Well now, this outta be a strange (albeit shorter) update, made all the merrier given my current crippled status. I’ve the use of only one arm at present so typing is rather burdensome. I’m not 18 anymore I’m afraid and my body didn’t take too kindly to being thrown around in the schwinge pit at the funeral games.
Funeral games you say? Why, indeed!
Continue reading “Best Laid Plans”If any one has any videos of the forthcoming event, be a doll and share them with me via email. I’d like to see from your perspective.
Enjoy.
“Come over for a birthday beer!” she said. Of course I had already started on my birthday beers, my work being completed for the day and the spring sun reminding me that a patio drink actually sounded quite pleasant. “I’ve a Zoom at 4.” Plenty of time to share a drink with my dearest friend of a few doors down.
I tuck my cigarettes into my left front pocket, push a cozy over my Pabst, and pet the cat on the way out. My phone – which hasn’t stopped chirping with birthday notifications – is discreetly slipped into one of the many pockets of my Camino traveling shorts. I step out onto the front lawn and feel the paradoxical heat of the breeze.
Fuck me, I think, what a beautiful fucking day.
The rose bushes are devoid of blossoms; all save one.
I step into the soft grass (supple through dedicated watering sessions) and inspect the token blossom. It is pink – stunningly beautiful – but its edges have only begun to unfold. Three rose bushes and only this lone bud trying to break free to share its beauty with the world. The color, that splash of color like a New Mexico sunset – filled with purples and auburns and golds and mauves and yellows and reds – is about to grace the lawn.
So fucking beautiful.
I take a cigarette from my breast, light it up, and watch as the smoke mingles with the budding blossom. The haze is quickly dissipated by the endless breeze that marks the springtime of my desert oasis. The beer opens with a frothy hiss, and I idle for a few minutes admiring the simplicity of Nature’s realm. The sun beats upon my back, but still I cannot pull myself from the rose. She is too beautiful.
Coming to my senses and remembering I’m obligated elsewhere, I walk the half block to her new home. As my brother would later remark, my attire was delightfully that of a disheveled hobo: the stink of working in the lawn, shorts and shirt filthy from unwashed labor, Afghan Tactical Sandals upon my tanned feet, and the sweat-stained cap of a working man. Cigarette and beer in hand, I walk unhindered, ignoring the cop that passes swiftly behind me. An open container is certainly frowned upon, no doubt more so given my profession as an educator. Fuck it. The die is cast.
We sit on her patio for the first drink – a birthday beer of Dos XX – where the beating sun adds some color to my lower legs and makes the cigarette smoke seem harsher under the constant glow. We schwatz about this and that, about school and lawn care, about moving out and in, about the beauty of the day. Eventually we migrate inside to escape the sun’s amiable wrath, to sit in the cooler interior with colder beer. I nudge a poster board off the table so as not to warp it with beer condensation rings. She mentions an art project with the nephew. Beautiful.
I finish several in the time spent at her new place before she informs me her meeting is at hand.
I walk back to my place, the sun still beating, a new cigarette immediately replacing the last one, an endless cycle of self-mortification. Like a medieval flagellant, I punish myself to truly feel God’s glory.
The blossom greets me at the door, still a rosy pink, still incomplete.
My mother is supposed to come by (she needs help with another computer program and wishes to utilize my faster internet). I tidy up – no bachelor wants his mother to see him living in squalor – before she arrives. I down another beer and another cigarette. It’s too beautiful a day to be cooped up inside, and few things compare to a gentle New Mexico breeze and the shade of an old tree, vices in hand.
The doorbell rings and I quickly answer. Not my mother, but a pair of my students. They are dressed for the heat in athletic attire, one with a skateboard in tow. I remain in my hobo apparel; thankfully I left the beer on the table before answering.
“Happy birthday, sir!”
How the fuck did they know it was my birthday?
“Ah, kids! Thank you kindly!” I said. “How kind of you to come by.”
How the fuck did they know where I live?
We schwatz for a few minutes about the online schooling (a tragedy of corona) and how they’re keeping busy and occupied. Hence the athletic attire: out for a good run and skateboarding in Nature’s bounty.
