Scatterbrained

I know it's been awhile... and I doubt this will be much of a post. The computer I am using is diagnosable, and I am hungry. Mostly I wanted to let you all know that I am healthy and happy, and moving safely along the road. It's been hot as hell, and I've felt the isolation of the desert in moments... but it is beautiful and full of stories.

Last time I wrote I was in the big white truck with the Shorty's and the Smith's. We stopped at some point, when Cody noticed a soemthing or other in the woods. The purpose of the stop was for Breanna to "poke it with a stick". It tunred out to be a small fox. The family made jokes about the morbidity of the Smiths. Anyone with a little 80's sub-culture in their might find this amusing?

When we reached Panguitch, the crew asked if I wanted to join them for dinner, and I accepted. I was hungry and starting to feel a little ill, as my monthly s started their habitual ringing out of my insides. As we walked into the restaurant, the baby, Nathan, insisted on carrying my bike helmet... it looked so large in his hands.

We had a nice meal, with Nathan stealing the ballcap off the man at the next table, amoung other antics. Annie tried to lift the baby over his chair and knocked out a glass of water.... She had open heart surgery years ago, and still sometimes has a hard time with soreness. She hit her sternum last week, and isn't at her strongest.

Annie insisted on paying for my dinner, and they took my photograph as we left. They gave me all of their contact info, and Annie told me they would come get me at any time if I was unsafe or wanted to go home. They would drive me all the way to Oregon at a moments notice, she said... because they love to travel. Cody chided her teasingly for giving me a way out, and we parted smiling and waving.

As they left, my cramps were kicking in and I wanted to get to a cheap place for the night. I checked the town hotels and they were all way out of my budget. I did however, rememeber that the restaurant boasted a few small rooms upstairs, and I rode back to square one. As I hoped, they were cheap, and they had a room, so I shacked up for the night, in relative silence.

On my search of the town, I stopped at a pharmacy and met 3 boys from my old neighborhood in Brooklyn. Suprising, to say the least. I invited them to my show in November, and I will definitely be amused if they show. We were all a little dumbfounded at the strangeness of a few Brooklyn kids meeting in a pharmacy in Panguitch, Utah.

I always check hotels for the bible when I first get in, because I feel like bibles in hotel rooms are an interesting tradition. I also find it comforting when a hotel shirks or changes that tradition. It reminds me that this country was founded on relgious freedom. I opened the top drawer, and there it was... The Book of Mormon. This would not be my last encounter with the text, but the hotel placement made it offical. I was in Mormon country.

I ate a junk food snack and fell asleep watching NCIS, and woke in the morning ready to ride. I grabbed breakfsat downstairs at the resturant, and eavesdropped on two women talking about the fashions of local s.

"They put all of that dark eye make-up on, and dye their hair so dark. I do think that they do it to make themselves less attractive, so that the s won't them for being too pretty"

I didnt know what to make of this argument. It made me giggle a little... and I did consider it's validity... because straight s are hard on eachother. Still, I liked the style I saw the local kids sporting... a sort of San Diego skater look with a ic edge. I also remembered that high school boys usually liked the s who looked tough, and a little different. At least the guys I hung out with did. Maybe thats the difference. The s might ward off the boys that run with the pack, but they draw in the rest... not a worthless tactic, when you are trying to weed out the teenage boys who are dangerously involved in the mindlessness of condidtioned teenage male uality. Again, I didn't know quite what to think, so I didn't chime in. The ladies did notice that I was listening however, and sighed that "I must think that they are arcane". I just laughed quietly, and kindly. We continued to chat for the rest of breakfast, mostly about my trip, the hills, the usual questions.

The road our of Panquitch was gentle, a few slight inclines on vaguely suggesting the climbs I would come across later that day. When Rt. 12 turned off towards the hills, I paused to use a restroom at a local tradepost, and snoop a little, to stall the inevitable.

I have this ring that I've worn every day since it came into my life. It was gifted to me by a stranger while I sang in the subway station in New York, many years ago. She slipped it onto my thumb, and vanished before I could say a word. When I looked up, she was smiling at me from the window of the vanishing train, with eyes like a crone, but on a face much younger. The ring has been with me since then, and I have done a fair amount of research into it's origins. I eventually stumbled on a shop in Flagstaff, Arizona, on a drive last winter, and found not only the orgin, but the name and the address of the Hopi artist who made the ring. Since then, I have considered mailing the artist to tell him my story, but have always held back, not wanting too much knowledge to spoil the rings mystery for me. I do however, look for other work by the artist at tradeposts, and ask shopkeepers to download their minds to me, from time to time.

I admit, I find it disappointing when a white person runs a tradepost and knows very little about the myths and stories of the jewelry they sell. It feels shameful to me somehow, as if a person could not truly know the value of an object without knowing it's secrets and stories. The shopkeeper at this particular tradepost was of this sort, and I didn't learn much from him at all. I dreamily sought meaning in the mazes, the spider designs and the traditional symbols while looking for more of my mystery artists work. I found two pieces that may possibly have come from him, but the shopkeeper could not confirm it. This lack of knowledge made me feel so appreciative of the shop-keeper in Flagstaff, who could bring out a book and tell you the origin of every piece in his shop, just by reading the branding marks, and scanning a directory of family names. I took one last whirl around the store and headed toward Red Canyon.

I love not knowing what I'm coming to, especially when the suprise is good and uplifting. I tend to look at the day ahead in terms of elevation, as I am still developing the strength as I go, having never been much of an athlete. I don't always notice the names of canyons or other geographic formations along the route, until they creep up on me.

The road laid out flat until it hit the foot of the hill, and the signs for Red Canyon appeared, along with the most brilliant deep red rock. I have tried to learn the formations, and failed. When I flesh out this writing, I will have to tell you exactly what it is I have been seeing... what sort of stone, and the age. The moment the canyon appeared, a bike path appeared as well, and while the route was uphill, I was serene and distracted. The hills were gentle enough, and the scenery made the day delicious.

An arch of red rock spans over the road, and I ride alongside it, occasionally touching the stone to acknowldege its age and standing. Small lizards have begun to cross my path every mile or so, and I come to really understand... I am now entering some of the most beautiful stretches of America. I am happy, riding into beauty that I imagine will surround me in the days to come. My heart is overjoyed.

When the bike path ended, the hills ended too. The uphill section was only about 9 miles or so, and not nearly as steep as I had feared. I stopped for a cup of coffee, and was informed that I could probobly coast the rest of the day, only 5 more miles, clear downhill, to Ruby's Inn.

Ruby's Inn is kind of a town. Technically it lies in Canyon City? I think that's the name. Everyone calls the place Ruby's Inn... so it's hard to know. Even my bike map marks the place by its common name. They made it a city fairly recently, I believe.

Ruby's Inn is a plot of land bought by a man in the 1800's, who became enchanted with Bryce Canyon and began inviting friends to explore the place. He built the hotel, and owned ever stretch of the tiny town that grew up there. His name, unsuprisingly, was Ruby. The hotel still stands, and the family, many generations later, still owns the place. Since those days, Bryce Canyon has been declared a National Monument, and Ruby's serves as a small oasis of tourism for those coming to visit the canyon. The hotel became a Best Western franchise at some point, and it keeps growing to meet the demands. I rode off to the campgrounds.

The campgrounds aren't exactly primative. I paid 26 dollars for a place to camp, which came with a pass to the pool and spa and the Best Western. Not exactly cheap, but not a bad deal either. I looked around for a spot to camp, and didn't love my options. I wanted to go use the pool, and was worried about leaving my bike. I had noticed that they also rented tipi's... but they didnt all look assembled yet, as the tourist season was just beginning (albeit, booming).

I snooped. Then I asked politely if I could use of of the standing tipi's. They said they werent renting them yet, and that the floor was too dirty, and not ready for guests. I told them I was okay with dirt, and they let me move into the tipi for no additional cost.

A big enclosed space, but still connected to the earth... with plenty of places to hang and air out dirty clothes, and my tent, which had been put away wet last time I used it. I hung nearly everything I owned around the insides on the tee-pee, and put my air matress and sleeping bag on the floor. I was so happy in there.

I skipped off to the hotel and found the pool, which was big, and in a giant indoor space with glass windows on all sides.... very fancy. It was relatively quiet, with a few kids splashing around, and a handful of foreign tourists coming and going. I spent a good two hours soaking and with tourists from France and Holland. Most of them were over from the campgrounds, having rented RV's from the larger cities (Vegas, LA, San Fransisco) and set out on tours of the Utah National Parks. Conversation came and went, nothing exciting really, but relaxing.

After my hours of R and R, I wandered back to my tipi to play some guitar and dress for dinner. I didn't want to pay for the hotel restaurant at dinner time, which was fairly pricey, so I opted for the diner-style fast food option next door. Yuck. Looking back, the extra money would have been worth it. I had a burger, and felt as though I had swallowed a brick. Oh, and the lemonade tasted like chemicals!

Now, let me tell you something about Utah. Mormon women often look like s. I don't know why. My gay-dar is usually pretty good... but as the coming study will show, Utah confuses me. I have done further research and concluded that I am not the only woman with this problem. I'll fill you in on the embarassments and hilarity, in the next "episode". Right now, if I don't eat a roast beast sandwich, I'm gonna faint.

Rock n' Roll,
Malcolm

Frontier

When I finally got moving out of Cedar City, I was faced with one of the longest, steepest climbs of my entire trip. My energy was returning... I had been in a bit of a stupor, maybe even a touch of depression, but it started to shake and slide off of me as I got moving.

