[NOTE: I have turned the choice of personal pronouns over and over again in my head, trying to decide the most appropriate way to allow for the fact that either gender should be represented under the concept of Modern Nomadism. It is onerous and awkward for me to use "he/she" all the time, and using "she" alone is just weird, since I am the first one doing these things and am a man. So, I am going to use male pronouns most of the time, from now on. I desperately want people to know that I fully support and endorse female participation in this kind of lifestyle or adventure. I would LOVE to see a courageous woman write her own chapter in what I think will become a future activity. Girls and boys are alive today, who will discover these ideas from my Journey and be moved to expand upon and perfect them. Don't laugh, skeptics! You may think all of this is strange right now, but open minds are coming up behind our generations. As the future becomes more technological and mechanistic, pressure valves will be needed to deal with it. This will be one of them. Mark these words well.]
I woke and smiled before I even opened my eyes. I knew I was safe and hidden from humanity. I can't describe what a profoundly blissful and tender feeling it is to have no one on earth know where I am sleeping. I was several posts behind on this blog, so not even my friends or family knew my actual whereabouts. Literally, absolutely no one knew where I was. Even the government was clueless. Ha! It has been that way for hundreds of days. Can you imagine? For a private person it is the ultimate form of privacy, while still leaving access to all of the resources of the modern world!
The Modern Nomad revels in his anonymity. He relishes his obscurity. He appreciates that his home is where he has chosen it to be. He owns where he is. Yet, he has not taken it from someone else. He does not owe anyone for it. He need not fight for it, for he understands that it is provided by the earth itself for only as long as he needs it. He seeks not to build a castle upon it, only to pass over it; leaving it with no trace of his presence and thence ready for the next respectful Nomad.
Before I disassembled the tent, I took the following two shots...
The difference between a narrow and broad point of view.
On the way out of the woods I saw the bike trails, jumps and angled curves that someone had taken a great deal of effort to make. They were very well constructed. If I'd had a mountain bike I would have given them a good run through...
It was the softening vestiges of a chilly string of days. I could feel the difference in air temperature even between walking along a ridge and walking in a small valley. Along Cove Boulevard the morning sun was warming me, but in the shadows below ice crystals lingered...
In line with the contrasts of the morning, were the reminders of just how precariously this part of the country teaters between the semi-tropic aspects of the deep South and the alpine temperate regions of the North. I could walk by ice in the shadows and palm trees in the sun...
In front of a Cuban cigar shoppe.
There is a lot of history in Greensboro. Of course the battle of Guilford Courthouse was a major turning point in the effort to stop the British from conquering the southern colonies. Charles Cornwallis (the British general who prevailed over the American general, Nathaneal Greene in the battle) ended up with the street that I would take every day named after him. But, the significant smacking that the Americans gave the British (taking out nearly a third of Cornwallis' troops--and breaking the British confidence in the South) made Greene the town's namesake. According to Wikipedia Greensboro was bought for $98. Dang! Even I could afford that!
Much later during the Civil War, confederate troops were trained in this part of town at Camp Stokes. I couldn't immediately find much more information on this camp than what is written on the sign below...
I worked at Starbucks again for most of the day, until hunger overtook me. I noticed there was a Golden Corral just up Battlefield, and figured it would be a cheap place to refill the stomach. I went in and paid my $9.38 for the buffet. I did get what I needed there, but all in all it was a depressing place to eat. The food was low-to-medium grade. Besides the Asian buffets, I was readily losing interest in the "all you can eat" paradigm. I mean, really, who needs ALL you can eat? I am presuming a bit when I tell you that the pay grade of the customers - while being higher than mine, of course - was on the lower end of the scale.
Kids running around, people with food piled up eight inches on their plates but only eating a few bites, lonely single senior diners staring lifelessly into space and an overworked staff made for a environment of feed-yard behavior that even the animals being consumed would regret being party to. In the corner were Saggy and myself, probably looking even more pathetic than the most destitute patrons. Sometimes, I can see every tear, dirty mark, ripped stitch and overstuffed part of the pack... I can't explain... After my salad and a few protein-rich items I just had to leave. So I left, full, but dismayed and feeling down. Honestly, there was something about it all that almost brought tears to my eyes. I'm not sure why.