I bid them farewell after some time, receiving further birthday well wishes and hugs good bye as they continue their adventures. How good of them to drop by unannounced; they care about you. I check the phone for the time and see further birthday notifications. Someone had squealed and now my students were bombarding me, not with homework questions or seeking advice, but wishing me well on this anniversary of sorts. Ah, my goombas. What would I be without them?
I return to the backyard wherein I finish another smoke and another bottle; consistency and pacing are key. Through the open windows I can see to the street. As the last ember begins to scorch my yellow-tinted fingers, I see the familiar outline of my mother’s vehicle. Both parents disembark, remark inaudibly about the state of the place, and make their way to the front door as I snuff out this latest cigarette.
They come in – without knocking – and immediately want to see the backyard.
“Where’s your laptop, Mutti?” I said.
“I wanted to see your computer.”
Well that’s fucking dumb, I thought.
“Show me the tomatoes.”
“Jetz,” I said, gesturing to the back door.
As I show them the progress made with the endless amount of time (being a non-essential employee), my phone begins to vibrate ceaselessly in my pocket. I ignore it; as a rule, I do not check my phone with company present. That would be quite rude.
My mother’s phone begins to chirp – having no qualms about my sense of chivalry, she answers. I can hear my sister through the tin speaker (for she has always been loud). They schwatz for a minute as I show my father the woodpile.
“Your sister is coming by with a cake. Let’s go up front.”
“Fuck her,” I said. “She can come out back and deliver it.” Quarantine be damned.
My mother sighs. “She has two screaming kids. Go up front.”
I tense my grip on my latest beer but relent. Don’t argue with your folks, especially at my age. We make our way up front. Dad remarks that my flowers need more water and that my edging could use some work. He stops at the rose blossom and smiles. He knows far more than I.
As we wait for my sister’s untimely arrival, I hear a cacophony of car horns sounding out a marching beat. How irritating, I thought, for this is a nice neighborhood. I never liked the sound of horns; far too shrill and aggressive. It makes me think of grackles, those hideous birds that infest our area. I turn toward the noise.
Happy birthday, Bruno!
Sweet fucking Christ, I thought. What is this?
My sister is leading a caravan of cars – 15? 20? – a poster with birthday wishes taped to her vehicle’s front. The cacophony grows louder as I realize I’ve been hoodwinked. Her windows are down and she’s smiling and waving – proud sister that she is – as she passes by my place.
“Happy birthday, little brother!” she said as she glides past.
I’m dumbstruck and mouth a response. My hand automatically returns the wave without a thought. My other hand clenches my still-cold beer. The cacophony continues as the caravan makes its way down my street. Neighbors are coming out their front doors to see the commotion; they soon join in the fest by waving and shouting congratulatory remarks.
My brother and his family follow behind, a poster for Uncle Bruno stuck to their vehicle’s side. My nephews wave and cheer. My good friend – with whom I was sharing drinks not an hour ago – is grinning like a Machiavellian mastermind as they drive past. She fucking knew!
But the greatest surprise – the greatest gift – follows behind the family cars leading this Seussian romp: my students – past and present – have assembled in this parade and call from their cars. Windows are down and I can see my students, my beloved goombas, shouting and waving as they drive past.
“Happy birthday, Mr. B!” I hear them shout from their air-conditioned cars. It is a scene of mirth and surprise as the cars keep coming. I remain dressed as disheveled hobo, a beer in my hand, standing in the New Mexico sun as the parade continues. I wave dumbly back, shouting some thanks and gratitude to each student.
“Happy birthday, Bruno!”
“Mr. B!”
“Bruno!”
The shouts never cease, each car striving to outdo the other in noise and celebration. I am taken aback by this outpouring of love.
There, some of my seniors. My first batch of students when I began my calling as an educator. They are denied so many rights of passage given the corona, but here they are in a force, waving and shouting. My OG Goombas. I wave fondly; it’s been too long since I’ve seen them.
Here, my juniors, those blessed kids who’ve had the misfortune of having me for two years in a row. They make up the bulk of the parade – a mosaic of car styles and vehicle colors that raucously makes it way through the neighborhood. The honking is drowned out by the shouts and exclamations of my students, for their enthusiasm cannot be contained. With windows down, heads and arms are out; some offer gifts and cards, and I dumbly step into the street to accept their well-wishes and bid them onward.
I still have a beer in my hand.
More cars continue to flood the street as the ruckus continues; those little fuckers, I thought. They threw me a parade!