Whenever I have to do a really big climb, I prepare myself with a hefty dose of acceptance. I keep telling myself that the climb isn't going to end... so there's no point in taking a million breaks, complaining, or focusing too much on how slow I'm going. Mostly, this helps, and I drop down into my granny gears and forget where I am, let the burn do it's thing, and lose myself in my thoughts.

The climb started out easier then I expected. There were long stretches at maybe 5 or 6 percent grade, which at this point I can climb fairly readily. When the grade jumped up to a 7 or 8, I really started to feel it. Around that same time, the air cooled, and I realized I was quickly heading from the warmth of the desert, up to the snow line.

The rocks rose up around the road in stunning displays, first red, and eventually a bleached tan color. The snow appeared on the road as I pushed through a 2 mile area with slide warnings. The little patches of snow were packed up at the side of the road, holding on against the melt as if they had been there forever. I didn't stop for the entire two miles, partly because the slide warning signs said not to, and partly because the warnings gave me a psychological trick to keep me from taking breaks.

At the end of the slide zone, three climbers were top-rope climbing on a perfect rock face up above the road. They were within easy walking distance, and I almost considered asking if I could ride their rope... but the climb stayed me. I needed to hold on to all of my energy... besides, I didn't have the right shoes.

The trees came in and it started to feel cold. The bright sun-lit red rock disappeared, leaving me in a damp ponderosa forest, patches of melting snow all along the road. It wasn't the most inspiring of rides, and my energy was fading quickly. I hit a state campground after 14 miles of climbing, and I called it a day.

The campground was mostly covered in snow, but I was able to work my way into a site. I was feeling depleted, and setting up camp felt like a chore. I found a perfectly shaped stick for raising my food bag up into a tree to protect it from animals, and hung the bag 15 feet up over a small broken branch. It was only 4pm when I climbed into bed.

I was feeling a little sick that night, and a little lonely. I couldn't imagine how I would make another 7 miles of climbing the next day... it seemed impossible. I couldn't understand why my energy was so low, and it worried me a little. I sat up late writing, struck by an incredible sadness. In the middle of my reverie, I picked up my phone and re-read a poem that my friend Seneca had sent to me back in Berkeley.

Kindness -Naomi Shihab Nye

Before you know what kindness really is
You must lose things, feel the future dissolve in a moment like salt in a weakened broth.
What you held in your hand,what you counted and carefully saved,
all this must go so you know how desolate the landscape can be
between the regions of kindness.

How you ride and ride
thinking the bus will never stop,
the passengers eating maize and chicken will stare out the window forever.

Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness,
You must travel where the Indian in a white poncho
lies dead by the side of the road.
You must see how this could be you,
how he too was someone who journeyed through the night with plans
and the simple breath that kept him alive.

Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,
you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.
You must wake up with sorrow.
You must speak to it till your voice catches the thread of all sorrows
and you see the size of the cloth.

Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,
only kindness that ties your shoes and sends you out into the day
to mail letters and purchase bread,
only kindness that raises its head from the crowd of the world to say
It is I you have been looking for,
and then goes with you everywhere
like a shadow or a friend.

Reading this, in the state I was in, shattered my heaviness. I cried for a moment, feeling relieved, and feeling my heart open. I remembered that I set out on this journey to challenge myself spiritually as well as physically. I wrote a sad little blues on my tiny old guitar, and fell asleep sated.

It rained all night, sounding like fire where it hit my tent... or like sparklers on the fourth of July. I usually love the sound of the rain, but the hissing and fizzing against my tent was disquieting, and I slept awkwardly, waking on and off with a start.

In the morning, after sleeping for what seemed like forever, I woke still exhausted. I packed up slowly, as if I were carrying a great weight, and nearly fell over as I pushed my bike up onto the road. I got sick in the woods... nothing terrible, just a sick stomach. I realized at this point that the elevation was taking it's toll on my body.

I had climbed to around 8,500 feet, and the day ahead demanded that I climb up to around 9,600. I set out on the road and could barely move at all. I had a little breakdown. Then I met a little kindness.

A car, containing three teenagers on a day trip, came by and they asked if I needed help. I thanked them, but said that what I needed was a truck, because the help I needed involved getting me over the top of the hill. Then the boy driving had a ridiculous idea.

"Let me ride the bike, and she can drive my car!"
"Um... you do realize how hard it is to get up this hill, right?"
"Let me try... Go on ahead in the car and I'll meet up with you guys."

I was too tired to argue, and too disoriented to realize how completely flawed his plan was. I jumped into the car, nearly crying for relief, and watched the boy on my bike behind us, spinning the wheels way too fast, telling me that he had no idea what he had just gotten himself into.

The girls in the car however, were thrilled. The one in the passnger seat tells her friend:

"I can't believe he let you drive! He just met you!"

The 16 year old at the wheel was psyched to be driving in the mountains. She had come on the trip to support the other girl who didn't want to go hiking alone with the boy. I smiled at this, girls looking out for each other, but I stayed pretty quiet in the backseat. My hands were trembling and my stomach unsettled. Elevation sickness had hit me, and I couldn't ignore it anymore. I felt terrible.

The girls decided to drive ahead all the way to Duck Creek. I explained to them that Duck Creek was a days bike ride away, but they seemed happy just to drive, and weren't paying too much mind to the fact that their friend was miles back on my bicycle. I started to worry that we would spend the whole day on a wild goose chase of some sort.

When we got to Duck Creek, the girls decided we should ask someone with a truck to go retrieve their friend. Lucky for us, the first guy I asked agreed. I jumped into the truck, and we followed the girls back over the mountain.

The driver, Jimmy, was the owner of the lodge in town. They bought the lodge as an investment a few years back, splitting the buy with some friends. They had planned on keeping the place for 4 years, but when the economy fell apart, they were stuck. Unable to sell, and not wanting to under-sell, they surrendered to another season on the mountain.

"It's fun work." He says happily.... and I can tell he isn't entirely frustrated by the change in plans. I wonder to myself if years from now they'll have realized they don't want to leave, completely sold on a way of life.

We found the boy walking my bike uphill about a mile and a half from where we left him. He smiles and says to me,
"... and you rode this how far?"
I laugh and tell him that he did a good job, and that maybe he will ride cross country someday. He says, "Yeah, maybe once I learn to ride uphill."

I thanked him, and thanked the girls, after the guys put my bike in the truck bed.
"You've been great rescuers!" I told them, and they smiled. They seemed happy to have had an adventure. I was so grateful to them.

Jimmy drove me back to Duck Creek and dropped me at a diner in town. I sat and ate, trying to get the shake out of my body. I wanted to keep going, and the rest of my ride promised to be easier, so I took time to fortify myself.

When I left, I was still shaky, but I was pretty sure the road was downhill from Duck Creek back up to Lake Panguitch. I took a good steady pace as the hills set in, and was sure I wouldn't have any problem getting to the lake in time to camp.

Thing is, I had to take an alternate winter route. The regular route would have gone higher into the mountain, up to 10,500 feet into Cedar Breaks National Monument. That road stays closed until June, so I stayed on SR 14. The road to rejoin with 143 wasn't on my elevation map...

...and it started uphill again. After about 8 miles of sweet and easy downhill riding, I was climbing back up to meet 143 at elevation. The climb I had avoided earlier was back in order. I was feeling a little stronger, and did all right for awhile. I pushed through a few miles of climbing, and when a truck stopped to ask if I needed help, I turned it down. At the time I thought there couldn't bee too much farther to go. I didn't realize it was uphill the whole way.

When I finally hit 143, about 4 miles of climb later, I was bleary with exhaustion. I imagined that there must be about a mile to the lake, and that it should be downhill. So imagine my surprise when I found myself facing another long climb, a mile and half later.

I stopped to rest, feeling the sun starting to drop, and the temperature with it. A couple in a fancy, shiny SUV (too clean to imagine asking them for a ride), stopped to check on me. They were French, and had trouble telling me how many mile it was to the lake, but we figured it was about seven. 7 more miles. I was screwed.

I stood there dumbfounded, still shaky, still sick, and completely out of energy. Then I noticed a truck pulled over back down the road a few hundred yards. I stared at them. I was partly just drained and hanging my eyes wherever they fell, and partly trying to see if they looked like a safe ride. I noticed that they were a family, and started riding back down the road towards them. Before I could get there, they had driven up to meet me. Within moments, my bike was loaded up, and I was sitting in the front seat of a white pickup, between Ben Shorty and Cody Smith.

Some people are impossibly likable. Magnetic, and compelling, they have a natural humour that catches you off balance, and a thoughfulness that suggests wisdom. The Shorty and Smith families, respectively, are such folk. In the back seat were Annie Shorty, her daughter Breann Smith, one year old Nathan Smith, and a poodle named Peaches.

They asked me all the usual questions about my journey, and then moved on to teasing me. They were headed to Panguitch, yes, but after a short detour.

"We could be psychos! It's a detour! We're hunting humans!"

Things like that. They were headed to drive up to their property to see if the snow had melted enough for them to bring the camper up for the season. Ben's family has 1000 (or 10,000? I don't remember) acres of land up in the hills between Lake Panquitch and Hatch. The road cuts clear through, a dirt ranch road. We chatted as we bounced through the country landscape.

Ben is Native, and grew up on the reservation. I'm guessing that Annie's daughter isn't his, because she doesn't look Native, but I don't ask such personal questions. Ben and Annie spend their summers up on this stretch of land, hunting and living very simply. They love it.

Ben says that it took him a long time to learn to do the work of being in the world. By "in the world" he means "off the reservation". On the reservation, he says, everything is free and simple. You don't need a lisence to fish or to hunt, and the work you do is the work you need to do to live. His family teases him about being Native, jokingly telling me that he hunts in a loincloth with warpaint on. This is not true. He does however, bow-hunt rather proficiently, and it is nearly always his job to clean and cure the game caught by his family.

