Saturday, December 25, 2010
Hell A! merry christmas.
Sin is rebellion against, or resistance to, the direction of supremacy , and enmity toward, avoidance of, or hatred of the good. Originally in Spanish sin means more accurately to miss the mark; I have no following point.
Los Angeles, HellA, city of angels, city of [broken] dreams...
so much to say...
I've been writing, please know that I have.
It's been hard to secure consistant computer time and as a result I have neglected posting although it is a constant wish of mine to be more active.
This blog could be a really great scrapbook of my travels and I have oodles of video ready to be uploaded when I have the time.
All I can say is soon, soon...
Soon there will be more stories from Texas and Louisiana, road life, and an attempt at something accurate to describe the people of LA who have been so great to international folk, and tons of videos which may just have to wait until I am at home on my macbook pro.
And now it's Christmas...
There is no snow here... yet somehow it is Christmas.
As it has been explained to me, most people who are still in town this time of year are transplants from other places, and have decided not to return home for the holidays; thus there is always a sort of lonely Christmas vibe from those around here and the sense of love and community is strong to say the least.
It is 3 AM on Chrismas eve and we have cleaned the house on Hyperion pretty well in preperation for tomorrow's festive meal. A potluck involving the volunteers from bicycle kitchen and extended family will include: Swedish meatballs, homemade pretzels, latkes, mushroom barley soup, chicken tikki masalla, salad, potatoes and some more shit.
We'll all get pissed and entertain each other, talk aout where we're from, who knows...
And on the subject of home (a certain Edward sharpe and the magnetic zeroes song comes to mind - feel free to listen while you read)
The smell of snow
Whiskey with the boys
The Ried-Moran Brothers
Dan golden boy and Jewmass
My family, the usual shit
Ben being funny and not enjoying himself
Gaberella
Winter fixed gear riding, slipin and slidin
Sauce...
Christmas has been somewhat spirited nonetheless
We went bike caroling a few nights ago, singing classics such as "oh single speed" and hitting locations such as L Ron Hubbards Scientology headquarters and other prominent houses in Hollywood, and believe I got some video of that.
Speaking of video, I have one small one that I was able to upload.
A short little video showcasing something I can't do at home, something much more important then tradition; freedom:
Yes, I was winking at you.
Merry fucking Christmas, I love y'all.
Saturday, December 4, 2010
Not that anybody reads this shit...
It's therapeutic, you know, like working out all day and stretching in the eve, or eating free Indian buffet all day with incredibly nice Hare Krishna volunteers before going home to defecate promptly and several times in a bathroom shared by a dozen or so people.
Writing that is.
Not in the hopes of winding an elaborate or interesting tale, or creating a whole imaginary world with wizards and fucking quiddich to validate your previous lifestyle choice as a crack whore- or even worse to make money- but for the sheer and simple process of recounting the days or weeks events, phrasing them as eloquently as you believe to be within your grasp and calming an overwhelming amount of feeling this writer seems to have these days.
So after six days and nights of travel we have arrived in Austin Texas.
Sam is asleep in a bed we will share, in a house which is shared by friends who seem altogether exactly the type of folk I would hope to meet in a town which has yet to manifest into everything everybody tells me it is (although the mexican food we ate for dinner was cheap and promising of things to come).
Yes Austin, home of Lance Armstrong, Sandra Bullock, a fuckload of sprawly highways and apparantly some cool artists and bike enthusiasts.
One girl who lives in this house with her boyfriend (appearing to be the foundation of this household) told us of her trip by bike to Mexico with 31 other people.
Part of a program called "bikes over boarders", which makes Toronto DIY efforts seem almost silly by comparison.
It's pretty simple really:
step 1: find a trashed bike
step 2: build
step 3: ride your bike over the boarder with an insane amount of other retarded individuals to really dangerous parts of Mexico and give your bikes away once you get there.
She (I forget her name and I'm staying in her house, I'm a fucker) also works a program she created called "bread by bikes" or someshit like that.
Again, simple: bake bread, deliver it by bikes, don't worry, be happy.
And on that note!
We have lost our Amtrak tickets taking us from here to El Paso, TX, and Amtrak refuses to refund us although if we buy them again, and mail in our stubs, I am told I will get a voucher for $150.00 for travel on Amtrak anywhere in USA.
