Paradisus Amissus

I told a customer at work that I had a dream where one of my many bosses at work (I am a cashier) told me that our chip-reader for credit cards was working. There was a celebration in the dream that was parallel to how I would feel in real life. Our chip readers haven’t started to work yet; we have the hardware, just not the software.

This post comes from the encouragement and bright inspiration from a lady friend of mine who I use to work with (abCly). In my life, I romanticize the past with so much zeal I could make worthwhile projects from thousands of past moments. This woman—who I will keep nameless—but who deserves full recognition, is an epic poem of my life reflection.

I told the customer about my dream and he joked off that my dream was a bad one (because people think what I do sucks and any dream that relates to what I do is near a nightmare). I pleaded to differ. I have had nightmares that made me wake up because I couldn’t stay in them any longer, and when I woke up, I couldn’t go back to sleep; that is the worst, but actual.

For the sake of the unnamed inspiration that I am writing this for, I will go into the worst of my nightmares. I had a relationship in high school that I don’t mean to credit anymore than it deserves but will paint the full emotion of what I pang from in the dark hours of an early morning after I awake from the nightmare.

She and I were closer than I give myself credit in competence to construct, though I take responsibility for our relational decay, there was a silver lining that I may feel wed to for time to come. (I brag in that for the art to come). I dream about the girl sometimes, and only as it was in the best of our relationship. The scenes I dream up soften my heart to pillowcase tears in the morning (that happened once or twice). One of the times I could extract a thousand words for Clover that arc’d my main character in a way I was desperate to conjure.

In a conclusion fit for the sole audience I wrote this for, I wanted to accentuate the strokes that illustrate a fleeting part of us (as is most of us) to come upon once more before we forgot any longer. I have nightmares that inspire me and in all things I have still found life and can boast on that accord in short. Without a neat conclusion, I decorate your imagination to know I care for your heart and hope to have a further place in your life.

With love.

Over the Saddle

In Corvallis I had a regiment schedule that I had to complete in order to sustain. I know I had debt to pay back and a role to play in community. I hadn’t begun to pay back my thousands of dollars in debt and I had been off the grid of community—at least for long stints—while on the road for the nine months that I was. Needless to say, I was messy with my attempts to do either. The debt was easier because I could work and apply money to those loans while I watched them dissipate. Community on the other hand took a concise effort.

Other than flagship tough times, I found the most heart-breaking incident of settling down to be my lack of time in the wild or what was on the road. When I came to Corvallis I had just finished up a bicycle tour over 4,000 miles through four states where every day was new adventure. To land down in community was fine. I wanted that; but when I arrived there was so much complacency and a short window of time during my work week that I had to take trips or go on adventures.

There was my Portland Vacation that just took me back in ways that my spirit needed. There were also my trips to Scott’s house, floats on the river, hikes, or the similar that kicked me into gear. There was one event that shattered my patterns. I had a friend from work named Grant “G-Money, Geezy” Scauvignon who I met when we both worked together in the produce department.

When I first met him I said,  “You remind me of Ulysses S. Grant (because of his beard).”

“I don’t know who that is.”

“He’s on the $50 bill.”

I loaded up my cart with a few items to stock in the department and puttered around when he came out with valiant stride with six times as many items than me and he seemed to be carrying a fleet with him wherever he went. He had zing, stride, swagger, maturity, and was an impressive young man to be 22. He had already worked for our company six years.

He was a fermentation science major at Oregon State University and drank a lot. He walked me down the beer aisle and pointed out craft brews. In his free time he drank craft but was known as well to enjoy PBR or Hamm’s. When I became a cashier I would go visit Grant on my breaks or lunches to just hang out with him. I had ideas for us to hang out: river floats, but he didn’t want to get in the mercury-tainted water.

He texted me on one of our free days from work and I proposed over text that we go on a bicycle ride. We both had nice bikes. His was made of carbon fiber. My fork was made off carbon fiber. He was down and confessed when we met up that he thought we would ride to some sweet bar that I knew about. No; but kind of.