I have a lot of respect for subsistence hunting. I explain to Ben that I used to be vegetarian, until I realized how much processing went into vegetarian products. I've grown to believe that eating locally and seasonally is the kindest way to live with nature, and that includes eating meat in the winter.

When they ask me why I set out on this journey, I do not feel inclined to mask anything. I tell them that I am on my Saturn return, when the planet Saturn comes back to the place it was in when you were born, and challenges you to become an adult. I tell them that I wanted to welcome Saturn like a friend.

Ben responds by saying softly "It must be very humbling", and I smile inwardly.
"Yes. Yes it is."
Annie says something like "You must be finding so much of yourself, and leaving so much behind."
I am so grateful to speak with people who don't find my internal language strange, and yet who are so different from me. I feel so blessed to have met them.

Ben is a Sun-Dancer, and we talk about sweat lodge for a minute. He wants to go back to Sundance and do his Blessing, a ritual which involves being suspended by hooks over a crowd and shaking their hands, giving your energy to them. (I don't know if that is exactly how he would describe it.) I am impressed that he would be brave enough... blessing rituals are hard trials of the spirit and body.


.... There is much more to say, but the cafe I am in is closing. I will finish this in the morning.

On Oxygen

There's not a whole lot more to tell for right now. In the morning the roads were dry, and I woke rested. I enjoyed breakfast at Sorensons, joined by my cabin-neighbors and their two small children. The boy, about 2 years old, was an animated kid, hollering "sausage!" excitedly to the waitress, along with words for other things he enjoys. He was captivating... a little toe-head with bright blond hair, blue eyes and a love of fireplaces. The parents were interested in my travels, having taken a sabbatical from camping since the birth of their first child. They were good company.

I packed up slowly, and they were laid back about my checkout time. It hit the road around 11:30. The descent out of the Sierras was incredible. Steep, long dives with an incredible view laid out. The majesty that seemed hidden coming into the mountains, shone brightly on the eastern faces, with snow caps and peaks rising in every direction. The descent happened quickly, and soon I was in a valley, surrounded by mountains on all sides. The view behind me, in particular, was amazing.

The valley was slow going. The elevation map makes it look like an easy ride, but it reads relative to the mountains. There are gentle rolling hills all day, but the stretches feel long, and the hills surprisingly arduous. I realized quickly that my body was not prepared to ride at elevation. The first tiny hill, at around 6,000 feet, left me winded and concerned. The days was easier ride after the road dropped down to 4,000 feet and stayed around there.

I stopped in Genoa, a tiny town just east of the border which boasts the oldest bar in Nevada. There was no sign when I corssed into the states, since I was on back roads. I got a look at the oldest bar from the deli across the street, as I drank in the curiosities of a wedding next door. The men wearing Stetsons with fragile blond women on their arms... It was all new to me. This is the kind of west that you really don't see unless you live there.

I finished my sandwich and my coffee, hopped back on my bike, and was in Carson City a short while later. I wasn't sure if I should try to push on to the next town before sundown, and decided instead to catch an AA meeting.

The meeting was all right, but the near illiteracy of several of the attendees concerned me. Something I love about AA is how non-judgemental people are. It's a great place for a person to learn to read, or get their reading skills up to standard if they are lacking. We pass around the book, and people will help each other, offering support for difficult words, and not raising eyebrows if someone passes altogether. The number of people in the room in need of this kind of support was surprising to me.

I stopped in to a cheap motel and settled in for the night.

In the morning I wasn't sure what I wanted to do. The next major city was 70 miles east, and I had already decided that I wasn't going to ride across all of Nevada. Maybe it was the fear that had settled in, or the number of people raising their eyebrows when I said I was traveling that stretch along. Maybe it was the prospect of days without a water source, or camping next to the desert highway with no place to conceal my tent. Eventually I realized that I didn't want to force myself. This trip is about the journey, not covering every single inch between west and east. I remembered a very simple truth: You don't have to do anything you don't want to do.

I had planned to rent a car in Fallon, NV and drive to Cedar City, Utah, where I am sitting right now. Fallon was still 70 miles east of me... but the desert was already looking vast and empty and I really didn't see a reason to wait for Fallon. I talked to some friends by phone over breakfast, and decided to jump things in motion from Carson City. I let some time slip by, talking to some locals.

I rode over to the rental place, and they were closed. In Carson City on a Sunday... everything is closed. I shacked up in another motel (a less smoky one), and shut in for the day. There was a feather on the doorstep when I took my room, which told me I was right where I was supposed to be, as always. Feathers represent truth, traditionally, but for me they are also little roadsigns...

I was stir-crazy and bored, letting the day pass. I felt like resting, but I didn't feel restful, if that makes sense. I didn't go out much, just once to grab coffee, and again for dinner at a themed western restaurant that looked enticing. I had a good dinner, and helped a family sing "Happy Birthday" to their mother. As I wandered out, the waiter thanked me for not leaving him to sing alone... but the family had sang too. I think he was trying to make conversation. I took my leftovers and went back to the motel. I haven't been feeling very social the past few days.

In the morning I had a messy time getting the vehicle I needed, going for one car rental to another, and finally setting off at around noon. I had a 10 hour drive ahead of me.

I dont have a problem with driving. It was wild to see the road fall into desolation... but it was far more beautiful than I expected. I'm thinking that some day I might ride this stretch, but with company. The mountains stretch out, and the road goes on forever, with no sign of life in any direction. I made only a few stops. The first was to photograph a tree that people had been hanging shoes in for years... the strangest creature of a tree up by the side of the road. There was a little sign near it that said "The Shoe Tree". Someone had written on the sign that the shoes were killing the "spirit of the tree", and someone else had responded with "die hippie scum". The extremes of America, I guess. I photographed the tree, and the sign, and kept moving.

My second stop was in a small town called Eureka, where I very nearly got snagged into a religious conversation with a teenage boy while I bought my coffee.

"I don't like Mormons. Lots of Mormons in Utah."

That was where it started... and while I have plenty to say on the subject, I had NO desire to get into a discussion about religious freedom, stereotyping and God with a teenager. Especially when his next remark began "I mean, I think you'll go to heaven just if you're good."

See, an opening line like alerts me that this boy may have no concept that I might be inclined to present an argument entirely outside of the Judeo-Christian paradigm. I immediately imagine that in his world, there are just different kinds of Christians. I may have been judgemental, but regardless... I didn't want to talk. I smiled kindly and nodded, slipping out the door backwards, and got back on the road.

My next stop was to talk to two cross-country cyclists from Israel. They had braved the stretch of Nevada and were finishing an 80 mile day, into headwinds, landing in the town of Ely, Nevada. When I stopped to chat with them, they told me I had done the right thing, that Nevada was crazy. They had done 8 miles and 4 summits that day to make it to a motel. I was impressed. We exchanged information, in case we might cross paths again, and then I got back to driving. I wanted to catch the sunset at Great Basin National Park.

I drove fast. It's easy out there, with no one looking on. It's easy to look out for cops, too... there's so much space and road out in front of you. Not really many places for cops to hide. The sun was slipping over the hills, and I at least wanted to see Great Basin in the sunlight, if not sit someplace and watch the sun fall.

I was able to drive up the winding mountain rode inside the park before the sun went down, but the sunset itself would have been been viewed from back down on the ground. The road was closed up top when I got high enough that I might have had a view over the mountain. When I climbed back down, stopping to photograph some unusual art along the road... it was dark.

Driving in the dark out here is terrifying. I have never been afraid of driving in the dark. I crossed into Utah, and kept my eyes sharp. There were cows everywhere.

A black or brown cow, on the road at night, is nearly invisible until you are practically on top of it. I discovered this quickly. I rode the rest of the way to Cedar City praying not to hit a cow. I don't know, honestly, who I was more scared for... the cow, or myself. Cows are large, unmovable creatures. Hitting one would be a disaster.

Sigh. So I made it to Cedar City in one piece. I found my dream hotel... one with a computer, and a pool, free breakfast, and low rates. I have been holed up here for three days.

I didn't mean to stay this long, but I had a few things to do. I wanted to write on a real computer, and find a health food store. Most importantly, I had to acclimate my body to riding at elevation. I've ridden around town a bit, about 10 miles today. This city sits at 6,000 feet elevation, and my ride tomorrow is up to 10,000 feet. The climb is steep, and early today I was still losing my breath up little hills.

I stopped in the health food store and picked up some supplements for my lungs and for oxygen levels. By the end of the day, even before I took the supplements, I was feeling more comfortable on hills. I feel ready. So in the morning I'll be done with my little "vacation".

I am so excited.

Southern Utah is beautiful. Even my short ride today placed me in outstanding scenery. In the coming days I will ride past or through at least five major National Parks, including Natural Bridges and the Grand Escalante Staircase.

All right, that's all I've got in me today. After tonight I will be back in my tent for awhile, so I want to make sure I get a lot of lazying done this evening. I'm off to practice "The Art of Doing Nothing". Maybe eat some strawberries.

Snow-Bird

I'm not exactly in the mood to write today, but I'm sure I'll settle into it eventually. I'm afraid that my writing suffers a little when I'm typing on my phone... I can't help but to try and rush myself, to escape from that tiny keyboard. I have computer access today, in fact, I've taken an extra day off just to catch up on my blog before I head out across Utah.