As I awkwardly accept packages and envelopes, the tears begin to well up behind my eyes. How kind of them. How thoughtful of them. How blessed are they to be doing such a thing for a grumpy smartass like me. The grinding of engines and honking of horns is drowned out by their shouts and guffaws; my heart is ready to burst at this outpouring of love. What a spectacle; what a scene!
I see my students in their cars, returning their enthusiastic waves and cheers with my own, as I force the tears to stay put. I’m not crying in my front lawn as my classes march past.
As the last of the cars complete their circuit, I realize my parents have been behind me this entire time. They fucking knew. Mom didn’t need computer help – she just wanted to keep me at home for the big reveal. The sun’s heat pales in comparison to the warmth in my breast; I love those fucking kids.
Eventually the parade peters out, though a few students make a circuit to drop off still more gifts and cards. A few parents offer me six packs of beer, which I clumsily accept in the middle of the street. One student offers me her poster (a new keepsake for my classroom) and others simply swing back around to say their greetings anew. Dumbstruck and humbled, I finally step back onto the grass and out of the street. The honking has ceased and the shouts have been carried off in the wind. The curious neighbors have returned to their homes. A small pile of gifts and cards litter the lawn.
I’ve been holding my beer the entire time. Robotically I take a drink; it’s now cowboy cold, warmed from my pumping blood and the spring sun. I don’t notice the taste.
My sister and brother pull their cars along the sidewalk. My brother’s in-laws join suit. Suddenly I’ve got an impromptu family gathering on my hands. They are all laughing and chattering, congratulating themselves on their expert planning and execution. My sister is the mastermind – outwitted by my dear sister! – and my dear friend kept mum over the course of several patio drinks. She gives me the poster – the very one I had remarked upon earlier. Gaily, they gather the gifts, place them inside, then retreat to the backyard to schwatz and relax. Planning a surprise is tough work, and before long I’ve got the grill going. My neglected phone continues to blow up with new wishes and gotcha’s!
My family stays for the unofficial gathering and drinks all my new birthday beers. Eventually they retire to tend to their families and households; I escort them out and bid final farewells to cap this day of surprising mirth.
The sun is beginning to approach the western horizon; soon the sky will be a mosaic of brilliant color. A picturesque way to send off this day. My phone chirps again.
“Do you like wine,” she said.
The day continues to get better.
I pause in my front lawn where only hours ago I stood awestruck as my kids led a parade. What a day. I turn back toward the front, stopping to admire the rose bushes.
She blossomed. A full, pink rose – more beautiful than I had anticipated – now graces the lawn. All it took was a day for her beauty to become full. It is Nature’s way of reminding me of today’s love.
My heart is a well of love, replenished and overflowing with today’s spectacle. My kids – my goombas – who defied quarantine to participate in this birthday parade. I hear their shouts, see their smiling faces; I let a tear of joy fall.
Those little fuckers, I thought. I love them.
Fuck, I love Tobacco
There is something to be said about vices and how they keep us human. After all, comrades, how are we to trust someone who has ne’er indulged themselves beyond the Dark Stream?
I first started smoking at 16 when I was punished for fighting at NMMI. I was only a Sophomore in high school, but my heavy boots and quick tongue found me in a moral quandary my young mind wasn’t capable of extricating itself just yet. My squad leader – a loveable chap who shall remain nameless – recognized my errant behavior and my uncouth attitude toward rules and regulations. After receiving my duly (and justly) fit punishment for breaking the rules, he and I stole away to an insecure power bay and there – on those hallowed grounds of cavalry stomping – I indulged myself for the first time.
Ah, how flitting is the smoke.
I went cold for five years when I found myself sworn to a girl I was for certain to marry. But, if you know my story, comrades, you know that weren’t the case. After five years of biting a hole into my cheek, of swallowing my tongue, of putting on the Richard Cory face, I watched as Rome burnt afore me; I hadn’t even a fiddle to play.
These days – far from that five years – I find myself with a couple of proper pipes and an endless supply of fine American Spirits. There is something to be said about addiction, comrades, for I find it humanizes me. After all, when one compares themselves to Beowulf’s greatest foe, it is reassuring to relate monstrosity to humanity. Am I not flawed? Am I not imperfect? Ah, yes; so very much so. All courtesy of a finely wrapped and packaged death sentence I all too happily indulge: we all die. Enjoy it.
