A Living Magazine - Day 249 - Homecoming - High Point to Jamestown

At some point during the night I must have shut off the TV. I slept well and woke up, packed up, did some last minute work online and then left at around 10:45 a.m.

The route I had to take was complex, at least for me. It consisted of walking up Main Street to the Amtrak station, then going right onto M.L.K., left onto Centennial, right onto Eastchester (Route 68), right onto Wendover through Jamestown and then the rest of the way to Greensboro. I set off walking directly into a strong wind from the north...  

This was quite a massive campus. And, everything was sparkling new, as if it had been

made last year. I also liked the color blue that they used in the signs--had a hint of violet.

I had very little idea where I would be spending the night. I just wanted to make it about halfway to Greensboro. There was no hint at all during this very windy, hard slog, walking on mostly grass, that I was about to find one of the best sleep spots I'd ever had. I wasn't feeling very good, emotionally.

There was a real funk that had settled in after Salisbury--well maybe it began in Charlotte. I was stuck with a jaded feeling of resentment for the ant colony of human beings around me; their shiny debt-based cars, their distracted minds, their fake pleasantries, the way they just played the roles they thought others expected of them. It was the way they seemed to buy into their own cultural enslavement with such abandon.

While they were stereotyping each other and me, I could not believe how easy it was for me to stereotype them. I genuinely tried not to. I knew that their impressions of me, based on appearance alone, were unfair and inaccurate. How could I do such a thing to them? Maybe they were nothing at all like they appeared to be. I had to catch and stop myself from doing it.

Nevertheless, the ants were so predictable, so stuck scrambling through their excavated mental passageways; wearing the approved garments for their particular lifestyle choices, even walking and talking automatically. They tried to impress each other with the latest this or that phrase. Trendy posing had replaced genuine interaction.

Everything was based on the outside--the surface area of their material selves. I saw they had souls, but those souls were in a kind of hibernation. Perhaps when a marriage, birth, divorce or death shook the coma-bed of the soul it would awaken to adjust itself. Then, seeing that not much else of import was happening, would slip back into its suspended animation. The soul craves Light. Anything short of the striving to find that Light is just too boring and useless for the soul to even consider. Bodies, driving, shopping, eating, sleeping, working...are just bodies. Nothing to see there.

I thought that ultimately when all of the foofoo, face-painted, pedicured veneer was scratched away by the erosive forces of actual REALITY--was boiled off the artificial lives of the majority of people, what was really left of their humanity was simple, undiluted cowardice. They were afraid of the courage to think, speak and act for themselves. Every waking moment was filled with the crouching, hiding, fetal position of doing what they thought others expected of them. The only breath of fresh air I ever got to see was that of their children.

Kids have not yet be reprogrammed. They have not yet had their dreams smashed. They have not yet had their creativity snuffed out by a hierarchical, numbers-based school system, in order to get a college degree they won't use, work at a nineteen different jobs during their lives just pay money down on debt that will never end. They have not yet realized that all of the crap they will face as adults, they will then be expected to train their own kids. Child abuse, generation after generation. That was what made this car-culture, anthill we call modern society the wonderful and stultifying thing it is today.

That pretty much sums up my psychology on this day and the days surrounding it. I just felt so hopeless. This deadness, lack of inspiration, progress-refusal was a battleship headed without a captain at full speed into a breakwater. Everyone sees it in some way or another. But they are simply too afraid to think, speak or do anything about it. I was trying to hitch my little canoe to its bow, and turn the fucker around. And, that pissed me off. The sad thing about my frustration was not that I was so ineffective, but that I looked like such an idiot to even try. For even ME, there was no escape from the peer pressure to not stand out philosophically.

If you want to see the most pathetic thing in nature, take one ant from its colony, walk a hundred yards away and gently put it on the ground. It has no pheromone trail to follow, no knowledge of the direction it came from, no protection from its sisters. It is a death sentence. It will not know what to do. It will scour a hundred square foot area for any sign of its family. But no sign will be found. Night will fall and it will hide as best it can until the next day. It will repeat this process until it is either killed, eaten, or starved to death. Now, my fine people, how much greater are we than ants?