When I waited for him to meet up with me outside of my favorite coffee shop—Tried & True—I browsed online for popular bike routes in Corvallis. The list of them had their respective mile count. I looked for some with double digits. That was an exertion of mine and I figure for most of humanity—the heart to attempt the irregular. I wouldn’t go on a lengthy bike ride on my own or wouldn’t go for a hike on my own. I cherished the bond that people have with one another that can accomplish the unusual.

He showed up and we walked our bicycles up to one another. The first thing he said was that he didn’t want to go far and was already sore from both his own six mile ride into town as well because he had just walked his grandparents around campus. That blew some wind on a new flame of mine, but didn’t extinguish it. I told him I had a route picked out that was 24 miles. He gasped and joked that “No way” we would do that. He was just too tired. I said that I had a shorter one in mind, about four miles that would take us up a hill and down a fun descent.

I didn’t find out until we were 900 feet up a mountain that he had a one speed bike with no brakes. As we rode through downtown for the lighter route he shouted up to me with profanity, “[Fudge it], let’s take the long trip.” I had to accept that new wind to heighten my flame as I then saw the route as daunting. That complacent outlook collapsed as we took off for the hills.

Our route went up to a popular part of the area called Lewisburg Saddle. The bike route took us to the northwestern outskirts of town that began a steep ascent right when you crossed a perimeter road of the city. We had a steep ascent through switchbacks and a forest of old-growth for up to 1,000 feet. It was a gorgeous ride up with thickets of wood that took me back to road life in so many ways. I had 27 gears and led Grant all the way. I didn’t want to discourage him early on so I stayed far enough ahead where he had to keep going. I stayed on my bike until just about 100 feet from the summit. He had gotten off just before me—200 feet below the summit. He hated to have to get off his bike. It was a blow to his pride.

I thought at times he would turn back so I waited until I saw him around the bend and then would push on. I hadn’t worked out in a while, save a few runs here and there. My body yearned for the type of exercise that a tumultuous trip like that would need out of me. I was happy to push myself that far.

At the Lewisburg Saddle we got off our bikes and wandered around a bit. There were two hiking paths that spread off on either side of the road that we didn’t hike but thought to. We were very exhausted and had another 17 miles to go. I was told later on that there were old-growth firs off to the right side of the road but there was tape up because of tree harvesting. Cars were parked up to where people would hike to the left and into the thicker forest. It was up top that I learned he had no brakes.

What he had was a peddle system that was connected to his tires rotation. If he wanted to go slow he would have to peddle slow—difficult on such a steep ascent. We took off and I pulled over a few hundred feet down because I held on the brakes which could get too hot. I waited while my tires and brakes cooled. Grant came down behind me, “Don’t let me ruin the fun for you Caleb.”

On my next time down I flew like a car through the rest of forest and opened out to fields that stretched out in the valley. The sun was in full burst, a light wind cooled us, the view was American, and we both rode at top speeds by ourselves. We were at the reward of our efforts from this trip and in life altogether. We cruised in valiancy like we were made to and agreed that that section was our favorite.

At a crossroads we rode our bicycles in circles to escape a grip of hornets that hovered near us. We didn’t know which direction to go. I hadn’t had any water all trip. We had ten miles left to go. We decided on a direction and pressed to a rural highway with an adequate shoulder that was littered with traffic and just like that we left our prize where it may dwell for another. I kept an eye peered and turned us off at a convenient store where I got 44 ounces of lemonade for 99 cents. I drank half of it in the shade with Grant while he sipped a cherry-flavored Gatorade.

We had eight miles left and both decided to go to Block 15—a brewery and restaurant in downtown Corvallis. The final stretch was just a familiar press to the brewery where we locked up our bikes and got a table together upstairs. We split nachos and both got a couple pints of craft brews. We shared the conversations we had always wanted to go in depth on and continued the brotherhood I saw would thrive through his last school year in Corvallis before the workforce.

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.