The Longest Journey by Ensiferum has been on repeat for at least an hour – quite possibly more – and though I have listened to this song a thousandfold, each new reverberation brings a new realization. The Dark Stream; pray tell, what is it?
On the morrow I am to teach the Allegory of the Cave by a Mr. Plato. Some Greek blowhard who had some good ideas and unintentionally spawned Christianity. My faithful readers, I implore you to remember we are born of pagan ideals mixed with the blood of the Savior. The Allegory is a stark reminder of this. We escape toward Truth. We must cross the Dark Stream lest we let it consume us.
To my students who are reading this drivel, foremost: stop. Read something of substance. I shan’t quiz you on what your loony instructor writes, but that of what truly matters: this ultimate quest for Truth. And certainly don’t take up smoking; we all die, but at least die knowing you made a contribution aside from being a lung cancer statistic.
Back to the Allegory for I find it a most provocative piece: we delight in our ignorance. It is humanity’s universality. I have some kids who are dumber than a sack of hammers and are destined to make a killing in the o’lfield one day swinging said hammer, but is Life merely an amount of zeros following a dollar sign? No, comrades, far from it.
Beyond that Dark Stream – the proverbial End – and far beyond the Cave of Ignorance, a whole world yearns for our touch. Our gentle boot to the ass. The slap of indignation across the face of realization. To think – to fucking think! – that we are to merely exist to swing hammers and collect a paycheck; ah, how that irks. How it perturbs. How it disturbs. Disrupts. Defiles. And, most damnably, distorts.
We, my comrades, are not put upon this sphere of influence to collect magical pieces of paper with a monetary value in constant flux; render unto Caesar and fuck all. We were not put upon this globe to work until our hands shrivel in dotage and our ungrateful children retire us to homes of the walking dead. And we certainly weren’t put upon this earth, comrades, to labor for no higher purpose.
Are we not to serve as reminders?
Ah; education. Education – that bridge across the Stream, straddling the Cave – to enlightenment. My little bastards have but a taste of it; far more is to come as Real Life swings the proverbial Dick of Life into their wholesome faces, but let it be clear that it is with the best of intentions. Certainly, a dick in the face is frowned upon in polite company, but if you can learn something – for Good or Ill – is learning not worth it?
Years ago I learned I found relief in stimulants, my beautiful tobacco, and mastered the art of keeping an addiction under control for self-betterment. With each new high, I found the dragon e’er out of reach until I stumbled upon that one high replicated e’ery 49 minutes. Teaching, ah blessed Teaching, how you, like my tobacco, keep me humble, alive, and awake.
We all die, comrades. We all struggle with addiction. Self-doubt. The cancer of the soul that one day will claim us as another statistic of whatever egress you fancy. But, comrades, but, we aren’t there yet. Make something of yourself. Make something of yours. Embrace your mistakes and realize you were simply the Escaped Prisoner from the Cave the entirety.
If, dear reader, these words are lost upon you, then I fear you ne’er left the Cave. Rethink yourself. Rethink the Cave. The Dark Stream. Rethink you. What have you to offer, after all?
I am a near-alcoholic, chain-smoking, foul-mouthin’, fucking crazy.
But at least I am Free.
Hey there folks,
Foremost, happy Good Friday (regardless of your religious beliefs), and may you get to spend this time with loved ones and the like.
Spring Break draws to an uncomfortable, yet welcome, end; by Monday morn, my charges will once more be at my pedantic mercy. Perhaps it sounds odd, but I do look forward to returning to my classroom. Only two more months of formal schooling afore Summer break reaches us in earnest. Frankly, I wish to keep the indomitable pace going and work hard for these next few weeks, all the better to savor what Summer brings to us mere mortals.
If Summer is anything like this past break, well, I’ve much to look forward to, comrades.
Spring Break began with a spot of welcome news from my bosom comrade, Stephanie, of Camino fame. “We bookended the newsletter,” she snapped me. Indeed, it was as she said; my article was emblazoned proudly upon the very first page of the La Concha newsletter whilst Stephanie’s wonderful review rounded off the entire manuscript. Not a bad bit of news to wake up to on your first day of a week-long respite.
