Morning medicines were distributed down my gullet via a large swig of chaga tea, procured from the dying, paper birch in our front yard. I washed it all down with couple cheap cigs. obtained from the casino smoke shop in Walker(brand name smokey joe's $12 a carton) and then, like an introvert at a singles night at the local Elk's Lodge, I slowly walked along the edge of the day's happening, hoping to emerge from the day without anyone noticing my edginess and anxiety.
I will only describe Human Encounter #1:
A nuerotic, narcisistic naysayer, intent on stifling my thoughts, with stories concerning the illicit interactions, and activities of American Nomads. This naysayer was intent on stifling my thoughts concerning the respect I hold for those indiviuals in our society still clinging to idealistic, nomadic ways. I am a nomadic wannabee, traveling when I get the chance but still stuck in doldrums of drowning myself in posessions to try and approach happiness. And I have to tell you, lack of essentials is a real bummer, but being happy based on the materials you possess is dangerous in America's bipolar economy. Turns out that America has a banking system comprised of mafia bankers, who seem to be above the law, at least on Wall Street. I was trying to explain this to the naysayer, but couldn't get a word in, which is really tough on me...as I am quite fond of my own loquacious lectures. This naysayer only peed in my proverbial nomad cheerios for ten minutes, but that was enough to set my mood into questioning mode. Do you ever have a conversation so bothersome, its bad taste sticks in your mind most of the afternoon?
First of all, I have been fond of all things on four wheels since I was able to crawl across the red shag carpet in our family living room, and pull myself up to the window to watch the grain trucks lumbering by on their daily run from the grain fields of North Dakota, to the port city of Duluth, MN.
My mom has shared her account of these times, and it goes like this:
Author at age 4
"He would sit in the picture window daydreaming and naming the trucks as they passed by on HWY. 2, heading to dump their hoppers in the 1000 foot Lake Superior ships, to be made into beer or shipped over the big pond. When JJ wasn't watching the trucks, he took intermittent breaks into the backyard to speak aloud to his imaginary friends, Rindy and Worm, or he would use the large single level house as his world of imaginary trucking transportation land. An earlier form of the freewheeling trucker theme, a theme best represented in movies such as Smokey and the Bandit, Convoy, and Over the Top.
Mom's constant calling would finally invade my schizophrenic vision world of trucking, and I was (am) often annoyed when people interrupt my daydream time, but it turns out this imagination invasion situation was important, which was eventually evident due to the volume of her calls. I stood up, revealing my red corduroy pants (tinted in the same rouge red as the shag carpet, and I was wearing my favorite shirt, which was a blue, faded Pacman t-shirt (white with 3/4 blue sleeves, and the decal ironed on in some third world country); the shirt mom would have to hide from time to time to keep me from wearing it everyday. Her patience must have faded because she emerged from the hallway, and said,
Your room is a disaster...it looks like a tornado went through there!
My imagination mind army commands very selective hearing, and
I must have only caught the tornado part, because I tentatively went to my bedroom, and crawled under the bed. Time passed, and under the bed, I once again arrived at the imagination station, but only for a brief moment, before I heard mom's voice again.
JJ! JJ! Where are you?
The panic in her voluminous voice made me emerge from under the bed quite quickly, with tears of terror streaming down my eyes.
JJ, why are you crying?(mom's expression was a mixture of frustration and wanting to console me)....What's wrong? I told you to pick up this room.
By now, I was bawling, and she walked over to pick me up.
What's the matter with momma's like guy, huh? Is my little guy scared.
I looked up with big blue eyes, the snot and tears streaming down my face, and yelled,
"I can't clean up my room cause you said there were tornadoes in here..."
I don't know how the story ended, but I am guessing that I had to clean my room, a thing I haven't yet mastered at age 37.
Moral of the story....Imagination meteorology: You can decide on your own mind's weather patterns.
-or-Some people are just full of B.S, and are too lazy to clean up their room.
I think both of these work!
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