Bear in mind, that no ant ever chooses to leave the colony. Ants are not privy to a sense of free will. Perhaps they are the fortunate ones. I have left the colony. And, now I am scouring the area; not to find it again, but to start a new world where each person chooses their own reality--TOGETHER; unified diversity. But, even I miss the warm, stupid, lazy comfort of my colony still, at the same time I am growing to despise it. I am a creature of two worlds.

Along Centennial I ran across this place. It was a solid two acres stuffed with every possible kind of lawn ornament an ant could want. Shit, if I had a place of my own in North Carolina, I might come here every weekend...

Love this message!

The Festival Park Dam.

My foul mood, jaded disposition, and crappy attitude always needs to be balanced out. No amount of brooding and resentment can be maintained indefinitely--at least in my case. And, that is where the Spark takes over, even if temporarily. 

After turning onto Wendover and walking by the same old businesses I'd seen in a semi-nauseating series for - now - thousands of miles on this Journey, I looked to my right and saw a row of thick short pine trees. Yes! Surely, this could hold a sleep spot. 

It was still light out and the chance to just rest and hang out somewhere alone in nature could not be avoided. I took the opportunity to walk across the street and up the short road past a BP station, all the while scoping out the adjacent land for camping compatibility. It looked great! I went into the BP and bought a beer and a Gatorade, then casually walked over to the edge of the woods. When no cars were coming or going, I passed in through a short path. 

It was grassy, with a thick pine needle base, but interspersed with thousands of sharp pricker bushes. I was willing to sacrifice bits of flesh off my thighs (as you will see in a coming post) in order to find a nice spot, and I did.

When I saw the following tree, I became focused on it. It had been one of the original members of a bulldozed field--somehow left standing. When it was only about five years old, something had broken the trunk, laying it over at a 90 degree angle. Because it was split (having two trunks growing out of the base), it was now growing and still thriving at it's strange angle. Throughout the last two decades, it has watched all the other trees, including its own offspring grow up to shelter it... 

Somehow I'd caught a sprite or Midwayer floating near the base of these trees.

Deer tracks.

Ah... A peaceful place--priceless.

Here are some more photos of this strange and wonderful tree. I named it the Tree of Life...

I always send a scouting party of - um, one - to check out the area. Someone in the parking lot near the Gold's Gym must have set up a makeshift driving range...

Yeah, I got the balls.

Probably the best campsite photo of the whole Journey.

Treetop sunlight.

From fifty feet.

The wind was still really bursting out gusts. The shelter of the trees was quite evident as I could see its effect on their tops but not at their bases...

Wind in the pines.

It was that same orange muddy sand that I spent so much time walking over in Athens.

In fact this spot reminded me of a much more comfortable version of my sleep spot there.

I paced, and thought, and cooled down my formerly-simmering rage. The Spark had made it's point. And, I was able to see the world like one of those kids again--natural, alive, green, golden breezy and idyllic. I knew I would only spend one night here, but I was very thankful to have it. If I were in this area for longer, it would certainly serve as a sanctuary. I would encourage future Nomads to find it if they are hiking through the Piedmont Triad region. I left a sign of my stay, but it will remain secret until the new generation of Nomads begins their campaign of readjusting society. Not all of the kids living right now will be contorted into ant-robots.

After the sun had gone down, and my mind had settled, I climbed into the tent and enjoyed one of the most peaceful and restful sleeps I'd had in weeks.

A Living Magazine - Day 248 - Homecoming - High Point: And The Wind Blew

I woke up at around 7:30 a.m. and decided right there and then that I would spend one more day at the motel. I went down to the office and purchased it from Mr. Personality, and then headed to Walmart to get some more food for the day...

On the way back I saw these two hilarious vehicles...

Car culture. Trick out your grandfather's car.

The clouds were breaking, the temperature was rising, and the wind was really kicking up...

When I got back to the motel, I noticed the builders were back (see the white truck)...

I worked for a while, but kept being drawn to the outdoors. I could hear the wind whistling around the railings of the second floor. When it blew through the trees it sounded like a truck going by on the highway. When I stepped out I noticed just how quickly the clouds were passing over. I tried to capture it, but the video just didn't seem to do justice...