Goaded by my incurable desire to perpetually wander (and equally bolstered by the humble pride my published writings evoked), I set course for Duke City. Armed with a rather plump bag of clothes and toiletries, a slew of essays in need of grading, and a score of plastic army men, I began my Spring sojourn by visiting my nieces in Albuquerque.
I suppose my brother and my sister-in-law were there too, but, come on! Babies!
For several days, I lounged about in abject laziness, earning myself a few points toward Slothfulness on the Greatest Sin Scale; fret not, for Pride and Arrogance remain my Greatest Sins (not sure I should be proud of that, but the irony isn’t lost upon me either). Alongside my nieces, I must have watched Boss Baby a half-dozen times; add in repeated viewings of Frozen, Trolls, Story-Bots, and a slew of other kid-friendly shows for the bulk of my stay. When one sits down and actually analyzes Boss Baby, it really is a horrifying concept: best not to think of such things. My rhetorical sentiments were lost upon my nieces, all the cooing and babbling failing to satisfy my desire for a genuine, philosophical discussion.
Whilst lounging about in Albuquerque, provided schedules lined up, I did manage to visit a few old comrades for victuals. My dear comrade, Roxann, (yes, the wedding one) and I dined over shish kebabs and gyros, regaling one another with anecdotes of teaching and cat ownership, all the while lamenting the fact we are growing older in body. The couple of hours we spent together over good food and better conversation, comrades, made me realize a few things:
She’s right; I’m not getting any younger. The recurring pain I’ve in my left shoulder won’t abate with time; indeed, it is liable to become worse as the joints and sinews holding my body together begin their slow process of degradation;
The world yet remains unconquered. My trip to the Holy Land may be postponed for now, a tenure in the Peace Corps currently on standby, and my delusional plans of grandeur may be a tad unrealistic, but the fact remains that the globe still has much to offer;
Do it, she urged. Stop lollygagging and making excuses, comrade. Simply do it.
I dined with Camino comrades – a lovely couple I met at the Gathering of past years – and we swapped tales (both old and new) about our Camino experiences. After complaining of thick, sucking mud, the constant deluge of southern France, bed bugs, joint pain, inscrutable pilgrims, the oppressive heat, and the ever-present language barriers, we all shared a good laugh. “Who would want to do such things again,” we chortled. “One must be nuts to go back on Camino.”
They leave next month for France.
I leave July for Spain.
The Way, comrades, is inscrutable, and the allure – the pull – it has upon me is hypnotic. There, walking amidst strangers in a foreign land, with but a few belongings upon my back; that is where I feel most alive.
Yes, my classroom offers me a very excellent manner of achieving immortality. Working with my budding scholars brings me great joy, one I have never felt before in any of my various lines of work. But the hardships of the classroom are not quite the hardships I’m endeared to on the Way.
Yes, certain individuals can make me feel alive, but I am exceptionally good at keeping them to a distance. “What are you running from,” I’m oft told. Whenever one comes too close, I prick myself upon their thorns – a Rose bloodied by negligence and lax stupidity. The Way reminds me that Life isn’t about me: it’s about other people. It would be good to have a refresher.
In short, comrades, I aim to return to the Way. A respite on the dusty trails is just what my soul needs in order to maintain balance for the coming year.
Hey there folks,
It’s been quite the spell hasn’t it? I have half a dozen veritable excuses I could use to satiate my claims of inadequacy, but in truth, none of them really matter. The fact is I’ve been neglecting my poor blog in favor of the tenuous here and now – and, shame, that just isn’t my proper style. What sort of wandering vagabond am I if I can scarcely keep a blog updated, eh?
Things have been quite tumultuous on my end, what, with the moving back to Lovington, taking up residence as a local English teacher, and trying to juggle my new work schedule, academic career, and personal Life all in one go. And here I thought I had mastered time management. Joke’s on me, because time is a fictional concept and you cannot master fiction.
Despite my faults (which exist purely because of my own machinations), I am acclimating well to things I reason. Forsooth, I heartily enjoy teaching English – that should’ve been a given considering my penchant for arguing and being a pompous ass when it comes to literature and opinions. And Lord knows if you’ve ever argued with me I don’t back down in the face of Reason too readily.
