There was another dream about Aria, but its content will remain private. I woke up slightly confused. I felt as though, besides the two lives I already led--that of homeless Nomad and public exhibitionsist, it seems I was now living in two worlds--one waking and one dreaming. I do sometimes wonder if I might have a tumor or something in my brain. Why am I so freakin weird? Why do all of these things happen? But, I know I don't have a tumor. I have a Spark. They are kind of the same, except that the former grows and the latter causes growth. This made it easier to just accept that growth is inevitable if I am to remain thoughtful in any way. It is a one way street. there is no going back to being more simply-minded. Perhaps this paragraph is proof of that. Ha!
I knew I'd have to leave Durham (proper) on this day. The plan was to go straight to the library, bypass coffee or breakfast. I would take care of the daily meal on the way out of town that evening.
I packed, said adieu to this rough area and its many critters, and got downtown quickly. By that, I don't mean that I walked more quickly, just that knowing a route well makes time seem to pass more quickly. Maybe some of you have experienced this same phenomenon. When I first get to a city or town and have to find a sleep spot, it seems to be a process that drags on and on. But then when I make my daily commute to and from that spot, it is more of a short jaunt.
The work at the library was punctuated by a lot of periods of procrastination. It wasn't like I was watching youtube videos or staring off into space. It was more like sudden ideas for planning the walk to Wake Forest would pop into my head, and I would get onto Google Earth to check out routes and sleep spots. Regardless, I did get done most of what I wanted, then left for Oak Grove--an unincorporated community on the border of eastern Durham. I had to walk along Route 70 until I got to Route 98--conveniently located by just continuing to walk straight rather than follow 70 as it turned off at a 90 degree angle...
This early 20th. Century architecture caught my eye.
There was a lot more than just these two houses, but folks were on their porches
and such, so I didn't want to invade their personal space or privacy.
This was "the hood" section of Durham (the city's own unofficial term); mostly black and Latino, not run-down but a lot of trash on the sides of the road, small near-poverty housing. Google Reviews of businesses around the area - for instance Mom and Pop Laundry--which I considered doing a partial wash at, but rejected the idea - showed this kind of thing: "Is in the pit of the hood. Gotta be careful w people around this area. Is nothing but dope heads dope dealers trannys & prostitutes & ppl w bad intentions walking around here." I did see quite a few folks who fit these stereotypes.
It was seriously busy in this part of town. Besides being rush hour, I noticed drives taking a lot of risks--running red lights, trying to pass slower cars, driving some real wrecks. I considered going into the McDonald's I passed, but something just didn't seem right about it. I was really hungry. I had the intention instead to visit a place called Johnson Family Barbeque once I got to Oak Grove. It had fantastic reviews at Tripadvisor.com, and my cousin Jeff had urged me to seek out BBQ in this state when I got a chance. North Carolina is famous for its roadside BBQ. He suggested skipping the chains and and going to a "hole in the wall." I'm glad I listened to him and I'm glad I skipped McDonald's.
After successfully continuing to walk forward onto 98 and not follow 70, I started to emerge out of "the hood" and into a more affluent and suburban series of neighborhoods. Some were a bit of the "little boxes" subdivisional motif, but had quite pleasant looking locations...
Nice fountain in an apartment complex off of Route 98 in eastern Durham.
Though I'd heard it many times (my mom would sing it to us when we would pass such subdivisions in the car when my sister and I were kids) I only ever remembered the first part of the first verse of Malvina Reynolds' song. But just now looking up the lyrics? Wow! How appropriate to my current rantings about a coming continental hypermall, infinite development projects, car culture and human-ant behavior (click the title to hear the song)...
LITTLE BOXESThe song had been used for Weeds, one of my favorite black comedies. Many younger folks may associate it with that show. But it does go a long way toward demonstrating just how prescient Reynolds' observation was way back in 1962 post WWII America. It is still quite apt today and can be very appropriately associated with much that I've written about the failure of the American Dream[1,2]; how we continue to do CPR on that dream, dragging it around like a dead pet that we just can't let go of no matter how obvious it is that it's rotting corpse is best left in the dustbin of history.
Words and Music by Malvina Reynolds
© Copyright 1962 Schroder Music Company
Little boxes on the hillside,
Little boxes made of ticky tacky,1
Little boxes on the hillside,
Little boxes all the same.
There's a green one and a pink one
And a blue one and a yellow one,
And they're all made out of ticky tacky
And they all look just the same.
