Any Distance Helps

"Uh hold on,
I'm watching someone write in cursive"
-Ro'Chele Apple

Today I found myself awake at 6:00 AM with a dull head ache from an all too extreme dosage of the vino verde. So I dig for the Nag. Though the all at once grabbing and yanking factor of the inevitably peaceful hot coffee cup did me up a pool of righteous memory reels. After that is, yelling at inanimate objects ceased. Suddenly the times are in reverse. And it strikes me, just what sort of exciting possibilities are tucked away for my day. What a mighty proper morning I thought. The kind I have been adopting since first stepping foot toward adulthood. And boy are they startling. Every one has a ring of serenity and chaos just under the surface. Provided a giggle fest follows any unorthodox happening.

Alas, my secret to life and living.

Me thinks the time to illustrate lands traveled is here and now. Months have whisked on by like the sage brush any one eye spots on the 84 east bound. Tumultuous with a side of tenacity, please. And you're in for the ride. Too bad the polaroids are m.i.a.. I assume someone needed to have a stack of snapshots from afar. That's the kind of consequence you face when leaving a bag unattended. All the cherries for your Sunday.

The young fox without a doubt fit in as much art projects as time allowed. Roughly 6/7 days a week, I have set myself down and accumulated meandering gibberish. The creative ejaculate. Whatever you call it {granted} some of these tales involve a brick of words to play around in, so sit back and let in.

May 24th 1:15 PM

The first thing I had to learn about hitchhiking:
Find a decent starting point before heading out on your journey. And saddle your lonesome with writing equipment. Like an empty Milwaukee’s Best 30 pack or two. Because which ever way you direct yourself, bigger is better.

So the big black letters read MEDFORD dribbling downward a smaller message that read “(non-violent)” on the lower half of the cardboard. Later in a fit of nervousness I decided to remove that part, thinking that joking around was probably unwise for your first hitchhiking trip. I went outside to find the sun warming my face, creating a swirl of potential likelihoods that might happen in the next 3-8 hours of that day. I bid a small crew of passerby's adieu, and I set off towards the interstate.

{Yikes..may-haps this cup of joe be tainted yo. It's seriously nar nar. The batch brewed might be riddled with high levels of wax off the innards of yesterdays to go. Further, keep a peep out for my spelling abilities. Earlier in the jangle of the dia my troubles with a shaky hand progressed. But I did discover my intelligence referencing that little red thesaurus Dad got me for Christmas. Lemme write right now.}

Initially my journey commenced without realizing that there is no place to pull over going south right outside Eugene. So, the first 45 minutes or so of the airing campaign was walking 3 miles to get to a spot where I might get picked up. I believe it was exit 189. The good thing about Oregon is that it’s legal to walk on the interstate as long as you’re facing traffic. So basically, they designed the law specifically for hitchhikers to get around it. Once I got to exit 189, it only took me about 20 minutes to get a ride from a man in a white pick-up truck. I hopped in. He said he could get me down to Canyonville. I told him, “Well, any distance helps”.

The ride was pretty decent. The man was in his mid-40s with what I would call a military haircut suited well to a mustache that reminded me of a South Park character. He started out by telling stories of how he used to hitchhike all the time back in Washington when he was around 18 or so. The man then delved into the anxieties of his job and politics and a whole bunch of other random shit that I don't really wanna remember. To be honest I was kind of laughing to myself that this guy was just so red in the face, white knuckling passionate about some random things. Sort of slobbering too. His talking pattern was also kind of weird. He would… just… pause at random… intervals. I told myself, "I can handle this guy". However, the thing I remember best from that ride is his little story of how he can basically track anyone down if you just give him their name and what they do. Let's not get ourselves involved. My hands clenched together in joy not phasing the tone once.

He drops me off in Canyonville right near the Seven Feathers casino. As soon as I was dropped off, another truck stopped. I seriously mean, as soon as I stepped foot outside of the truck, one other pulled up. I chuckled, “Ok, this could just be the fucking best luck”. Pacing awkwardly, I paw my near 70 lb... bag, switching it from hand to hand up to what I imagined was a ride for yours truly when the man driving, probably in his 50’s, pops out eagerly “Need a ride?” This question tells me a lot about the raspy being remaining. Once he asks that, I smell one of two things. Either this dude has not brushed his teefs, or someone be drankin' whisky. The reach for my pocket knife never felt so swift. I declined his offer by saying that I had just got to where I was going to, but thanked him anyway. He drove off and swerved a tad into the distance.

Momma bear would be proud.

After getting situated with mah gear I headed on down the 5. Up to this point in the travels, the sun had been shining. However, once dropped in Canyonville, I realized the day had grown old and turned gray. This did not dampen my hopes. In fact, it had raised them even higher. Especially when thunder met lightning. Explaining the feeling would be redundant of myself. All I will say is that the ride for four more days was a heaping mass of twirling gray clouds. I felt wonderful. I could’ve stayed there my entire life.

The next handful of months consisted of savoring and saving dough. Most if not all letters sent were personal, reaching you as slow as a snail, hand written on sketchy basis' with lots of smudges-india ink style. {Choice} Often signed, "Regards, Author". I find the postal service to be an instrument useful of both correspondence and human nature. Basically I write to folks I admire through & through. The moment is of mutual entertainment to spend in tandem. Go figure.

A trip to Los of the Angeles was penciled in delicately and the faces I met in the to be continued places were warm, fresh and desired like John Tesh. My current element is in North country. Leaning on working as a shop girl only to continue progressively with getting in the know. When customers come in and are looking for "that song," and they're just going to die if they don't find it, you make their day. You get to feel like a hero a lot.

I could tell you more on matters of the metro lifestyle. Of coming back to Eugene, but it’s not as exciting. Plus, this needs to get to you. You who shall remain nameless.

Before I jet this ever going topic of reminiscent minds, I suddenly land on an old happenstance. I was in the 2nd grade at my Lutheran middle school learning about forgiveness. The kid sitting next to me might have had something wrong up in the head. All he ever told me was his name and how to pronounce it. K-y-L-E. Anyway, we were told to forgive one person as an exercise in faith. Kyle forgave the devil. Then he got a time out. 13 years later, all I do is laugh profusely.

Safe travels Gulliver?