For those who read Fog on Fire:

For those who read Fog on Fire:

I was with one of my best friends in Corvallis in 2015; pretty much the best friend. He had just finished reading Fog on Fire. I lit up inside because someone completed a body of my work. I got to gauge him for honest responses that he had. Later on I referenced a basketball championship game to him that I was in and after I described it he mentioned how he saw the clip used as the b-roll footage for CCW—an episodic of mine.

That afternoon I went on to complete another episode of the show that I had put off with a drive of purpose. I sat and was reflective about the time I had while on the road. I thought about separate clips from the journey and it made me euphoric with sensory overload. I thought it would be fun to travel back there, at least with a depiction of it in words. (I’m going to write if for me and for the people that read my book because anyone else wouldn’t gather the feeling):

It was dinnertime in Bodega Bay—a coast town north of San Francisco. The town is mystical like the feeling you get when you watch The Birds by Alfred Hitchcock. The fog hovered in its own light storm above the ocean. The town was formed around the broken earth that the ocean had consumed over time.

The day started along a ridge the Coast Highway scooted around. Marilyn and I had slept over at a Church building, attended, and were on our hitchhike journey north to Gleneden Beach. I missed the Oregon Coast beach house, its comfort, the rest, peace, laughter, solitude, and the like. It was Amma who had mothered me into comfort for more a month. It was to fill a void that would be filled later.

At dinnertime we walked out of town along parks with beach access. It was the end of summer. The sun stayed bright but fell to a more orange hue over time. Families packed their dinners out and ate while their young men played football and new fathers got their toddler’s toes wet.

I burnt the summer day away on the beaches playing football, walking the shore, and stacking rocks in a cove of them. The mass embankment of beachgoers gawked over Marilyn. She rode the top of my backpack with stature and was at peace along the ocean.

I kept her tied to my backpack on the ground while I carried large rocks up over boulders and built a stack of them to silhouette when the sun lowered. When I finished my display or was worn out first, I went up to the parking lot and waited around for someone to approach Marilyn and I so that I could get us a ride further up the highway.

No one approached.

There were two young men about my age on the highway in street clothes that looked like trouble because they looked they had left the city that day and were too fresh for vagabond experiences to maintain self-control in the trials ahead.

I waited for them to pass and continued my trek up. I came to know a place in mind that was at peace with my circumstance and grew okay with the walk. Just as I did that, a rental car slowed ahead of me and pulled into dirt off the shoulder. I don’t mean to be lofty but the coincidence of becoming content and an answer coming in one beat after is rare. The driver kept the engine running and lowered the window. Inside was a European couple. The wife was driving and wondered if I wanted a ride.

They both got out and helped me load my pack into the trunk. Just when we all went to the back I looked toward the fields at east and saw the two young roadies on a boulder. I probably mouthed an apology and got in with Marilyn. The couple must’ve been sent to me. As the sun set a fiery orange as a blanket on the sky, a European-Daft-Punk-influence of music set the mood, and we all were on our way north into the night.

Bodega Bay, CA — Fort Bragg, CA (109 miles, three hours)

Cats on sidewalks

My favorite things about New Hampshire became my favorite things about New England. Most people on the west coast would say they went to the east coast before, “like Florida”—which is not what I had in mind. I never had a desire to go to Florida, other than after I watched Scarface; then again I never had a desire to leave the Sugar River Valley.

There is common disarray about the Willamette River: that it has mercury in it or that it isn’t safe to either be in or taste. The Sugar River ran through Claremont during the Industrial Period when a gross range of chemicals were dumped to who knows where the dumpees figured it would end up—Surely not Corvallis in 2015.

I didn’t know how conservative I was until I came to the northwest where the liberal line is beyond what I knew existed; and I digress. The Sugar River Valley encompasses Claremont and stretches out in all directions. If they just haven’t visited Florida before, then they passed through New England or even New Hampshire. In NH, they mention a town I knew of on a map that I may have known someone has visited themselves but I never had any need to go to.

My favorite things about New Hampshire are the geology, terroir, 12A (blue highway along the Connecticut River, old friends, fond memories, and seasonal nostalgia. Those are all powerful things to me. I also want to take an empty notepad to Dartmouth College and write a fictional story about the most real things I ever knew.

My favorite of them all would be what a father and child a couple seats over got me thinking about. The father said he had a place picked out for them to go fishing at. The kid turned to him and there was silence or maybe an exchange that I didn’t see. I thought that if I was the kid I would enjoy if my dad told me a story to go with it that would take the stage from just going fishing.

I guess I miss my childhood time in New Hampshire.

Two Times for you

"you,"

The sun fell behind thick clouds, and before I saw that I was sure that God was going to cover the sun up for a while and freak us all out—Why not?

That may not happen but it will be darker for a bit. Everyone in Corvallis first smelled it, noticed the darker sky at midday, and asked each other what happened. I think some people took that opportunity to express their political views, like last year when a field in town caught fire and the news wanted you to know that the kids were smoking weed. (This was at a time when marijuana shops were moving into town).

My coworker told me that "an idiot was mowing his lawn in the middle of the day and his muffler caught (what seems like) the land on fire."

The smell is like the smell of something that shouldn't be on fire—oily, woody, and nasty. It has been like that for almost twelve hours and I smell it while the sky goes dark. On a high note, I got to see my good friend's mom at work today, which also was an even higher note—being inside with easier air to breathe. 