Further more, the destination (El Paso) is currently irrelevant!
Our plan of biking north from El Paso, through New Mexico to Albuquerque before heading across the top of Arizona into Flagstaff to see the grand canyon, has been mutually abandoned.
Instead a train to LA seems in order, a decision I own a tumult of emotions over.
What and who lies in LA? Do I even want to be in such a superficial wasteland of concrete avoiding even further contact with those I love to, what, spend Christmas alone, see the ocean?
It all just seems so ridiculous, really.
Sam and I have different ideas of what will happen when we get there and I believe we will bike up the coast independently.
San Fran, Portland, Seattle, Vancouver? Home?
I am broke and lonely (despite Sam's inherently good natured company) , and fixed in the cadence of my own momentum, unable (or unwilling) to dismount.
I have encountered great moments of personal triumph, and overcome surprising obstacles, yet, it is the deeper I go, the more humans I meet, the further I feel isolated.
This is not exciting, it is happening.
This is not an adventure, it's a ritual, it's fucking religion.
It's not rewarding, it's humbling.
It does not give, it displays...
and takes, so much.
At the end of the day this, what some might consider despair, is what this journey is all about.
Not the bringing of joy and happiness, n'or the removal of it, but the fucking momentum.
So not that anybody reads this shit, but that's what happened today.
Writing that is.
Not in the hopes of winding an elaborate or interesting tale, or creating a whole imaginary world with wizards and fucking quiddich to validate your previous lifestyle choice as a crack whore- or even worse to make money- but for the sheer and simple process of recounting the days or weeks events, phrasing them as eloquently as you believe to be within your grasp and calming an overwhelming amount of feeling this writer seems to have these days.
So after six days and nights of travel we have arrived in Austin Texas.
Sam is asleep in a bed we will share, in a house which is shared by friends who seem altogether exactly the type of folk I would hope to meet in a town which has yet to manifest into everything everybody tells me it is (although the mexican food we ate for dinner was cheap and promising of things to come).
Yes Austin, home of Lance Armstrong, Sandra Bullock, a fuckload of sprawly highways and apparantly some cool artists and bike enthusiasts.
One girl who lives in this house with her boyfriend (appearing to be the foundation of this household) told us of her trip by bike to Mexico with 31 other people.
Part of a program called "bikes over boarders", which makes Toronto DIY efforts seem almost silly by comparison.
It's pretty simple really:
step 1: find a trashed bike
step 2: build
step 3: ride your bike over the boarder with an insane amount of other retarded individuals to really dangerous parts of Mexico and give your bikes away once you get there.
She (I forget her name and I'm staying in her house, I'm a fucker) also works a program she created called "bread by bikes" or someshit like that.
Again, simple: bake bread, deliver it by bikes, don't worry, be happy.
And on that note!
We have lost our Amtrak tickets taking us from here to El Paso, TX, and Amtrak refuses to refund us although if we buy them again, and mail in our stubs, I am told I will get a voucher for $150.00 for travel on Amtrak anywhere in USA.
Further more, the destination (El Paso) is currently irrelevant!
Our plan of biking north from El Paso, through New Mexico to Albuquerque before heading across the top of Arizona into Flagstaff to see the grand canyon, has been mutually abandoned.
Instead a train to LA seems in order, a decision I own a tumult of emotions over.
What and who lies in LA? Do I even want to be in such a superficial wasteland of concrete avoiding even further contact with those I love to, what, spend Christmas alone, see the ocean?
It all just seems so ridiculous, really.
Sam and I have different ideas of what will happen when we get there and I believe we will bike up the coast independently.
San Fran, Portland, Seattle, Vancouver? Home?
I am broke and lonely (despite Sam's inherently good natured company) , and fixed in the cadence of my own momentum, unable (or unwilling) to dismount.
I have encountered great moments of personal triumph, and overcome surprising obstacles, yet, it is the deeper I go, the more humans I meet, the further I feel isolated.
This is not exciting, it is happening.
This is not an adventure, it's a ritual, it's fucking religion.
It's not rewarding, it's humbling.
It does not give, it displays...
and takes, so much.
At the end of the day this, what some might consider despair, is what this journey is all about.
Not the bringing of joy and happiness, n'or the removal of it, but the fucking momentum.
So not that anybody reads this shit, but that's what happened today.
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