George: You know, this used to be a hell of a good country. I can't understand what happen to it.
Billy: Everybody got chicken, that's what. We can't even get into a second rate motel. I mean a second rate motel, you dig? They think we'd cut their throat. They're scared.
George: They're not scared of you. They're scared of what you represent.
Billy: All we represent to them is somebody who needs a haircut.
George: Oh no. What you represent to them is freedom.
Billy: Freedom is what it's all about.
George: Oh, yeah. That's right. That's what it's all about. But talking about it and being it are two different things. It's real hard to be free when you're bought and sold in the marketplace. Don't tell anybody they're not free because they'll get busy killing and maiming to prove to you they are. They're gonna talk to you and talk to you about individual freedom. But they see a free individual, it's gonna scare them.
Billy: Well, it don't make them running scared.
George: It makes them dangerous.
Easy Rider. Written by P. Fonda, D. Hopper, and T. Southern. 1969
Thursday, May 31, 2012
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
"And miles to go before I sleep"
Necessity being the greater part of valor I found myself preparing to go to the market the other day. Without a car it is a logistical nightmare to get back and forth. I grabbed my Passport as an afterthought remembering how hard it is to get through Homeland Security without adequate i.d.
Hitting the footpath in good stride, I approached the intersection where my street meets the High Road. With no tank or armored personel carrier blocking the way the traffic was moving smoothly. I chose this way not because it is easier, but because it is more difficult and it is longer. Any day there are not Guardsmen on the street is a good day. The route is steep and can be a struggle for those in poor health. Foot traffic is always light on this route.
Those who do chose this way to run errands are always pleasant. They say, "Hi", to one another. They smile. They help others who might be struggling under their burdens. There is a general sense of camaraderie among the pedestrians. It's a pleasant enough journey to the shops.
Having made my purchases and getting change from the pound of flesh I tendered to the cashier I found myself in a quandary. Re-tracing my steps and following the footpath along the High Road would take more time and be physically exhausting. The alternative would be to take the Low Road home. I stood at the intersection where the two streets meet and struggled with what to do.
The Low Road isn't really a road at all. It is used as a cow path and runs along a small stream. The path is a tangle of exposed tree roots and low hanging branches. Dodging the fresh bovine manure and the mud left by a recent storm I made my way towards home. I needed to stop along the way to rest. I sat down on the grassy bank of the stream and gazed absent mindedly into the slow moving water. Staring more intently into the shallow backwater pool a meter from where I was sitting I noticed movement. Minnows the length and diameter of my middle finger were darting about in the pool. An avid fisherman, I recognized them immediately as suckers. I watched as they darted about seemingly without purpose. The wet, watery realm they inhabit intrigued me and I watched them with keen interest. The fish appeared trapped in the pool. Isolated in their little world they created chaos stirring up the bottom and clouding their water. I removed my watch and dangled the shiny band in the water. The minnows scattered, but soon came back to stare at the watch band. One after the other the minnow's put their big sucker mouths on it. When it was tarnished they lost interest.
Knowing backtracking was my only course of action I retraced my steps through the cow manure and the mud to the intersection of the Low Road and the High Road.
There was a third road home and I was determined to follow it. The Middle Path or Middle Way is a route home, I have never traveled. I had no GPS or map to guide me. I was blind as to what direction I was traveling. I came a upon a huge boulder on the path. There was no going around it to the left or the right. I had no hammer and chisel to break it apart. There was no climbing it as I had no gear. I sat back frustrated and cursed that damn boulder. I stared at it with contempt. The more I stared at it the clearer its essence became. Soon, that rock was no longer a solid object. It was just atoms whirling about. I stuck my foot in it and my foot was swallowed up. I passed through that boulder without effort. It began to rain and I didn't have my mac. I slowed my pace and walked between the raindrops, staying dry. The cloud burst passed.
There were traps set along the Middle Way. They were double long spring traps, but big like for a man. One set was baited with gold and jewels. Another set was baited with a beautiful woman who beckoned me to lie with her. A third set was baited with bundles of pure heroin and a set of works encrusted with emerald and ruby chips. I avoided these traps and continued on. I walked into a snare without seeing it. I froze instantly as soon as I felt that snare on my throat. If one struggles against the noose of a snare the cam causes the cable to move, to tighten. It can't be loosened. I just stood there; it seemed like an eternity until that snare loosened on its on own and I extracted my head from the noose.