Back in Davis, Brett Ann set up a futon in her dome for me to crash on, and left me there to cozy up alone while she went to do some late night catching up with friends. It was cool and comfortable, and I slept like a dream. When I woke in the morning, it was just in time to catch Brett Ann's dome-mate Molly heading into town for the insanity of Picnic Day. I had no interest in the festivities of Picnic Day... which mostly seem to involve blonds and ken-doll boys getting dangerously drunk at an early hour, while the streets of Davis flood with every type of parade-goer and on-looker. What I wanted, more than anything, was breakfast... so I followed Molly to town and wandered off on my own when we hit the craziness.

And I do mean craziness. On Picnic Day in Davis, the population of the town nearly doubles, with people coming from all over the state to party, or to witness the unusual exhibitions that are signature to the event. Daschaund races, sheep herding demos, local bands, crazy bike parades... It looks like the world is divided in two. The people in the parades, and running the demos, seem to me like an interesting mess. There's an adorable freak marching band where tutus and uniforms conflate, manifesting in a beautiful display of color and attitude. There are old fashioned replica bicycles that boast their use of all the original materials. There are tall bikes like the kids in Brooklyn used to build, the frames welded together so that the rider can only stop by leaning against a street sign or light post.

On the sidelines however, every woman looks the same... young girls in sundresses and sandals, talking ill of each other as I walk by, feeling like a happy sore thumb, in all my bra-lessness and silk screened clothing. Two blonds walk by, approaching a third, and I overhear them whispering:

"God, do you see how thin she's gotten? What do you think she's taking...!"

The tone of the whispers indicate not that they are concerned for the health of their friend, but that they are actually jealous of what my eyes interpret as frailty and ill-health. Looking around me, I can't help but to think back to the film from the previous night about the hyper-sexualization that young girls are conditioned to spend their time obsessing over. They are all trying so hard. A girl who showed up in jeans and a t-shirt has realized that the fashion of the day calls for sundresses, and she is shopping sulkily on a side-street, glaring at the other women, who so obviously got the memo. It all makes me kind of sad. I hid out of a side street, eating my roast beef sandwich (the only food I could find without wrestling a monstrous line), and then suck down a large iced coffee, and head back through the mess.

It's so hard to ride a bike through all of this. I'm fairly deft, but I'm finding myself challenged, navigating through swarms of people. A woman on a rented bike coming the opposite direction takes a dive right onto her face and her tooth breaks the surface of her lip. By her reaction, I'm guessing she was a little bit intoxicated, sitting fairly calmly as if the pain didn't really hit her yet... or that could have been her body protecting itself. I couldn't help but to assume everyone around me was drunk by then, the midday sun burdening them with a certain obvious swagger and weighty exhaustion. I checked on the woman, who had plenty of help, and wandered off to the quietest place I could find of the grass, and called the woman in Sacramento who had offered a place to crash. I called to apologize for not coming to play music that morning, and she in turn invited me to come by that night. Her and her partner do massages for women (four hands!) and they offered a freebie, and dinner too... I decided to get out of Davis, away from the party, and go relax.

Brett Ann was out someplace, but she told me I could break into the dome by way of the bathroom window, she had left open just in case. The window was high and tiny, and it was a bit of a comedy routine getting inside. I felt a moment of disdain for the loss of my teenage dexterity... I was so proud of my "ninja-skills" as a kid. I can't help but to want that back. I tell myself again that one of these days I'll study aikido, when I settle down. I never do seem to follow through on that one.

I took a quick shower and packed up, making the bed to the best of my ability, and then dressed to ride. I have about a thirty mile ride ahead of me, and I would like to make it to Sacramento before I delay any one's meal. I waited for Brett Ann to say goodbye, chatted with some neighbors, and went for a walk... but Brett Ann never showed. I dropped her a text saying thanks, locked up the place, and hit the road.

Starting out, the ride from Davis to Sacramento (after pushing through the downtown crowds one last time) is just a long stretch of industrial road alongside the freight trains. There is great graffiti all along the trains, and I seen a man with a professional camera working with the light to get the best possible shots. I feel a little nostalgic, remembering when I used to photograph my friends work, back in high school, up under the bridge. I could never get good light... The shadows under the bridge, and my inexperience, made for some grainy photos. I cherished them anyway, framing them on simple black matte and carrying them with me to college.

Eventually the road lead up over the tracks to a causeway, alongside the highway. It felt like it went on for 10 miles, into a light headwind, and the noise from the highway was deafening. I had been speaking with another rider as we hit the causeway, and we both fell silent. We couldn't even hear ourselves think. The man was a little faster than me, however, and while I generally have been riding with a strict law of "don't chase the boys" (or anyone faster than me)... I used him as a pacemaker to get me off the causeway as quickly as possible. I got my heart rate up, and hit West Sacramento at a good steady stroke, dropping off the path into a worn down part of town. For about 7 miles it was nothing but strip malls and donut shops, until I hit the bridge over the river into Old Town.

This part of Sacramento has a lot of character! There's a cobblestone street, with an old west feel, and bars with plenty of locals coming up from the river. The river itself was teeming with life, people on jet-skis, people drinking on shore, boats and fishermen. It nearly felt southern in it's restorative laziness.

The bike path heads off along the river... and I am in heaven. The city of Sacramento has a bike path that runs all the way out of the city, way up to Folsom, and around Folsom Lake. My route keeps me on the path for a good 30 miles, and I'm thrilled, after leaving the loud causeway and the drear of West Sacramento. The exit off the path for my hosts house is at the 6 mile marker on the path, allowing me a nice little stretch before I go to meet my new friends.

I stopped to ask some strangers for directions, just to double check, and we chatted for a minute... only to discover that two of us are clean and sober. We had a quick chat about what I am doing, and how much life can change. I love running into sober people. It makes me feel like the universe is looking out for me a little. I gave the man and his friend stickers so they could look up my blog, or my music, later on, and then rolled the last few miles out to Maria's home.

Maria and her partner Joey met me out at the gate of their apartment complex, and I followed them back to Maria's place. They seemed happy, driving in with the top down on Maria's convertible. I felt comfortable around them both pretty quickly, and Maria's dog, Hoppy, too... who I promptly fell in love with.

It didn't take long to discover that they too, were clean and sober. Maria has been clean for somewhere around 20 years, and Joey for 4 years, if I remember correctly. Joey only came out last year, and Maria has been out for a good long time. They each told me a little of their stories, while Maria worked up some steaks for dinner. Both of them were heroin addicts. So there we were, 3 recovered heroin addicts sitting around happy and healthy, on a perfect spring evening. Life is full of small miracles.

Maria's cooking was fantastic, and I felt spoiled even before the promised massage that had tempted me away from the craziness of Davis. We had steaks, and beans cooked with basil and parmesean cheese. Soo good.

After dinner I played a little music for them, which they seemed to enjoy, and then they set up the table for a massage. Lucky me.

They call their massage practice "four hands", since they work on a woman together, as a sort of intimacy. They are learning to listen to each other and work together. They asked me what I was comfortable with, set up music and aromatherapy, and got to work.

Damn. I was knocked out. Maria works deep and Joey gets all the details. They worked on my legs, my neck, my butt and my back. Emphasis on the back and the legs... which I really appreciated after so much time on my bike. I have no idea how long I was on that table. It could have been an hour, or two. I was completely lost to the world.

When they left me to get dressed and cozy up to go to sleep, I was a bowl of jello. I flopped down onto the couch, and we were all ready to crash. They left the table set up, put a sheet on the couch for me, and we all tumbled off to sleep.

In the morning we got up at 7:30, to have breakfast and catch an 8:30 AA meeting. The meeting way small, and all gay. It was so lovely to be in a room full of queers. Especially sober ones. Afterward we stayed to chat for a bit, and this was the first time I heard about the California Death Ride.

Did you know, that every year, a huge group of cyclists take to the Sierra Nevada's, and ride... in one day, 129 miles, including 3 major Sierra summits? I had never heard of it.... and I'm never going to do it. This was the first mention I heard... and in the days that followed as I climbed into the Sierras, I would hear about it everywhere. Evidently it's a really popular ride, and while not a lot of people can finish before they re-open the roads, a lot of people try. From this I can only come to one conclusion. California cyclists are crazy.

I also heard about the yearly AIDS ride, which I may have heard of it the past, but before I was into cycling. Thousands of queers riding from San Fransisco to San Diego to raise money for HIV/AIDS research... sounds like an amazing time. If I get the chance: I'm in. Apparently one drag queen even altered a pair of go-go boots to take toe clips. What could be more fabulous? Sponsors, anyone?

We stopped to wander the local farmers market, tucked up under a highway overpass. I smelled all the local strawberries, and ate a cinnamon roll for a treat while Joey and Maria picked up some treats. There were whispers of hitting the beach after the meeting. I was invited, which would mean taking the day off, and staying another night. I considered and then went for it. We put together some food, threw the top down, and drove out to Bodega Bay.

It was so strange to see familiar roads pass underneath us as we backtracked through landscapes that had taken me weeks to ride. I could see where my paths came and went from near the major highway, retracing my steps excitedly from the backseat as we drove. Eventually I settled into the wind and sun in the back seat, fluttering my fingers in the wind like a small child, happy and full of daydreams.

When we hit Bodega Bay we stopped in heaven. By heaven, I mean the best bakery in the world. Listen... I have been to a lot of places that locals call "the best kept secret", or that everyone swears makes the best bread in the world. I have never, however, eaten any baked goods, that rival Wild Flour Bread in Bodega Bay, California. I'm not exaggerating. Not even a little.

The place was off the beaten track somewhat, but teeming with locals and those in-the-know, lined up to taste the days marvels. I didn't have any cash on me, so I sat outside and took in the smell, not expecting a treat, but enjoying the sunshine... and checking out a really cute dyke who was out for the day with her father. Sigh.