Yet my writing Life has certainly taken a most severe blow within these past few months. To be fair (which it isn’t), moving back to Lovington was a burden. But that was accomplished in little over a week (thanks, Po – you’re the best). And acclimating myself to the new teaching gig has been rather touch and go at times. Just when I feel I get the hang of things, the local Umbridge brings the thunder and I’m back to drowning in a heap of acronyms, paperwork, and children with banal questions. Yes, you put your goddamned name on every assignment; stop asking.
Even as I write this post, I am unsure of its completion. And if you’re reading this, hot damn, that means I finally finished a fucking draft for the first time in months. True, my personal journal is stained heavily in fountain pen ink (with my distinctive script), but it is indeed a far cry from keeping up with my blog. I’m paying for this damned thing, right, so I might as well write something worthy of note.
And here we are, for something has compelled me to write tonight, or rather, some people.
A couple weeks ago, a Camino Comrade of mine happened to be in the area on account of business. And by in the area I mean within two hours of me, which, as any red-or-green blooded New Mexican will attest, is close by. Despite it being a school night (still getting used to that again) and having a slew of grading, lesson plans, and my own academics to fret over, I saddled up after classes let out and made my way to the grand city of Andrews, Tejas. Despite my reluctance to ever visit that dread land of faux-Cowboys e’er again, this woman was well worth the voyage.
And so the two of us – having last met back in April in Missouri – dined over steak fingers and Cokes (no booze; damned dry city) and caught one another up on the shenanigans we’ve been up to since attending hospitalero training way back when. And I must say, how delightfully refreshing it was to simply spend a couple hours with an old friend. Truth, we had only spent about a week together in person, but Camino, as we all know, is simply like that: making eternal friends can take as little as a chance buen camino.
We sat in her car, chain smoking and bullshitting, reminiscing about this and that, and speaking of our desires to once more rejoin the Way and how we planned on achieving that. We spoke of our mutual comrades with whom we had both visited this past year, of our singular encounters with others from our hospitalero group, and the significant moments in our respective Lives from encounter the last.
She remarked upon the blog, how she really enjoyed my “sermon” to the Presbyterian flock of yesteryear, and I recall beaming with pride in the darkened vehicle, the ember of my cigarette dangling from my lip the only tell-tale sign of warmth across my face. Though my biggest critic and always downplaying praise, it touched me to know I had made an impact.
“You should write an anthology,” she said. “I think you’d be great at it.”
I’d be damned if I said my heart wasn’t aflutter at that kind suggestion.
Forsooth, comrades, there is something to be said in the mere innocence of it all. To simply sit there in plumes of smoke, watching the night sky take shape as the sun sets, and speaking from one soul to another. As I drove the hour and a half back to my new lodgings, how I wished I could merely keep driving and continue the great journey ever onward, to forever seek out such companionship and understanding, to keep the high.
Stephanie, I am eternally in your debt for shaking me awake. For reminding me that my Life isn’t meant to be forever in one place tied down to any single notion of reality. For indeed, reality is what we determine it to be.
And my reality has always been on the road.
But that moment of friendly bliss was soon swallowed whole by the new Life I had crafted about myself. Schooling is no joke – my evenings are oft dedicated to keeping ahead of my classes. My days are entirely devoted to my newfound charges – they may curse my name and workload at the present but I’ve hope for the future. And my personal Life – that damnable thing I can never quite put right – goes through the motions of ups and downs.
As a dark cloud swallows the sun in the encroaching storm, so too was my brief moment with Stephanie in danger of being eclipsed by my own machinations of realistic defeatism.
Yet Fate, comrades, had yet to abandon me completely.
Today, as my red pen flew across scores of comma splices and words in need of capitalization, my phone chirped the familiar sound of a message received. And there, though she didn’t know it at the time, came a familiar face with some much-needed words of encouragement.
“Hey Bruno!” she began. “Miss your posts!”
My dear Stacey – how powerfully wrought were these simple words.
We chatted for a bit – apparently, I may be considered a Subject Matter Expert on all things Grado (adding that to the resume) – about her upcoming writing responsibilities and the Gathering of Pilgrims outside Atlanta next month. Although I didn’t tell her at the time (indeed, I wasn’t quite so sure of it myself initially), her innocent comment had knocked something loose. It reminded me of my brief dinner with Stephanie, of the potential I had to actually put pen to paper and write.
To write, dammit.