I don't work tomorrow. I am going to chill. Altogether, it's been an interesting past couple of years. 

There is a girl I think is cute who went single some days ago. The attractive tension between each other was beyond obvious. She already found a rebound that she admitted was just that and I think she was rebounding on more than just that one person while we interacted. I related to her that I had a hard enough time not pursuing every girl who shows attraction to me. I was being cryptic and concise at the same time. 

(Sugar River Valley) 

I still miss the little things of the past and compete enough about the future while forgetting the present moment. (This is not a cryptic conclusion to all that I just said—just an observation).

One Time for The City

"The City" is The City*

My coworker got the first fruits of my expressions in a range of questions. He then learned that I was writing a book and he wondered if I was going to write him into it (since I had been asking him about his life). I had a story to tell before I had even become homeless and then I went on to live on the road which was followed by a book that gave me many things to talk about in a time that was new for me to walk through. Needless to say: I slipped around a little bit.

People annoyed me,

I had a hard time with myself (understatement),

I just came to know how much more I needed to mature.

So in light of my coworker who thought I was going to exploit him, I want to still write about my current life and gain trust from those close to me that they will be safe when I do it. 

I hung out with a gang of friends tonight that I see once a week and who I never spend time with outside of that. It was great. They invited me to chill and I didn't want to at first but then ended up peddling to see them after work. I got to rotate parts of my existence that I don't normally see move.

I would say that was a major benefit of time. I want to go off on other tangents to expand in my ability but want to save that for when I'm fresh in the morning.

*Claremont probably

Beyond FOG

I thought about the title before I had the body of this entry. Mason would condemn me for that since I think he is certain that the title comes from the body of work. I kind of agree in the same way that I kind of believe either it will rain or the clouds will break in the middle of a summer day. 

The reason I gave it this title was because I wanted to write about something that went beyond what Fog on Fire became. I have a hard enough time deciding whether or not I should capitalize the "o" in Fog On Fire. That last way of it looks sturdier but “on” is a preposition and I would rather be technical than visual. Once I learn the rules I believe that I will go on to be both, but for now I want to find the balance of technical and visual—and that can be messy.

I wake up at this time of year with a window open by my bed and a fan at the other side to funnel what use to be very hot air. As the summer ends, the air has become colder and comes with a scent that takes me back to my tent when I was on the road. The reason that this entry goes beyond Fog On Fire is because it is an expression and example of life that didn’t take the stage in FOG which was more of a captain’s log.

I rode my bicycle into town this morning under the overcast sky past a group of horses in their field. I looked over and let out a “NAaayy.” Sometimes they look over in either confusion, laughter, or one of many reactions. When I was on the road and traveled alone past the many fields, forests, and small towns, I would make their animal noise toward them:

“Moooooo!”

“BaAaAaa!” etc.

I really miss the day to day life on the road now that I’m swamped in a schedule and the normality of community. 

Nomadic For Once

The most popular thoughts on my mind right now are the future, life from on the road and the sporadics of my daily life that stimulate me. Coming upon the second year anniversary of me being in Corvallis, the smells of summer in fall, and a third reason to make the comma make sense flutter past as examples but the pull comes in waves that vary in power. 

My dad's father committed suicide; my own father left when I was eight; I hadn't stayed in a community for a length of time beyond two years since a decade prior. There is a habit of mine as a nomad that pulls against my everyday life. It's hard but not more than what we all experience in separate ways. I am sensitive to that. It would be eccentric of me to conclude that any of us suffer or celebrate in a way that is new under the sun. 

My mentor asked if I thought about writing on hip hop. I have a hard enough time deciding if there is a dash between those three-letter words. I know what sets a fire under me and will learn in my writing, if for the first time, as you get to read through. My love for hip hop (There, I decided not to muddy my paragraphs with unnecessary dashes) began when I first followed Lil' Wayne in 2006 or '07. He had just got a radio hit on the hip hop radio station (97.1) as a feature with Lloyd entitled Want You. His flow wasn't safe. He took music somewhere that the hip hop genre had tasted but wasn't mature enough to steward. (Altogether I don't believe Lil' Wayne perfected the transition but he led the direction.)

Drake came behind and led his own generation in the sound. I don't want to be silly and try to define what is special about either of their sounds but I know that they are special with their sounds. There was a documentary made by QD3 Entertainment called The Carter that followed Lil' Wayne around the time that he released one of the most talented albums in hip hop history. At first Wayne had given his support for the project but withdrew that support before it was released. The producers met Wayne at his stage character and used his participation in that to reveal the intelligence of an artist with work ethic. Whether or not you like him now, Wayne put in the hours of work that not many people ever get close to. Whoever you create (or stand for), that ability in genius requires outstanding effort. Everyone doesn't need to love you but they will know what effort you put in. I loved The Carter because it pulled off the mask of a pop culture icon and exposed the interior of his self.

The sun is setting a golden light against the earth, it's a cool evening (fall is coming), and I reflect upon life on the road that I wish I could go back to. I wish I could dissertate something fluffy to sign off with but I don't have anything that way to say. I'm happy I was lit up enough to digest a little of what my mind has processed through. A lot of my life may need a paper journal but I'm tired of the solitude and will mature through that too. 

"All is well that ends well,"