Maria and Joey came back eating scones, and offered me a taste. Oh. My.

Lavender, ginger, white chocolate scone, anyone? I melted. The ginger had caramelized in places and the white chocolate nearly had a crunch to it, in tiny pieces throughout. The lavender permeated without being too strong or bitter. I was amazed.

We wandered through the bakery's wildflower garden, which also contained a fair amount of food, and some young fruit trees, of all kinds, not yet at fruit bearing age. Evidently the bakery is on it's way to becoming more self sustaining, as well as being just plain delicious.

Joey gave into temptation and ran inside to get two more scones. As we drove to the beach she passed me little bites from over her shoulder in the front seat. Heaven.

We parked up on the cliffs in a line of cars, and grabbed the days supplies. Food, guitar, blanket. The winding decent down the cliffs to the beach was constructed from stones and natural stairs and a tiny wooden bridge. Nearly the moment we got down to the beach, Maria egged us on to go search the tide pools for life.

Tide pools on the west coast are never what I expect. Coming from the east coast I grew up in tide pools that were teeming with life... smooth rocks speckled with barnacles and tiny crabs beneath every stone. Crayfish and starfish in extraordinary abundance. Here things are quieter. The rocks are a little harder to negotiate (or maybe that's my loss of childhood ninja-power rearing it's head again), making the few finds that much more precious. Maria loves the tide pools. She climbed way out, the first to find a starfish... while Joey stayed back to the shore, finding the tiniest sand-dollars I've ever seen, and sighting a crab. I followed Maria about halfway out, let her point me to the starfish, and then caught sight of the stunning anemones clinging to the rocks.

First I found the ugly, muddy brown green donuts. I knew they were alive, some kind of anemone, but when I found one open couldn't draw the line between them. In their defensive shape, these creatures are dull as mud, and slimy. When they open, safe and comfortable in their environment, they are the most brilliant iridescent sunflowers. I played around them like a child, lightly touching them and watching them close, feeling like the strangest Velcro on my fingers. Then I wandered back to shore quietly, leaving Maria on her hunt for life in the deep end, while Joey hung back in her own calm. I left them and wandered out to the beach, convinced that I could stand the cold Northern California water enough for one dunk.

I waded in, singing to myself as I wandered deeper by fractions. The cold hit as a deep, dull pain. I was amazed at the power of it. I chickened out. I got to about my thighs in the cold water, and then skipped out to warm my already numb legs. I sat up on our blanket and snacked a little, strumming the guitar absently.

When Maria and Joey returned, we settled into to a mix of snacking and song-singing. We sang a rousing chorus of Bobby McGee, and ate little sandwiches of sliced pastrami on fresh bread from the bakery, with mustard and cheese. Ooh and we ate strawberries.

I have a thing for strawberries. It's really very simple. Try this experiment. If you are ever feeling really sad, or careworn, and you start to feel like this universe isn't such a beautiful or well-designed place... Slice a strawberry in half, top to bottom. Eat one of the halves, slowly. Take the other half in your hand and check out the design. Drink in the way the red and the white blend perfectly, all the little intricacies both functional, and aesthetic. Take your time. Then eat the other half, and go about your day. I swear you'll feel better. It's my favorite little trick.

Eventually we were overcome by flies, and ready to hit the road back to the city. I said one last quiet goodbye to the ocean... knowing I wouldn't see her again for awhile, and jumped into the back of the car in a dreamy sun-stupor.

The radio was up loud and Maria and Joey tend to stick to the classics. It feels good, some sort of ironic American idealism... old school-style. The convertible, the rock and roll. It's a 1950's lesbian daydream.

I have a confession to make. I flirt with boys when I ride in cars. Straight girls too. I don't know why. I could try to explain it, but it'll either sound mean, or shallow, or foolish. I smile and get their attention, and then turn my head back into the wind, laughing. Maybe it's a convertible thing. Or maybe I just like making the boys smile, thinking they've caught a girls eye. They don't need to know that I'm not really interested. And the straight girls... I just like catching them off-guard.

So I was sitting in the back of the car, flirting and singing along with the radio, my hair turning into a wild nest from the wind, and American Pie comes on the radio. This song turns me into a basket case.

"February made me shiver, with every paper I'd deliver.
Bad news on the doorstep, I couldn't take one more step..."

I lost my dad in the month of February, and I know that's part of it. I also once loved a girl who used to sing this song at the top of her lungs, when we were drunk and at our most jubilant. My family also used to sing it, when my dad was still around... so there are plenty of reasons. Still, I'm not the type to let myself cry all that often. Certainly not in front of new friends, or on a sunny day in the back of a convertible. Yet somehow, that was a magick formula for me. I put on my shades, and sang along, having a good cry in the meantime. It was the best cry I had let out in ages, sweet and completely lacking in self pity, or concern. Just a good let out of those little griefs we carry with us. I love these moments. They feel like good food, fertilizer for the soil. When the song was over I felt cleaner and brighter than I had felt in awhile... and if Maria or Joey had noticed, they left me to my own devices. Perfect.

Before we went to Maria's we stopped at Trader Joes for a few small grocery items. I akwardly tried to help with the grocery costs, which ended up with me buying a few mangos and some chocolate for a treat. When we got back, Maria cooked up some great pasta with fresh basil we had grabbed at the farmers market, and toasted bread from Wild Flour. Maria's puppy was restless and crying, and I took her out for a bit after Maria and Joey fell asleep. Turned out she was crying because her best dog-friend was outside, and I talked to the other dogs owner while the pair wrestled like two sweet lovers on the lawn. The night wound down quietly, and I fell asleep hoping to wake early and get riding.


Make plans, and God laughs, or so they say. I ended up sleeping in. Maria handed me a fresh Americano first thing when I woke, and we all sat and ate fresh strawberries and toast. The breakfast toast was also from Wild Flour, a cardomon and cinnamon bread with nuts and raisins that was extraordinary. We chatted away the morning, and I allowed them to record me playing one of my newer songs. Then we all fiddled around on facebook before I finally hit the road.

On the way out the door, Hoppy the dog decided to go on a little solo adventure, so there was a short panic while we all wandered around trying to recover her. After she was back home, all sweetness and mischeif, we said our goodbyes, and I was on my way.

Luckily, they lived right down the street from REI, and I had just gotten my tax return. I went to pick up a few basics for the coming days; some tablets that turn water into an electrolyte beverage, rechargable batteries for my solar charger, and iodine tablets in case I needed to forage water. Then I jumped back on the bike path and headed towards Folsom.

The big climb was just starting. It was a gentle uphill all the way to Folsom. Not the kind I really notice so much, just a rolling stretch of bike path, slowly taking to longer inclines. It wasn't a hard ride, it only suggested the harder rides to come as I headed into the Sierras.

Along the way I got to talking to another rider, and ex-punk rocker who had done lots of bike touring. He was faster than me, however and eventually I had to let him go ahead to meet his friend. About half and hour later, he returned from the opposite direction with his friend in tow. She felt it was important to show me a little health food stop on the way to Folsom, and the two of them lead me off the path. They chatted with me for a moment at the little windowbox and bench cafe, and then headed off to their own business. The place was great, and I was grateful for the tiny detour. The spot was called Sunflower.

There were chickens and roosters roaming around, boasting and chowing on food scraps. Some of them were really stunning colors, and just as stunningly loud and hysterical. The prettiest rooster just kept crowing and crowing as if it were dawn at the farm. The whole scene was a bit spectacular. I grabbed a veggie-stuffed burrito and a fresh lemonade, and sat down on a bench. A few people stopped to ask about my bike. As one woman walked away, she slipped a 20 dollar bill into my hand.

She said, "You're doing things I've always wanted to do but didn't." and I felt akward, not really knowing how to respond. I smiled and thanked her, nodding in some way that was a mix between sage and sheep. I finished my lunch then, and struck out for the path again.

Still riding on the bike path was such a pleasure, the weather perfect and the lack of cars and danger making for an easy day. When the path starting heading uphill full time, I barely noticed. When the air started to cool, and I still hadn't hit Folsom, I was confused. A biker saw me sitting on the path, looking puzzled, and informed me that I had passed the road into Folsom about 5 miles back. I didn't feel like complaining though, it was a nice ride, meeting the lake in points, and I had enjoyed myself. The good news, he told me, was that it was all downhill from there. At that point, I still hadn't really noticed that I was headed uphill, so when I headed back down over a 6 percent grade, I was suprised. The woman who took me to the burrito stand had told me that much of the climb to the Sierras was about that grade, so the detour left me feeling bolstered.

When I got into town it was late, later than I had hoped. I checked into a hotel for the night, beginning what would be a pattern of self-indulgence, which I'm still kicking to this day. See... travelling without money is pretty simple. I know exactly how much I am willing to spend, and while I usually spend a little more, it's not possible to spend money I don't have. I'm embarrased to say that receiving my tax return changed my pattern a little. I have stayed a total of a week in hotels since that night... not in a row, but still. I went on a goverment sponsored vacation. I felt guilty at first, but I'm over it now. It ends tomorrow, anyway, as I head through national park lands for 10 days, in Southern Utah. So with that in mind, I'll continue to tell you how I encouraged myself over my first mountain range, with a heathy dose of good old-fashioned self-care.

Leaving Folsom, I ate breakfast at a local spot that was known for drawing in a bike clientele. I had a beautiful and monstrous salad with field greens, blue cheese, cranberries and nuts, chatting with a few local cyclists, and then headed up the endless hill.