My thoughts were on the ivy-covered trees of my sleep spot...
Once a gas station.
The walk back down Cornwallis was pleasant enough. The surrounding neighborhoods were quite nice. The temperature had risen significantly during the day and the back of my sweater was dampening. A few of the houses stuck out as being architecturally appealing to me...
Classic, semi-Federalist. I like the pikes holding the awning up
and the enclosed porch on the west side.
This cottage-like style was quite grand, with its high angled roof dormer and very nice "little"
guest house (which would have been bigger than I would ever need for a happy domestic
existence), had a grand back porch I wish I could have seen.
The guest house.
These were not the kinds of homes one sees in the Pacific West. They are old upper-middle class money, but not uber-rich residences, with solid foundations. I guess that's what I like about the East Coast. Greensboro was around when California was still just a legend...
And to mix things up a bit? This house was built on the edge of a ravine.
I was attracted to its drawbridge-like walkways. Unfortunately, it lacked
windows on what I consider to be the most important side of the house--the west.
When I finally got to the woods entrance, I looked up and down the road and when I was satisfied that no cars were coming, or was fully convinced that the ones around didn't give a shit, I went in, past the bike trails and up into the tall ivy-covered trees and fallen logs. I easily found my spot from the night before, set up the tent and rested in at the fall of day...
Ivy, on the way up.
Ivy (Hedera) is an incredible plant. It will run along the ground for short distances if it doesn't have something to climb up. Once it does find a suitable vertical surface (whether wood, brick or stone), it just lets loose, and can attain heights of one hundred feet. Despite its lush appearance when viewed around a woodland area like this, the leaves can appear almost artificial...
Ivy leaves are tough, rigid, strong and can feel like plastic.
The stems are smooth with grasping fingers (called, "aerial rootlets") supporting the plant as it grows up a tree...
Notice that these rootlets do not have little round suckers at their tips the way Boston ivy does.
That means there is less molecular adhesion.
There is some debate as to whether ivy is actually bad for trees. In Europe there are more organisms that cull growth. In North America, the lack of these insects and fungi can mean that ivy growth gets very aggressive. From what I could observe, the ivy around these trees was living in a kind of symbiosis with them. Basically, trees this high (around forty to sixty feet) have little use for the the surface area of their trunks below the level where sunlight can reach. And, I did not see many vines that reached the very tops of them.
My ivy-covered forest university was teaching me so much. And, my scholarship was not limited only to the subject of biology, but mixed with plenty of self-contemplated philosophy. Everywhere I go is a test of my own psychology. They are all the spiritually edifying children of the Spark as it presents the Universe in a way that my mind can handle. Any more, and I might become overwhelmed. Any less, and I might become depressed. The Spark is my academic advisor--tough, tolerant of my shortcomings, but ever trying to inspire me to expand my mind, fill my spirit, and pull my soul just that much further from the inside to the outside.
That you - the reader - and I are observing this process from the day to day level should not lessen the enormously astonishing fact that it is happening at all! And, I believe it is happening with you also. Of course you are the expert on that.
But I want to tell you--from the heart, that your interest in these posts keeps my soul-process in motion. Similarly, I hope that the descriptions of my experience doing these things you might not be in a position to do can occasionally divert your attention from the semi-automated concerns of your modern material life long enough to truly be WITH me, out here in the ivy-covered forest of still-beautiful world.
If I can do that, then we are truly experiencing these things together. This friendship we have - this time together in the wilderness - is not going to last forever. In fact, there are less than four short months left for us. If we can enjoy (spiritually ingest) every bit of our common adventure, we may find that we are walking just a bit more awake than those who could care less about such "fluffy" and super-material interests.
The sun sank. The shadows grew. The ivy climbed. The world turned a few more degrees on its axis and I fell asleep in my tent to the chorus of a thousand spring peepers; they, just as thrilled to be alive as I was at that very moment.
I love the last paragraph here.
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