The wind speed according to Intellicast was approaching 60 mph.

So, if you consider that this cloud ceiling was about 1,500 feet and think how small a car

would look up there in the sky traveling along with the clouds, it is easier to imagine the speed.

When I went back inside the hammering and power tools began above me. I tolerated it (with grinding teeth) for about five more hours. But, I just couldn't deal with it anymore as late afternoon approached. I went back down to the office. The manager wasn't there and a woman was sitting in his place. She rose and asked how she could help me. I told her the situation. She said she didn't think they would be working there all night. I stepped up to the counter and said, "All night? Are you being serious?" She said she didn't know much about the situation. I told her that I'd paid for a peaceful night there and they needed to stop NOW. 

She said she understood and would call the manager. I thanked her and was returning to the room when the manager walked around the corner. I approached him. I told him - again - about the situation (as I had the day before). He smiled like it was all a big joke and practically walked past me. I stopped him and told him that the noise had to stop. He huffed, with the same shit-eating grin still on his face, backed up out into the parking lot and yelled up to the guys on the second floor in Hindi. They stopped for a moment. 

Apparently, he had his son, cousin, brother in law and everyone else he could talk into emigrating from India up there remodeling his rooms at my expense, while I slept on his plastic bag bed with the burn holes in the bedspread and brown burn marks all over the tub. We were both saving money I guess. All the Indians nodded and laughed. He looked at me, said nothing and waved as he continued his walk to the office. I yelled after him, "So we're all set then?" He turned and nodded on his way.

By the time I walked back into my room it was 6:00 p.m. I figured the guys upstairs would continue for a few minutes and then pack up. So, I took some photos of the evening... 

My room.

See the two doors open above my room? The workers were having a grand old time up there,

watching TV, rounding off screw heads, and what not. 

Something about the slippery word "lox"... Not what I would name a door lock system.

But, what the hell do I know from bagels and cream cheese?

The work continued for another hour. Just after 7:00 I heard them all pile into their truck and head out. 

I had a big walk the next day and wanted to get as much sleep as possible. So, like any good American I shut down the laptop and climbed into bed, falling asleep in front of the TV watching Dominic Monagham's Wild Things (good show, by the way). 

A Living Magazine - Day 247 - Homecoming - High Point: Maine on the Brain

I can't remember much about this, but I was driving up Route 1, through Damariscotta and the midcoast region of Maine. I used to do it as often as I could afford the gas. In fact, having been single for so long, I made it a major priority to explore the state in the last three decades. 

Driving to explore was probably my very favorite past-time. I'd filmed the sunrise eclipse from the top of Cadillac Mountain, stepped on a giant ant hill while taking a pee on a sideroad near Mooselookmeguntic Lake, seen hot water tossed into the -40° F air in Caribou turn to ice, stopped along I-95 between Bangor and Houlton to let a mother black bear and her two cubs cross. I adore my home state.

On this dream trip I was headed out to Pemaquid Point to drive up Route 32, probably the single most beautiful road in the nation. After driving around the point and seeing Pemaquid Light, then heading up 32, I slowed down to watch the lobster boats come into New Harbor. Then, the strangest thing happened. The sun was behind me, but there was a huge flash across Long Cove at the rocky tip of Long Cove Point. It looked like a bomb, without smoke or sound, then faded back to daylight. This seems to be a recurring theme in my dreams.^{[1, 2]} 

I pulled over to get a better look, but I was jammed up against the car door and couldn't reach the handle to open it. As I held onto the steering wheel to adjust myself, it came off in my hand! I felt like I was being pushed from the side. Then I woke up in the tent, lying on my back with my left side squished up against Saggy.

* * * * * * *

As with any day that I wake up and know I'll have a room that night, there was no sleeping in. It was raining. I sat up quickly to look around the tent for leaks. There were none. Even under the sleeping bag it was relatively dry. I smiled. The dream and the images of Maine were stuck in my mind, as if projected against the inside of my eyelids.