I thought I would ride up in the the mountains past Placerville and find a place to camp, but holy lord was I wrong. The sun was unbearable that day, a heat wave having come in to the area. It was well into the 90's and humid as hell. There were stretches of hill that went on for a mile a piece, rolling back down and then up again endlessly. I was gaining in elevation on a derert rollercoaster. I was drinking more water than I ever had in my life, grateful for the electolyte tablets I had picked up back in the city. I stopped at a Starbucks in a town called Cameron Park, since there was nowhere else to stop. As a rule, I don't go to Starbucks. I don't like their coffee. Their politics are a mix for me, with great worker benefits, but a tendancy to push out the competition and over-franchise that I find disconcerting. Regardless, I grabbed a green iced-tea lemonade mix and sat in the sun for a bit. At this point the shade wasn't even compelling. When I stopped moving, my sweat cooled, just enough that I worried if I sat in the shade I would get sick, but not enough to put on a layer while I rested. I settled for roasting in the sun with a cold drink, and talked with a few local teenagers for a second. The conversation wasn't noteable, but the conversation I overheard them having when I came up was a worthy eavesdrop. They were talking about a friend who had gotten involved with a gay crowd and was gender-bending his wardrobe a little. The guy said "yeah... I don't have a problem with 'those people'. It's not like that. I just cant relate to them, you know...?". As much as this isn't what I want to hear from teenagers, it's a lot better than what I expect. I hate that I find myself thinking, at least he didn't say he was going to kick his ass, but that's still what we have to worry about. I finished my iced tea and kept moving, up another sunsoaked hill. I was cursing the hills at this point, more for their sun-exposure than anything else, when suddenly the road dove down into the trees and the shade. Thank god.

Placerville is kind of cool. The town is nicknamed "Old Hangtown", one of the towns that gold miners built back in the day. The tiny historic area is a run of old western storefronts. I asked a cop which hotels were cheap, and he told me where not to say... saying that one particular establishment was filled with sex offenders. The only place in the historic district was The Cary House, a great old building with a ton of character. I decided if I was going to stay in a hotel, I would rather be someplace cool, and the price was pretty much the same, so I booked in. I was in the Studebaker Suite. The room was small, with a view of the street. The hotel had an old elevator like most buildings in Greenwich Village. The man at the desk spoke of it as a great pride, and as if it might be the oldest elevator I had ever seen. I didn't tell him that I'd seen a hundred like it. He was so pleased. The lobby was full of stained glass windows, and there was an old piano sitting beneath them, well cared for, without a speck of dust.

I wandered out for dinner, which was definately not note-worthy, and then turned in for the night. They had nice shampoos, and I had been out for weeks, so I was happy to take the bottles. I also admit to raiding their continetal breakfast for extra oatmeal, tea, and cereal bars.

On my way out of town, again riding straight uphill in the heat and humidity, I saw a woman walking into a building. I drew my eye to the sign on the building, and it was some sort of recovery center. Something compelled me and I turned to the woman and asked if there was an AA meeting there. She said yes, there was one in 5 minutes. I smiled at the way the fates carry me around, and I parked my bike out back. I used the meeting as a place to rehydrate, drinking loads of water as I sat and listened, and talked. The women at the meeting found my presence very inspiring, since I hadn't meant to be there. They saw what I saw, the universe taking care of people. I guess I'm a little disenchanted... I don't get moon-eyed over that fact anymore. I just know it's true. When you ask for it, this world will give you what you need. She won't give you what you want, but she will definately give you what you need to be of service. Regardless, it was nice to see their faith stirred up a bit, and to remember that my presence in a place sometimes has very little to do with my own needs.

Oh, by the way... Did you know that Drew Carey is the host of The Price is Right these days? I find that mind-boggling for some reason. I haven't had a TV in so long, I had no idea. I caught an episode while I was packing up at the Cary House. I like it when people win things. I don't like capiltalism, or our obsession with having things, but people just get so excited when they win things. I know that little excitements and triumphs based on our aversions and our cravings are fleeting, but they are still precious to witness.

I rode directly uphill for a few hours, but it got to a good rolling pattern, up a little, with little reliefs here and there as I went. Then suddenly I plunged down out of the hills into the town of Somorset. I stopped to have a drink, and chatted with an old biker outside of the local... well... it really was the town. Another of those one stop towns, with a whole lot of nothing in one place. The biker was from New York originally, and had lived in LA while he raised his kids. His wife saw photos of one of his trips to Northern California and said... "I want to live there." So "New York Lou" found himself in a one-horse town... and he's happy there, it seems. We chatted for a bit, about my trip, and his work. He gave me his card in case I got in trouble that night, said if I needed to, I could come crash and have dinner. It was a bit off my route, so I took his card for safety, but with no plans to call. Although, he did ask that I call every so often to tell him how the trip was going, and I conceded. He doesn't have internet access.

From the moment I left Somoset, my easy hills were gone. It was all up up up, with little or no break for the rest of the day. Lou had warned me that the bed and breakfasts ahead were upwards of 400 dollars a night, definately not in my budget, so I set out with plans to camp off the road someplace.

When I felt like I was done, I just kept going. My still-strong fear of camping where I'm not supposed to kept me moving a little later than I had planned, and by the time I started looking to camp, the bugs were out for the evening. Then I had a moment with myself...

There was a house for sale on the side of the road, that it looked like the realtor had forgotten about. There were weeds out of control everywhere, and a shed behind the house was wide open to the world. I deliberated. I know it's not entirely ethical... but who will ever find me? It's already evening, and it looks like no one has been on this property for months... with the exclusion of one small detail: an open jar of peanut butter in the shed. I considered camping outside, but the insects were already driving me crazy. Inside the shed there were more bees than I could count, but very few mosquitos. The bees fussed around me as I set up a tent in the middle of the shed, and then slowly quieted as the night fell into darkeness.

And I was terrified.

People always ask me how I do this. They ask me if I am scared. They tell me they are too chicken-shit to do anything like this. I tell them... me too. I am terrified. I guess they see me as brave because I face my fears, but that doesn't make me any less scared. I was scared that raccoon would come for my food. I was scared that the owner of the peanut butter would come. I was scared that I would get harassed for trespassing. Mostly, I was scared of the raccoons. Ever since they stole my food, and I heard them fighting, north of San Fransisco... I am afraid of raccoons. I used to think they were cute, and I still do... so long as I am sleeping inside. I had a full-on attack of all of my fears that night. The place was so quiet that the mice sounded like bears.

This is what happens. My heart feels ice cold in my chest, and I have difficulty moving. I have to breath consciously and deliberately, and I pray to myself. I come in and out of it. When I calm down, something in my body tells me I am off-my-guard and I tense up again.

Finally I walk myself out under the stars, to remind me that I am still in the world I know. My heart always calms when I see the stars. Then I turn on the little mp3 player on my phone, and listen to music for awhile, singing along quietly. I set my alarm for 5 am, and eventually, I drift off to sleep.

When I woke, I felt completely safe and peaceful. I packed up quickly, before the sun fully rose, and set out riding up the mountain again. I had long passed the gentle climbing, and all there was ahead of my was maybe 20 miles rising 5000 feet in elevation, up to 8,500 ft at summit. As I got going, I found that I had travelled further than I thought the night before, hitting the town of Omo Ranch almost immediately. I had travelled 26 miles uphill. My days goal was another 20 some-odd miles.

The road wound along into the hills. Approaching the Sierras from this direction is like approaching a mirage. You don't see the mountains. Coming towards them, they never rose up in the distance. I started riding uphill, and I kept waiting and waiting for them to appear, but they never did. All I could see was giant rolling green hills, and the road rising up in front of me. I was starting to think that the Sierras had no peaks, no majesty... just a long harsh ride to test my endurance. Not that I wasn't enjoying myself, in some abstract capacity.

I ran into two cyclists out on a days ride, and they darted past me like rabbits pass turtles, one stopping to talk for a moment before climbing on ahead. By the time I hit the town of Cooks Station, I was exhausted. I had only ridden 13.5 miles.

I was thrilled to discover that not only did Cooks Station have a full service restaurant, but they also allowed camping behind the place, with laundry, and a quarter-pay shower. Cooks Station is a place, more than a town, a log cabin diner with a small market, and an RV Park behind it. It was only 11:30 am, and I realized I was done for the day. The mountain was kicking my ass.

I spent the day lazying around, doing a little journaling, and a load of laundry. I read the local papers, and watched the TV behind the bar. I took a sweet mid-afternoon nap, with the sun shining into my tent.

I don't think that there is any better way to nap than this: mid-day, in your clothes, with the sun insinuating itself into your space, after some hard excersize. It was perfectly serene. I had dinner up at the diner, which the cook decided to put on his own tab, as a kindness, and then went to sleep early, for lack of entertainment more than anything else.

I woke to a hissing sound which I knew right away to be snow. I looked out at the ground under my tent, and saw that nothing had accumulated, and I fell back asleep, assuming it would be melted by the time the sun leaned towards high, which is common of mountain snows. When I woke again I heard rain. I bundled up to go get breakfast, and found myself walking into a world of white.

I heard rain because my body heat was melting the snow as it hit my tent. There were already several inches of snow on the ground, with no sign of it stopping. The last pass of the mountain was ahead of me, and it would be impassible. I was snowed in.

I had breakfast and started to feel stir crazy right away. I had already been bored to an early sleep the night before in Cooks Station, so the thought of staying there another day didn't exactly thrill me. When a few local road workers on a fishing trip offered me a ride over the pass, I accepted.