Arriving home, I found Melancholia shelling peas. "What's up?," she giggled staring at my shit and mud covered trousers. Take off those shoes, trousers and shirt and put them in a sack. Tea is ready once I blanch these peas."
I changed and washed up for tea. I was excited and wanted to tell Mel about my day.
"Mel, I had quite an adventure," I began. I told her about the High Road and the journey into town. I told her about the Low Road and the minnows trapped in the pool near the stream. Lastly, I elaborated on the Middle Way on the journey home.
"Mel, we fill our heads with stuff. It doesn't weigh anything and yet we put great value on it. I have learned that this stuff is just stuff. We see something and the stuff in our head tells us its this or that. We project our stuff on things and people instead of seeing things for what they are. Mel, I want to see as the blind man sees. I want to hear what the deaf man hears. I would like to feel what the paraplegic feels. Mel, we fill our lives with shiny things and when they are no longer new we throw them away. We numb our senses with alcohol and drugs. We use each other and then turn our backs. I feel so alive, Mel."
Mel smiled acknowledging my enthusiasm. And then abruptly changed the subject.
"They hate you, Bill," Mel said matter-of-factly.
"Yes, they do," I said.
"And?", Mel asked.
"Mel do you remember the tale of the Chinese farmer? A farmer had a magnificent stallion. The animal escaped his paddock and ran off. A neighbour came by and said what ill fortune it was to lose such a valuable asset. Maybe it is, maybe it isn't. Whose to say? said the farmer. The next day the stallion returned leading a herd of wild horses increasing the farmer's wealth. The neighbor stopped by and marveled at the farmer's new found wealth. 'Maybe it's a good thing, maybe it's not,' said the farmer. The farmer's son was breaking in one of the new horses and broke his leg. The neighbor stopped by and said how unfortunate it was that the farmer's son broke his leg. "Maybe it is, maybe it isn't. Whose to say, " said the farmer. The next day a general came through and conscripted all able bodied men for his army. Because of the broken leg the farmer's son didn't have to go to war. And so it goes."
"Mel," I smiled. "Whose to say what is good or bad? We see what we want to see. Hear what we want to hear. Believe what we want to believe. We deceive ourselves into thinking we are right. Traveling the Middle Path today I learned that we needn't struggle when we encounter hardship. Struggling and fighting only makes the situation worse.
"Bill, how about we go to the mountains for the season? You can swat flies from that little Internet cafe along tourist row. There's that pretty brunette waitress who liked you working there. You know, the one who looks like Catherine Keener."
"Not this year, Mel," I sighed.
Mel placed her fork down on her plate tines down, the British way, and said what not one of the dozen's of American women through the years ever said to lift me out of my periodic funks. The words that bind me to her. Mel reached over and touched my hand and whispered, "Don't worry, baby. You can rest your weary head on me."
Hitting the footpath in good stride, I approached the intersection where my street meets the High Road. With no tank or armored personel carrier blocking the way the traffic was moving smoothly. I chose this way not because it is easier, but because it is more difficult and it is longer. Any day there are not Guardsmen on the street is a good day. The route is steep and can be a struggle for those in poor health. Foot traffic is always light on this route.
Those who do chose this way to run errands are always pleasant. They say, "Hi", to one another. They smile. They help others who might be struggling under their burdens. There is a general sense of camaraderie among the pedestrians. It's a pleasant enough journey to the shops.
Having made my purchases and getting change from the pound of flesh I tendered to the cashier I found myself in a quandary. Re-tracing my steps and following the footpath along the High Road would take more time and be physically exhausting. The alternative would be to take the Low Road home. I stood at the intersection where the two streets meet and struggled with what to do.
The Low Road isn't really a road at all. It is used as a cow path and runs along a small stream. The path is a tangle of exposed tree roots and low hanging branches. Dodging the fresh bovine manure and the mud left by a recent storm I made my way towards home. I needed to stop along the way to rest. I sat down on the grassy bank of the stream and gazed absent mindedly into the slow moving water. Staring more intently into the shallow backwater pool a meter from where I was sitting I noticed movement. Minnows the length and diameter of my middle finger were darting about in the pool. An avid fisherman, I recognized them immediately as suckers. I watched as they darted about seemingly without purpose. The wet, watery realm they inhabit intrigued me and I watched them with keen interest. The fish appeared trapped in the pool. Isolated in their little world they created chaos stirring up the bottom and clouding their water. I removed my watch and dangled the shiny band in the water. The minnows scattered, but soon came back to stare at the watch band. One after the other the minnow's put their big sucker mouths on it. When it was tarnished they lost interest.