I kept hoping - just short of praying - that the rain would lighten enough for me to get to Starbucks without being drenched. It was about a mile (18 minutes of walk time). Then, as I finished stuffing the sleeping bag into Saggy, I noticed only occasional drips outside on the tarp/fly. The rain had let up. Yes!

Again, the tarp/fly was sopping and had to be put away as-was. Swinging the pack over my back I negotiated the rough terrain in the still-dark woods, finding the now-more muddy road, hopping from little raised island to island until I reached Paris Road. The large house on the corner was just coming to life, with lights on the second floor and doorway, where a little Benji-dog barked to be let in. I've been barked at by 10,000 dogs. But when I passed by, he and I looked at each other and made a little connection--both of us out in weather we didn't really prefer, and he refrained from barking at me.

The blue skies of a Maine summer seemed to overlap the gray skies of this town every time I blinked. I wished I could just climb into bed and dream about Maine for the rest of the morning. It became almost an obsession. Taking a right onto Maine Street (oops), I pulled out my wallet and checked for cash. The bills had the Maine state seal on them, then faded back to pyramids.

When I got to Starbucks and put my pack down on a chair at the nearest table, I waited in line. At the register I ordered a Maine roast, then changed it to a dark roast. Settling into my table, I pulled out the Maine, I mean laptop, and checked for any word from Joyce about the room. Soon, her cautious reply came. She said the Motel 6 manager sounded skeptical about the whole thing, like it might be a phone scam or something, but reluctantly agreed.

Again, there happened to be a window of clearing for about one hour. So I packed up the laptop. I wanted to take a bus if the rain started, but was willing to walk the whole way. Interesting to note that when I had gotten off at the Downtown exit from Old Route 85 the afternoon before, I had seen the Motel 6 right there. I was walking the three or so miles back to where I had entered the town. So thankfully, I knew exactly where the place was.

Maine - I mean, High Point - is polar. By that, I mean that there is a south and north side of Maine (oops) Street, with the same box stores and chain restaurants at either end. And in this case, the two are practically reflections of each other. Each has a McDonald's and a Wal-Mart Supercenter, for example. The one thing that is lacking on the south side is a Starbucks (hence, why I went so far north the day before). But, I didn't need a Starbucks if I had a room to work in. I did need the Wal-Mart for new socks.

I almost reached a bus stop just as the bus passed me, stopped at it, and then took off again. With eyes sufficiently rolling, I accepted my fate. I'd missed my chance for a ride. Sprinkling began about forty five minutes into my Maine (oops) Street trek--with still one more mile to go...

High Point has a nice Amtrak station, that reminded me of my many

times taking the train in the last months.

Finally, I passed by the yellow non-Nomad's tent, under Old 85--where I had walked into town the day before, and into the south part of town. Again, I was quite happy to know there was a Wal-Mart nearby since I desperately needed those socks. And, to my delight (well, very few things really measure out as "delight," but...) there was also a laundromat right across from the Motel 6 driveway...

One difference between the West Coast and the East Coast is that on the West Coast places are 

simply named something, and you have to figure out on your own what kind of business it is. 

Here, you are told in large letters what kind of business it is ("Laundromat," for example,

or "Mexican Restaurant"), and if they they have space they'll also name it something unique.

The first order of business was to buy the room. This was one of the crappier Motel 6's I'd seen. It's driveway was shared by an onramp/offramp to Old 85, with (of course) no sidewalk. I sloshed through the muddy grass up to the office.

Walking in, I saw a counter with a small older Indian gentleman sitting in a chair behind it. He rose unsmiling and said something I didn't understand. It was probably, "What the hell do you want?" (Kidding). I told him I had a room reserved under "Wall, Alexander." He nodded and spent an inordinate amount of time clicking away on the computer, hmmming and haaaing. I mentioned that my manager had called in too. He raised his eyebrows, perhaps remembering the conversation with her. He mumbled that he didn't have the queen bed room ready until 3:00 p.m., but there was a double ready now. I took it.