I felt silly, not riding that last stretch of the pass... but I really didn't want to stay at Cooks Station. The bar was already starting to get that feeling, where people gather in the snow to have a few drinks and pass the time... and that's not my kind of company. I had no interest in spending a day staring at the television from the bar, and the snow was thick enough that a walk wasn't even looking enjoyable. My tent was disappearing under the snow, and if I stayed, I would flood. I took the ride. After freezing my hands packing up in the snow, and paying my tab for the campsite and breakfast, I took a seat in the truck and settled in for a slow ride over a short distance.

The snow was unbelievable. I couldn't see anything but the road and the trees nearby. The pass must have opened up at some point, but all there was to see was a great wall of white.

The guys were nice enough, we talked about their work, and the guy driving was a fairly fluent conversationalist, more open than I would have expected. There was a bizarrely misplaced line of classic cars headed over the pass illegally without snow chains, and we spent most of the ride musing on how the drivers must be hysterical, putting their precious cars at such risk. I enjoyed the ride, although I was a little sad to miss the pass, and they left me just a little way over the peak at Sorenson's Resort. They were turning off the road, and figured I could make my way from there.

Still in a flurry of snow, I shook off the chill and walked right into the resort. It looked a little over my head, but I asked about a room anyway. They offered my a room in the "bed and breakfast cabin" for a cyclists discount. The place was amazing, with tons of tiny cabins cozied up into the mountain, a wood-fire sauna... and the b+b room of course, came with breakfast. They were the cheapest roms in the place, because two rooms shared one bathroom. I took it.

A few hours later, I wandered out of my room to find the snow quickly melting, and a beautiful day setting in. I found myself feeling guilty for taking a room. The hotel manager said to me "What are you, Catholic?" and I laughed at myself a little, realized where I was and decided to enjoy it. First I grabbed a stack of books from the lending library. Then I laid around reading "The Nature of Monsters" for an hour or so. I enjoyed lunch in the resort resturant, a cozy large cabin with a fireplace. I met a couple who were there to decompress after the loss of the woman's mother, just a day or so ago. They came to spend the day away from the stress, only to head back there after lunch. We talked lightly, about music, and about karma. They were the types to be fairly convinved that everything is happening exactly as it is meant to. I agree with them, but in a very different way... I could intuit the discrepancies. I won't get into that this second though.

After a little more reading and loafing, including a perusal of "The Art of Doing Nothing", a book that the resort places in every room, I left the books and headed to the sauna. The sauna was a self-lighting wood-fire hot house. A dream come true. I started up a fire in the wood burning stove, and then meditated, laid about and fussed, while the room warmed up. It took about 2 hours to get the room hot. I was pleased with my own patience, and happy that I was enjoying some meditation excerizes with apparent ease for once. When the heat kicked up, I soaked the rocks repeatedly, and had a good sweat.

I like saunas hot. Really hot. I like to forget what time it is and sing and pray. This place was perfect for me. I went through four buckets of water on the rocks. The room was thick with steam and sweat. I found myself starting to treat the experience like a traditional sweat lodge. I can't (and will not) pour water for a real sweat, being non-native... but in my own little private world, I was able to conduct a ritual with myself that was similar in process. I prayed for people I resent, and for my loved ones. I had a nice singing conversation with my spirit guides and gods. I did yoga. It may sound silly, or you may read more into it than you like... but it was a perfect way to spend time. When I wandered out finally, the sun was down. I have no idea what time I wandered in... maybe four hours had passed.

That was where I was meant to be that day, without a doubt. By the time I had showered and dressed, dinner hours were nearly over at the resturant, but they took me anyway, the last guest of the evening. I ate happily by myself (spinach ravioli in a basil cream sauce; perfection), and then retired to my room for the night.

The manager had said I made the right decision; that the melting snow would make the ride down the mountain dangerous. I used that rational to assuage my guilt at staying somewhere so nice. Then, as I stayed up late finishing my book, there was another quiet snowstorm, telling me I was right where I needed to be. In the snow, I saw a bird fall and stay still from out my window. I didn't know why, but I was drawn outside to check on it. The moment I stepped out, the bird sprung up into the air and vanished, leaving me to a moment of stillness in the mountain air. I love snow in the mountains... it had been so long since I really appreciated it.

I slipped back inside and finished my book, and fell asleep contented.

I need to stop now... and there is still so far to go. Hopefully I can get a little more writing done later, but I definately need a rest. Till then, I hope you are all well and happy.

Night Biking

This is my first attempt to blog from my phone... So we'll see how long I can handle typing on this tiny keyboard. I'm sleepy, its long past my bedtime. To be honest I haven't been so consistant about bedtime lately, but whenever the sun goes down, I feel like I should be asleep.

I had a hard time leaving the bay area. I am scared of riding into the desert, and my hestitation held me back, along with my healing body. I finally set sail around 1pm a few days ago, intending to get the 2:30 ferry from Oakland to Vallejo. I missed that ferry by a narrow 6 minutes, having been detained at Verizon, arguing about a mistake on my phone bill.

I didn't want to go back to the Creature house after missing my ferry, because my leaving had felt clear... I needed to extract myself from those comforts, and I had received just the right support to get me moving. I had flown the coop and needed to stay flown. I got a cheesesteak by the water, and chatted with my pal Erin on text while I waited for the next ferry. I knew I would have to crash in SF, because the ferry wasn't until 4:40, but it seemed like the thing to do. Erin handed me the contact info of a few SF friends, and before the ferry arrived I had a couch to surf for the night. I hotfooted off the ferry when we hit shore. It was difficult to avoid listening to an exhausting conversation about ageism in the workplace for the greater part of the trip. (A young girl complaining that the old folks should get aged out because they can't lift boxes... Talking to an older guy who gently disagrees. I wanted to not-so-gently disagree).

My host, Erin's friend Kyleigh, was leaving on a date when I got to her house. She introduced me to her housemate, dropped me a key, and chatted a minute, then headed out on the town. I walked with her roomate down the street to grab a Jarrito (mexican soda, if you're not already addicted) and then headed off on my own for a bit.

I wandered into the tattoo shop, because I love tattoo shops... And I'm vaguely hoping someone will do this Einstein quote for me. No luck on the quote, but I caught a good show; newlyweds getting honeymoon tattoos... His was done yesterday, an old-school rose on his arm. She was getting this beautiful owl on her calf. I stuck around to chat until the piece was done. I had to see how it came out.

The shop was One Shot Tattoo... on 9th Avenue, and the artists name was Pashone. He is fixing up bikes on the side and has built this beautiful midday-blue powdercoated commuter bike with blue wire covers and old school shifters. This guy is a definate go-to, for art OR if you want a little custom built. I liked talking to him, and to the couple. The piece was fabulous when it was finished... great use of color. Subtle earthy fire tones with teals and light reds. So hot.
I grabbed a crepe on my way back to Kyleigh's, and then settled in for the night. I foolishly switched on the TV, and didn't turn it off until I had stayed up WAY too late. Damn late shows. They aren't even that good anymore.

Kyleigh and I grabbed coffee together in the morning, and then I shoved off, down to the ferry building. It was a hurry-up-and-wait kind of morning. I bought my ticket at around 11am for a 12:40 ferry, but I was cozy enough, passed time making phone calls and hopped on the boat with a hot cup of tea from Bluebottle.

The boat ride was uneventful. I even tried to nap, having slept so little, by my usual standards, the night before. The ferry docked in Vallejo, I stopped at the post office to mail my books to Bria in Portland, and I set off for my days ride.

Five o'clock rolled around and I was exhausted, and hadn't gotten very far. I ran into the bike shop in Rockville, and they suggested I ask Pastor Larry if I could camp on the church grounds.

I never found Pastor Larry, but instead came across two kids, living in a house on the church property. I don't quite understand it, but the church parking lot circles their house like a moat. Its pretty anyway, and at first I thought it must be the pastors house. I asked the boy, maybe in his early 20's, if he knew where the pastor was... and ended up with an invitation to camp on their lawn.

The couple were in methadone treatment, and had a child. There was another couple in a small house behind the main house. I never really managed to figure the whole situtation out. The boy said it was his mother's house, and he asked permission to have me stay, but I never met her. He also mentioned an aunt. The couple out back didn't look like family. I think maybe this woman takes renters, and draws in a lot of young, struggling couples, on account of her son's situation. I think I would probobly like her. Regardless, they were good people. When I tented up their daughter kept chatting at me through the window, looking into my tent.

"Why are you in there?"
"Oh, this is my bedroom!"
"Why are you in there its not daaark!"
"I'm sooo sleepy. But I'm not alseep yet, I'm writing and drawing."
"Oh. You know what time it is its Eastertime. I have red jello!"

And on and on until I finally closed my tent flap and got to sleep. I had a restless night, with an event at the church bringing in loud converation, and a general restlessness I've been battling ever since the wind kicked all my ghosts up... Back on the beach, so many days ago.
I woke ready to ride, anyway, and grabbed what was meant to be a light breakfast at the cafe next door before heading off. Hungry, but not wanting to overspend, I went for a small order. The cook however, after hearing about my trip, brought out an extra egg and a pile of bacon and told me to eat up. He didn't have to tell me twice. I left fortified and having enjoyed the small town comfort... I'm a sucker for it, the local diner where everyone knows everyone. I looked up at the stretch of blue sky, extracted myself from conversation, and said goodbye to Rockville by 10am.

What an amazing ride. It's flat and the road is lined with every imaginable tree. There are fields of wild lupine flowers, blue as the sky, orange poppies and wild turkeys. There are quail crossing the road in a state of chaos, with their little mohawks. There are bees and butterflies getting tanged in my spokes, and the gentlest wind. Its a perfect ride, and a perfect day.