And the people in the houses
All went to the university,
Where they were put in boxes
And they came out all the same,
And there's doctors and lawyers,
And business executives,
And they're all made out of ticky tacky
And they all look just the same.
And they all play on the golf course
And drink their martinis dry,
And they all have pretty children
And the children go to school,
And the children go to summer camp
And then to the university,
Where they are put in boxes
And they come out all the same.
And the boys go into business
And marry and raise a family
In boxes made of ticky tacky
And they all look just the same.
There's a green one and a pink one
And a blue one and a yellow one,
And they're all made out of ticky tacky
And they all look just the same.
Critics of my point of view on this subject may point out that the fact that America is still running on middle class conformity--that it's even-greater presence in the ways I have described, only goes to prove that 1950's social philosophy and its loyalty to the American Dream is strong enough even now to create a more economically strong society--were it only tweaked slightly. I utterly reject that argument. It is one more example of insisting on only looking backward to try to move forward. Marshall McLuhan said, “We look at the present through a rear-view mirror. We march backwards into the future.”
This erroneous method can kind-of work, in its tripping, stumbling way. But, eventually so many accidents happen and accumulate in the past that the rearview mirror can't be used anymore. Its image is so filled with defeat and collapse that taking even one more step forward based on this image is suicidal. It is an extremely good metaphor, and one that I will continue to employee as long as we use the crutch of so-called "conservative" longing for a golden America age that never existed, while we foist that longing upon all the other nations of the world with debt-based economics and consumerist thing-fetishism.
When I was in high school another and perhaps more direct song came along from the band RUSH. It is a fantastically good extension of McLuhan's concept--not to mention one of the greatest rock songs for it's use of progressive musical technique (click on the title to hear the song)...
SUBDIVISIONS
Words by Neil Peart, Music by Rush
© Copyright 1982, from the album Signals
Sprawling on the fringes of the city
In geometric order
An insulated border
In between the bright lights
And the far unlit unknown
Growing up it all seems so one-sided
Opinions all provided
The future pre-decided
Detached and subdivided
In the mass production zone
Nowhere is the dreamer or the misfit so alone
(Subdivisions)
In the high school halls
In the shopping malls
Conform or be cast out
(Subdivisions)
In the basement bars
In the backs of cars
Be cool or be cast out
Any escape might help to smooth the unattractive truth
But the suburbs have no charms to soothe the restless dreams of youth
Drawn like moths we drift into the city
The timeless old attraction
Cruising for the action
Lit up like a firefly
Just to feel the living night
Some will sell their dreams for small desires
Or lose the race to rats
Get caught in ticking traps
And start to dream of somewhere
To relax their restless flight
Somewhere out of a memory of lighted streets on quiet nights...
(Subdivisions)
In the high school halls
In the shopping malls
Conform or be cast out
(Subdivisions)
In the basement bars
In the backs of cars
Be cool or be cast out
Any escape might help to smooth the unattractive truth
But the suburbs have no charms to soothe the restless dreams of youth
The above song was written twenty years after Little Boxes. And, though not in the same league, my own song America's World (highlighted two posts ago) was written 20 years after Subdivisions. It seems that as long as America persistently attempts to follow conformity and crush novel creativity, artists and writers will come along to expose this treachery. Afterall, I'm still focusing on it here in 2016.
The weather pattern was changing from overcast days to clear afternoons with unsettled evenings. From the time I arrived in Oak Grove until the night before I headed out of Durham, the intensity of this weather would continue to build...
Pre-thunder head.
Unsettled sunset.
A weather station, equipped to transmit conditions via radio signal to meteorologists.
When I checked out the weather for Durham this was the little guy who supplied the information.
Hadn't seen an IGA for many years.
I'd arrived!
Durham County East Regional Library--closed, in this photo, but well-lit.
It was less than a mile to my dearly-sought BBQ dinner at Johnson Family Barbeque. When I reached it, besides the giant "BBQ" above the smoke pit, I could hardly see where the entrance was. Besides the BP store hogging space next to the small doorway, there were three cars parked in front just picking up take out.
I walked in to find an energetic Allison Johnson pacing the floor and wondering whether she should close up shop early. She had sold out of nearly everything. I told her I'd heard about their restaurant and waited all day to try the food; even walked six miles from downtown. She went back behind the counter and assessed the inventory. Apparently, there was still enough regular BBQ pork for a couple sandwiches or a plate.