In the picture of the rooms there online, the queen room had a fridge and microwave. He handed me the key card to Room 112. When I got to the room and opened the door I was disappointed not to find appliances. It was barebones. There were cigarette burns in the bed covers and crinkly plastic under the sheets. I couldn't tell if the plastic covering the mattresses was there to keep things in it or from seeping into it from the outside. Honestly, I didn't even want to consider either. There were burn marks all over the top of the tub. Obviously at one point this was a smoking room. Other than that, it wasn't too bad...until the construction started.

I wanted to just plop down on the bed and take a nap, but there was too much to do and I wanted to get it all done before nightfall. First thing: laundry. But, to get to that, I had to take all of the wet tent parts out and hang them up to dry. Then I just dumped everything out of the pack to reorganize later.

Piling just the laundry back into the pack (which was every piece of clothing besides what I was wearing which also needed to be washed), I headed down the muddy grass and driveway to the laundromat. It was quite a nice and modern operation with tons of machines...

That bit of blue in the dryer was my sleeping bag.

They had a bathroom to change out of my pants and shirts so they could also be washed, and into my bathing suit and my one last clean t-shirt. I kicked myself for not bringing the laptop, as Wi-Fi was available. So, I killed the hour and a half watching trash TV--the Justice Network, with John Walsh. I wished I could change to PBS. Maybe they'd have a documentary on Maine? But no. It was all serial murders for my time there. John Walsh certainly has made a career for himself after the brutal murder of his son, Adam in 1981. And, even though this is hyperbolic, melodramatic, afternoon, cookie-cutter format TV, at least it wasn't Bridezillas. Thank God for small favors! Still, I couldn't pay attention to this crap, and found myself back in my Maine State of mind.

When the dryer buzzed, I pulled out my Maine and folded it on the Maine. In the bathroom I reMained distracted as I climbed back into my pants. It was nice to have the Maine done. It all went back in the Maine and I walked across Maine Street to my room at the Maine.

Okay, it was time to remove Maine from my brain, so I could at least function. As a refrain, even rain could not stain the memories of Maine. I turned on the TV (an enormous old-school behemoth) and found the Travel Channel. They were having an Andrew Zimmern Bizarre Foods fest. I liked that show and it freed me from Maine long enough to get some work done. I took a break to organize my backpack stuff and check on the tent parts...

Do I really need all this crap?

Tent and tarp/fly.

Blue hiking tarp, tarps bag and tent bag.

Green base-tarp.

At some point, I realized I was hungry. So I combined a walk to Wal-Mart to buy food with a sock purchase. Then returned back to the motel...

Same ones I'd bought a couple weeks before. I threw the old holey pair away.

I hadn't even taken a shower yet. So, after eating some salad and a couple sandwiches I made with bread, a special cured meat pack, gruyere cheese (absolute favorite), fresh tomatoes, an avocado and kosher pickles, it was time for the Alex wash-down...

Pre-shower, pre-shave.

This picture is interesting in that it shows the only way I ever see myself--reflected.

Other people see my features in the opposite orientation.

I think I prefer this one.

After the shower I finished a blog post and then just sat back on the bed to travel along with Andrew for a few hours. At about 4:00 p.m., directly above me, began hammering and power tools. Sounded like they were ruining sheetrock screws by rounding them out. It was loud. I couldn't even hear the TV. I went and complained, but it took another three hours for them to stop. It turns out that all around my particular room there was construction going on. It dawned on me, that the manager had duped me into this end of the motel. I say "duped," because I believe my appearance told him that I would be satisfied with any old room. I was displeased, but got my revenge in a review a few days later.

I shut off the TV and went back to work, processing pictures and writing. I couldn't handle the construction and the TV. At about 7:00 p.m., when the guys upstairs came down, jumped into their pick-ups and left, I was finally at peace again. 

I had received a specific amount as a donation to get a second night. But, I wasn't positive that it would be at this place. Unfortunately, if I'd gone somewhere else I would have to pay at least $20 more for a room; meaning that I would have no money left for food after that next day. I really needed the rest, and it was due to rain for another twenty four hours. I put off deciding on a second night until the next morning.

Eventually, I got tired and climbed into bed. Besides the plastic crinkling sound under me, I was fairly comfortable. I definitely like smaller beds now. The smaller the bedder (ha!). I fell asleep with one word on my lips... Maine. And, I made it through the night without even waking.