I'm headed into Davis, the bicycling capital of America, and the closer I get, the more bikers I come across. There are race teams out practicing, and college kids out for an afternoon ride. The stretch of road is dotted with orchards that eventually give way to larger orchards, endless stertches of monoculture, in perfect little rows. Pretty, but ominous somehow, with no undergrowth and no real place in the larger ecosystem.

Outside of Davis I jump onto the bike path, which starts to lean towards crowded... Then I hit the city. I have never seen so many people on bikes in one town in my life. I tear up a little. Old ladies on bikes! Kids on bikes! I can't imagine why anyone would want to drive. Its a thriving culture of eco-friendly transport and I'm lost in the middle of it. There are even bike roundabouts to manage bike traffic. These are the most well designed and well used bike paths I have ever seen. Even better than Portland... Sorry Portland, but its true. It gives us something to aspire to.

I had posted an ad on craigslist in the women for women section before I fell asleep in Rockville... I wrote that I was pretty much looking for community, maybe a date or a weekend love affair, before I headed off into deep solitude. I got two responses. One was in Sacremento, and just wanted to be friends, offering a couch to crash on, because she thought I sounded interesting. The other told me to check out a community on the UC Davis Campus called The Domes. Davis came first, so off to The Domes I went... And oh lord was I glad I did.

Within moments I was lying in a hammock, eating a snack, and waiting for my new friend BrettAnn to finish cutting the lawn with a lawn scythe, so we could go paint the ceiling of her "dome". There were chickens roaming around, and a bike co-op (The Bike Church) set up on the grass. An hour later I was in my underwear, touching up a primer job, listening to Damien Rice and singing to myself. We moved on to the bright toy blue top coat, and then packed in in to go catch the UC Davis feminist film festival.

BrettAnn covinced them to charge me student admission, and we wandered in, grabbed seats and caught a great set of films. My favorite was a short animation called The Collection... No words, just a small girl wandering to find book-eating worms consuming endless volumes as the city crumbled in unison. She collected letters and started rebuilding the written word, and the city regrew in kind. Its beautiful... the artwork, the style, the sound.

There were the usual suspects, a film about trans-identity, which included a highly genderqueer character. There was a documentary about rape as torture, focusing on a case from Mexico that is now in the world courts... Really hard stuff to hear.
Also... A decent documentary about the hypersexualization that is now being sold to kids at a frighteningly young age, and what it is doing to their development. There were some interviews with schoolteachers, who all remarked that things had really gotten worse in the past five years. There were a lot of arrows slung at the Bratz campaign, and at American Apparel. The best was the ending, where a bunch of four year olds drew clothes on a girl in an American Apparel ad and mailed their art to the corporate offices.

We had digested enough, leaning into oversaturation, so after one more animated short we rode back to the domes. Oh, but that last short was so sweet... Very much in the vein of "But I'm a Cheerleader", but with a tiny young tomboy sent off to conform at an evil summer camp on the advice of a bad teacher. The girl gets her soul sucked out by a machine because she isn't falling in line and comes back a zombie. When her father cries over missing his football tossing partner, she is reawakened like a princess in a fairytale. It was so silly and trite but perfect and precious and it made me cry a little. :)

I was riding BrettAnn's extra bike, a funny old hybrid, way too big for me... so that I didn't have to load off all of my gear. It felt so good to ride at night again. I howled at the sky and BrettAnn howled too. We rode through a tunnel and I pretended it was a portal. I felt like I was back in college, playing games and shouting into the sky. I hollered Caw-Caw-Cacophany! at the sorority girls in the path. I laughed and breezed... So nice to ride with no weight and the cool night air.

Sanctuary

I wish I had the time to write this down properly. I am sneaking a few minutes now, doing what I can. There's a good chance that it will be awhile before I can write to you all again. I will look for libraries, but the coming expanse is amazingly desolate.

I arrived at Seneca's and was drawn a bath by a fellow traveler; a beautiful woman. She lit a candle, drew the bath hot, and then left me to my own devices. The space spoke of a higher vibration. It felt good to find myself in community, and to accept some nurturing.

I have been in Berkeley for a long while now. Longer than I expected. I have sat in 113 degree water near giant backyard redwoods, walked naked on the earth, and wandered among silent friends and strangers. I have been treated as an equal, and as a saint. I have come together and unraveled here, all near or in the safety of the Creature House.

I want to speak in details, and instead I feel anxious, and unable to share at the moment. I want you to know that I have been safe here. That I have been in the company of simple magicks and good food. I have gone for long walks, slow and reading comic books along the sidewalks. I have been to the movies. I have fretted over my unique position in the world, and over my choices.

The house sometimes wakes into ritual, and I listen to the singing with a half sleeping heart. I do not wish to join them, and some mornings I withdraw into myself against the sweet morning sounds. At other times I listen to the humming, the morning stretches, a house waking together, and I bathe in the sweetness. I am, after all, a conflicted being... what else would draw me to such extremes of action. The choices I make on the day to day, feel largely out of my hands... that's been troubling me.

I came unraveled.... spent money foolishly on comic books and coffee. Walked sleepily along the streets, nose buried in a book. I lost myself in fantasy.

See the truth is... I could easily have become a shut in. The kind of kid that moves into mom's basement and won't leave. Addicted to World of Warcraft and assorted comics. I'm not above it. Here at the Creature House, I am in a world of contradictions. My own instincts.... the desire to vanish into the written word... art and music dissolving me completely.... held to light against a gentle and connected community. A place I can feel at home. A place where people are doing the work to come into their power in the world.

I don't know why I haven't completely lost myself. I learned at some point, to treat myself gingerly.... manage my little depressions with a certain amount of letting go. I let myself come apart at the seams, but I keep some central thread, tight and comfortably woven through my everyday life. I never let go. I am safe with myself somehow... and it took me a long time to get here.

It is hard to explain my happiness. I know that I am coming to a dangerous crux in my life. That I have to make a decision. A decision I made a long time ago. I am not concerned.

At the show the other night, here in the house... I was at my best. Channeling and sharing my art, my most healing magick. I felt powerful... always a terrifying proposition. After the show two boys are asking me to bless the records I sold them. To bless plastic, and technology. I am slightly horrified, and caught off guard. I hold the objects stupidly, then return them to their owners. This boy is in tears. I am just a folksinger.

I think I know that I will never be successful as an artist if I skirt around my "power"... My uncanny ability to channel my "truth" when I am at my best. If I skirt around it... try to just be a girl with pretty songs and a pretty voice... I inevitably fail. The act of making art is empty when you step outside of yourself. Plenty of people have been "successful" that way. They step gingerly around the center of themselves, the place where their art comes from.... dipping in their brush or pen. I have never been able to compel people from halfway in.

We are all deeply powerful. We are all deeply afraid. These boys, thinking that I am unique, look to me for strength when I have come to stillness for a moment. This is easy for them. It feels good. I wish they would stop.

Seneca notices that I want to escape the crowd, and she asks if I want to sneak out... We take a quiet walk, and I am again with an ally. We are so completely human. So incredibly small and simple. I am happy here, sharing my disaffections with Seneca in the starlight. I am so happy.

I read The Watchmen, and Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I read "Angel: After the Fall", and Fray. I watched Harry Potter, and Twilight. I wished I had a comic book collection.... then I started getting ready to get back on my bike.

There's this little problem. I hit my girl-part... God, there is no good word to use. If I say "cunt", my friends and community are comfortable, but I alienate everyone else. If I say "girl-part", some people aren't sure what I mean. And if I say "vagina"... I feel like a text book, and a person who doesn't think women are beautiful. So now you know what I'm talking about, alright? I hit my 'girl' on my bike seat on my last day riding. I am getting ready to leave.... and she still hasn't healed.

So I have been here longer than expected. I have been to the hospital, had this terribly painful abscess in a terribly sensitive place lanced. I am healing, and watching my body carefully. I have spent time lazily reading and taking up space at the Creature House, in the meantime. They kindly allow me to do so.

Last night we went back to Essex... where 30 years ago some people decided to open their backyard and 113 degree hot tub to the public. I was finally able to get into water again, and did so, under the moonlight. There are beautiful people stretching and silent around us. This is a silent space. We enter a little code at the gate.

I am spending time with my body here. Trying to find the fragile pieces of my spirit that will not inhabit me fully. We all tuck away. Stiff hips, hard heart, headaches... all of these things connected. There is an amazing integration possible. This one one of my favorite personal contradictions.

I drink coffee, I eat bread, I feed the beast and then I try to heal. I avoid vegetables and then live on kale, pray with every bite. I dream deeply into myself, and then I go shopping. Running in and out of deep water like a child at play. I don't mind spending my life like this. I don't think it's wrong, either. One day soon, however... I might just get brave.

I embrace the heat, breathe and stretch. A few days ago, we danced like wildfire and poetry... for the same reasons. Humans need shaking up. We need to be estatic.

Rebecca dances once a week. She rents a dance studio, and invites a few friends. I am lucky to meet people like her on my path. She lives here with Seneca, and the other creatures. A few days ago I went with her. I screamed and spun till I was dizzy. I shook and rolled and crawled and hissed. There is a wildness in humans.... I am sorry to imagine how few of us bother to explore it.

This whole piece is shifting. My body is almost ready to leave this place. I have so much work to do. There is more unravelling. There is more movement.

I am headed into the desert so soon, and while I am afraid, I am also craving the solitude. I would like to learn my place in this world, but I know that I am already serving life. The path we seek is the path we are on...

and so on I go.

.......

It may be awhile before I write again. It may be awhile until I hear your voice. Send me your little protections, friends, or just send me a kind thought. They travel well.