I saw the car lurch forward, and I yelled in the loudest voice I'd ever heard from myself (it was almost supernaturally intense)... "HEEEEEY!!!!!"

The brakes went on. I was not hit. But, I saw him look exasperated and surprised. I stopped and looked straight into his eyes. He looked like a frightened animal. When I'd passed the evil eye on long enough and began to go forward again, he gunned the engine and peeled out down the road, with my "Fuck you!!" kicking his ass (or at least making me feel better) for the next 100 yards.

Then, amazingly, as I continued down the crumbling non-shoulder of the street, a young woman rocketed toward me in the 1 foot wide breakdown lane; the glow of a smartphone in her face. When she was within about 50 feet of plowing me down, I summed that yell again, and she swerved out into the oncoming lane, in front of a Ford Escalade, then nearly went up on two wheels, over correcting to right her path, settling back into her own lane.

From that moment onward, I've became the world's strongest hater of cellphone use in cars. I'd nearly been hit uncountable times, because of this irresponsible and morally criminal behavior. I think it should be against the law to even have one powered on while you're driving, frankly. I know it will never happen. But, I think it is worse than driving drunk--much worse. If I am ever maimed or killed because of it, I pray these words will echo again and again throughout the eulogy at my funeral.

I had gone about 2 miles, when I no longer recognized the houses and buildings along the side of the road. The sinking feeling of once again having taken the wrong route compressed the day's disappointments and nauseating, looping negativity into a densely packed sphere of psycho-radioactive, black, seething detestation that reminded me of all the past moments I'd spent in that same hell. I was being over-the-top, myself, which compounded things. I am always most angry with myself for letting things affect me so fundamentally. But it was what it was. I turned around and walked 2 miles back, eventually finding the correct road.

Stepping into the hidden path that led to my nest, I thought about that mid-phrased, highlighted text on the cemetery marble earlier in the day...

"...Our daily bread, and forgive..."

My daily bread was where? My forgiveness was where? The original intent was a prayer to God. Taken out of context though, the above could be interpreted as coming from the personal perspective, or the public one.

Slowing to a snail's pace, I pulled the straps of the pack off my very sore shoulders and let it fall to the barbed grass below. The dense overcast characteristic of Redding, overtook the starlight. And, I stood. I didn't think. I just stood.

Time stopped. The night disappeared. And a warm shiver started at the top of my skull and rippled down my spine, over and over again. It was the Spark.

I felt it there, simply being with me, in the way a loyal and loving pet knows when you just need its presence--no counsel, no advice, no judgement; only opening the spiritual door to rapprochement, for whenever I was ready. Yet, I would not be ready to walk through that door for a while yet.

Forgiveness is a flower that needs to grow up plain and green until its colors open. I will water it and move it into the sunlight. But, tonight, I would be more than satisfied just awaiting its bloom; enjoying my discomfort and disaffection as long as it might last.

All things must run their course...

I don't remember falling asleep.