That inspiration. That nugget of wisdom. The kernel of truth. Whatever euphemism you need, whatever you call it, to begin writing. And to write in earnest. And here we are now, dear reader, a full 1000 words later, writing about things that may seem trivial to the casual observer, but which mean oh so much to me and my flying fingers and racing pen.
Perhaps it’s the copious amounts of booze I’ve ingested. Maybe the plentiful amount of cigarettes smoked. Or the thought that tomorrow I could very well be hungover in a highly stressful job but without a single care to my name. Maybe the reverberating sounds of angry Finnish death metal within my addled skull. Whatever it is – whatever name we wish to call it – some cobwebs have been batted away, the dust scoured clean, and the writer once more unleashed unto himself.
Indulge me, comrades, for your Nomad has returned.
In parting, may I recite my absolute favorite bit of Passion Proof Power, a casual reminder that I am my own Fate, and that no matter what: I am fucking crazy, but I am free.
I Am
You Are
No One’s Slave
No Man or God They Have Made
Hey there folks,
One of the many exciting things about Albuquerque apart from the high murder rate and unsolicited slaughter of bums is the world-renowned
And having been a lifelong New Mexico citizen, it was high time I attended such a festival. And I must say, reader, it has its charm, but it isn’t something I’m keen on attending in the future.
Armed with the foreknowledge of my brother and his charming wife, the family set out to finally attend one of New Mexico’s greatest attractions.
Hey there folks,
Forgive the lack of updates. As you recall, I was bound for Chile where our mission group had absolutely no Wi-Fi possibilities. Indeed, one of the stipulations for this trip was a media fast, if you will, that dissuaded me from even firing up my phone. There’s your lack of updates for ya.
But I’m back in the States, in the midst of packing up my belongings, trying to bang out a post in good order.
I have a lot on my mind as of late, and many of these thoughts are swirling about, trying to take shape in the form of words on a page. The writer’s conundrum – how do you write out just one of these many, varied thoughts? It’s like trying to catch the dust floating about in a sunny window: you can clearly see everything, but you cannot quite grasp those motes.
The following passage is based upon a testimony I had to give to the group. Although I had an outline of what I had wanted to say, I ended up firing from the hip and just rolling with it. If you’ve ever heard me speak before, you know I’m prone to word vomit – I’m much better at writing out my scattered thoughts than saying them aloud. Might not be the exact words I used when speaking, but the story is the same. Part II will follow shortly after.
Enjoy this passage about my struggle with faith, the absurdity of reality, the desire to help others at my own expense, and the need to belong.
Hey there folks,
As a Catholic, I’m not entirely sure what I’m supposed to believe in nor acknowledge without offending the Almighty, His angels and saints, and my many good Catholic friends. Do forgive me, for I’m just a mere (im)mortal with his sporadic outbursts of piety coupled with extreme heathenism. For you see, dear reader, I do firmly believe in Fate and that things happen for a reason: whether we realize the reason or not is irrelevant. Free will, to me, is an expressed illusion, for our Fate has already been woven – we simply follow the thread through our own labyrinth.
For reference, view the first 25 seconds or so.
Forgive me, Catholic friends, for citing Odin as a skald to live by.
So, enough heathen outbursts; meat and potatoes, eh?
Hey there folks,
So my time at my current Wwoof site, Les Tremblais, is coming to a close within two days and a wake up. It has been a most enlightening and delightful detour of sorts, one I hadn’t planned on undertaking, yet I am ever so grateful and thankful I decided to pursue this thread along the Way. By mere chance and polite conversation, I was turned on to the joys of Wwoofing and here I’ve been – for two weeks – working in an idyllic – yet difficult – lifestyle.
Oh, snap. Two sets of dashes one right after the other. Mmm, my grammar is strong tonight, son. Tangent; forgive me. (Bitchin’ use of the semicolon though, no?)
Hey there folks,
So this voyage has taken a bit of a delightful detour, if you will, for I’ve committed myself to Wwoofing in France for the next two weeks.
“What in blazes is Wwoofing,” you might ask aloud to no one in particular, to which I would reply (to no one in particular), “Why, tis a veritable hoot and a half of a volunteer organization I tell you!” So sit back, get on your dungarees, and prepare to be engulfed in my Camino Detour.
Brunomad 