Knowing backtracking was my only course of action I retraced my steps through the cow manure and the mud to the intersection of the Low Road and the High Road.
There was a third road home and I was determined to follow it. The Middle Path or Middle Way is a route home, I have never traveled. I had no GPS or map to guide me. I was blind as to what direction I was traveling. I came a upon a huge boulder on the path. There was no going around it to the left or the right. I had no hammer and chisel to break it apart. There was no climbing it as I had no gear. I sat back frustrated and cursed that damn boulder. I stared at it with contempt. The more I stared at it the clearer its essence became. Soon, that rock was no longer a solid object. It was just atoms whirling about. I stuck my foot in it and my foot was swallowed up. I passed through that boulder without effort. It began to rain and I didn't have my mac. I slowed my pace and walked between the raindrops, staying dry. The cloud burst passed.
There were traps set along the Middle Way. They were double long spring traps, but big like for a man. One set was baited with gold and jewels. Another set was baited with a beautiful woman who beckoned me to lie with her. A third set was baited with bundles of pure heroin and a set of works encrusted with emerald and ruby chips. I avoided these traps and continued on. I walked into a snare without seeing it. I froze instantly as soon as I felt that snare on my throat. If one struggles against the noose of a snare the cam causes the cable to move, to tighten. It can't be loosened. I just stood there; it seemed like an eternity until that snare loosened on its on own and I extracted my head from the noose.
Arriving home, I found Melancholia shelling peas. "What's up?," she giggled staring at my shit and mud covered trousers. Take off those shoes, trousers and shirt and put them in a sack. Tea is ready once I blanch these peas."
I changed and washed up for tea. I was excited and wanted to tell Mel about my day.
"Mel, I had quite an adventure," I began. I told her about the High Road and the journey into town. I told her about the Low Road and the minnows trapped in the pool near the stream. Lastly, I elaborated on the Middle Way on the journey home.
"Mel, we fill our heads with stuff. It doesn't weigh anything and yet we put great value on it. I have learned that this stuff is just stuff. We see something and the stuff in our head tells us its this or that. We project our stuff on things and people instead of seeing things for what they are. Mel, I want to see as the blind man sees. I want to hear what the deaf man hears. I would like to feel what the paraplegic feels. Mel, we fill our lives with shiny things and when they are no longer new we throw them away. We numb our senses with alcohol and drugs. We use each other and then turn our backs. I feel so alive, Mel."
Mel smiled acknowledging my enthusiasm. And then abruptly changed the subject.
"They hate you, Bill," Mel said matter-of-factly.
"Yes, they do," I said.
"And?", Mel asked.
"Mel do you remember the tale of the Chinese farmer? A farmer had a magnificent stallion. The animal escaped his paddock and ran off. A neighbour came by and said what ill fortune it was to lose such a valuable asset. Maybe it is, maybe it isn't. Whose to say? said the farmer. The next day the stallion returned leading a herd of wild horses increasing the farmer's wealth. The neighbor stopped by and marveled at the farmer's new found wealth. 'Maybe it's a good thing, maybe it's not,' said the farmer. The farmer's son was breaking in one of the new horses and broke his leg. The neighbor stopped by and said how unfortunate it was that the farmer's son broke his leg. "Maybe it is, maybe it isn't. Whose to say, " said the farmer. The next day a general came through and conscripted all able bodied men for his army. Because of the broken leg the farmer's son didn't have to go to war. And so it goes."
"Mel," I smiled. "Whose to say what is good or bad? We see what we want to see. Hear what we want to hear. Believe what we want to believe. We deceive ourselves into thinking we are right. Traveling the Middle Path today I learned that we needn't struggle when we encounter hardship. Struggling and fighting only makes the situation worse.
"Bill, how about we go to the mountains for the season? You can swat flies from that little Internet cafe along tourist row. There's that pretty brunette waitress who liked you working there. You know, the one who looks like Catherine Keener."
"Not this year, Mel," I sighed.
Mel placed her fork down on her plate tines down, the British way, and said what not one of the dozen's of American women through the years ever said to lift me out of my periodic funks. The words that bind me to her. Mel reached over and touched my hand and whispered, "Don't worry, baby. You can rest your weary head on me."
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