I was feeling really hungry at this point and was willing to sacrifice enough money for the plate. It included the pork, two sides, and hush puppies. [For New Englanders and others who have not had the pleasure of being introduced to much Southern cooking, hush puppies are kind of deep fried, crispy little donut, bready on the inside and crunchy on the outside. I had never heard of them until staying in High Point a couple weeks earlier. I asked what they were at some place, and the girl behind the counter said, "Ya'll never heard a hush puppies?" which caused a ripple of laughter in among the staff and a red embarrassment upon my face. But, one must learn these things somehow. And, embarrassment is sometimes the most effective means of memory reinforcement.]...
Clockwise from the top: hush puppies, chopped BBQ pork, slaw, and collards.
I bought a Cheerwine--a cherry flavored soda, native concoction to Salisbury, North Carolina and hugely popular around these parts (like Moxie is to Mainers). She may have been busy, but Allison took the time to bring me my plate at the table. And, with that delightful North Carolina hospitality, when I asked if I could get a refill on my soda, she said "Darlin', you can have as many refills as you want."
Allison had suggested I try her husband's secret BBQ sauce formula, located in a squeeze bottle in my table next to the paper towel roll. It was unlike any BBQ sauce I'd ever had. From what I could glean, it was vinegar, water, just the right amount of salt, tiny diced peppers of some kind and a few hints of other flavors I could not readily identify, but made it quite unique. I guess I would compare it to a Southern version of a Thai dipping sauce; thin, but highly flavorful.
The collards were cooked well, but not overdone or mushy. The slaw was excellent; rather large-diced and not drowning in dressing. I deeply enjoyed my meal.
It just so happened that I could get a Wi-Fi signal there and was able to let my cousin know that I'd finally taken his advice and scored some really great BBQ. As luck would have it for Allison, her Husband, Wayne was returning with the food truck (they also do catering and street vending around the area). He still had enough meat left to keep them open for the next hour. When I was on my second Cheerwine, Wayne arrived in the big pink food truck and brought in the goods. I met him while they were counting up the day's sales. He was a nice southern gentleman dressed in overalls, no shirt, and clearly knew his stuff when it came to smoked BBQ.
They hickory smoke their meats for up to ten hours before considering them ready for sale. On their sign it says, "It's all about the wood!" And it must be! The smoke flavor is not too subtle, but not overly intense either. In a word, it is perfection.
Now, I have not had much BBQ brisket in my life. The only time I can recall having it, I found it a bit dried out, stringy and overly lean. After I told Wayne about my project, he asked if I wanted to try some brisket for the road. I'm always a bit shy about accepting such generosity, but I stammed out a "Yes...ppplease..."
He went behind the counter and into the kitchen while I spoke with Allison and packed up my laptop. When he came back out, he handed me what I consider to be a large slice of meat about nine inches long, three inches wide and good three quarters inch thick. Trying not to drool while still in the restaurant, I thanked them both and headed out into the night to get over to the sleep spot I'd located on Google that morning. All I could think about was biting into that brisket.
I found the entrance along the road and spirited myself and my plate into the woods. Before doing any further preparation for the campsite, I had to get into that meat. I took a bite and then realized this was a photo worthy moment...
The brisket was juicy, just the right amount of fat striping on one side, smoky-sweet and savory.
The thicker sauce was ideal for this cut of meat.
When I was done munching, it was time to get my head out of the hickory clouds and focus on setting up the tent. I walked around this piney woods looking for a level spot where I wouldn't have to do a lot of excavation. I finally found one that was partially hidden from view of the nearby road...
It was a relatively clean area. There were a lot of dead branches at eye-poking level, but after removing the ones around the tent I felt more comfortable. The pine needle floor was thick enough to be fair padding and the sand base about four inches under them appeared to be an adequate rain-soak for the storms predicted in the next couple days.
I did my characteristic pacing and thanked the Spark for good guidance as well as steering me to meet up with the Johnson's and the extra food they so graciously provided.
It was a good day. My mood was tacitly headed up again. I'm really happier in smaller towns and suburban places like Oak Grove. There was no dirty city grime, less chance of human conflict, prettier natural surroundings, and, in this case, delicious BBQ! It was just the amount of upswung adjustment my attitude to face the next two nights. As I would find, that is exactly what would be required. I climbed into the tent and fell asleep on top of the sleeping bag, where I slept the rest of the night.
Oak Grove, Durham Sleep Spot.
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