Red Letter Day

It is a red letter day. I’ll condense the reason why without the usual prolixity in the following paragraph:

A red-headed girl, one who I was insanely fond of, once challenged me to a cultural duel. Claiming one dimensionality as my fatal-flaw she gave the ultimatum that if I was to be the recipient of her affections, I needed to trade the world of sports for the world. Benevolently she agreed to allow me to keep one team in the blockbuster trade for music, art, cuisine, travel, dance, literature and, of course, her companionship. After burning my last time-out, consulting my inner offensive coordinator and calling the play, I relented, agreed and signaled my sincerity by trading my Mariners season tickets for the upcoming symphony season at Benaroya Hall. 

The team? 

University of Washington Husky Football.

That agreement was sealed in 1989, thirty years ago, and I haven’t regretted one minute of it. Not even a second of it. Like any Greek tragedy or a Shakespearean double-cross, the contract ended two years later, but the spirit of the deal remains to this day. There is simply too much to do, so many places to go, such a magical world of opportunity waiting in design, film, color, thought, taste, movement, prose, poetry and paint, that to squander all that for a non-participatory seat on the bench of a pay-per-view entertainment bundle, seems like wasting the preciousness of life and the meaning of time. 

So I picked one. Gave up all the rest. Walked away. 

And have never looked back. 

Today that one team took the field for the opener of the 2019 campaign. Having led the morning’s spin class and lifted with my Junior-to-be nephew I was set up and ready for the contest. 

We won handily. There was some good and some not-so-good. There is a long way to go. We had a couple of injuries to the kids that will play out over time, but an honest effort was offered by my lads. Huskies are back.

So am I. It was a purple and gold letter day. 

People Become Power

Today is the start of a four day weekend. Hoo-rah. I say that semi-sarcastically because to me, every day should have the same joyous, refreshing, rejuvenating and participatory mirth as the traditional Saturday and Sunday pairing. So once a year the masters decree an additional day of rest? And in this particular case to celebrate the blood, sweat and tears euphemistically called labor? The fruit of which enriches the powerful, industrious aristocracy even further? Had I of been born into slavery and offered a day of celebration by the ruling class, I might use the time to further detail my plan of revolution. Labor Day? Take a hike mofos. 

But I digress, as usual. 

In application of the local action principle, a positive response to the ‘well, what can I/we do about it?’ question, we hit day one of the four day holiday ‘celebration’  by executing a very blue-collar spin session. Workman-like we carried in our lunch buckets, put on our hard hats, gloves and goggles, punched the clock and went to work as the whistle blew at precisely 0530. In doing so we took responsibility of our own health and fitness, two of the top three qualities of the manufactured commodity known as ‘the product.’

The product being us.

The handiwork of our lifetime of craftsmanship. If we order a management review of everything that has taken place since we took our initial breaths (first day day on the job) the actual arc of our growth and development (some say life is nothing but R&D), the trajectory trending graph clearly indicates what we have done as well as what we have failed to do. 

A spicy concept that was addressed this morning in a session specifically designed to encourage aggressive analysis of our motivation. Why do we do what we do? What keeps us doing what we do? and ‘Are there ways to do what we do better?’ 

The fruits of our labor manifest as our individual quality of life assessments. Where effort and hard work carry high value and lasting reward. As we have done - so we are. 

I recall a line from the classic 1957 WWII movie Bridge On the River Kwai, where the Japanese commandant (S.I. Hayakawa) in charge of the POW work camp with orders to build the bridge, was fond of suggesting that the prisoners (actually doing the back-breaking work in the sweltering heat), be ‘happy in their work’. You may now whistle at the irony. 

We know that the harder we work the quicker and more dramatic the results will be. We also should know by now our individual response to this ‘law of attraction.’ Do we whistle while we work or curse the day we were born into this unjust caste system?

The ruling class wants us to be ignorant, lazy and afraid. We, as a group, are much easier to control when we are distracted from the reality of their corruption, greed and thirst for power. They want us to be consumers, idle spectators, docile and compliant. In exchange for a year of sacrifice, we’ll grant you a day, without pay of course, to do whatever it is that you do to deal with the stress of this upside down, topsy-turvy fascist paradigm. 

We take charge by taking responsibility for the one thing we truly own outright, our thoughts. And, as high-intensity effort promotes self-satisfaction, peace of mind and healthy bodies, our thoughts become our actions. The dynamic flow plays out in a positive and peaceful process. 

Our actions become our reality. Our reality becomes our world. People become power. 

Happy Labor Day weekend comrades. 

Time is Not the Enemy

I thought it was understood. It has long been my contention that everyone goes through it, either body slammed at the outset and never rising from the canvas, stumbling through hoping for that one sparkling moment of pure cosmic luck or preserving, eventually coming out the other end as successful.

Yes, it is the tunnel of doubt. Every artist everywhere knows it. In the history of art, literature and music, along with all their marvelous offshoots, there has never lived an actor who at one point of their personal trajectory, did not grapple with the question of worthiness.

Am I good enough? Can I do it? What happens if I fail? Should I quit my day job? What if initial reviews are negative? Will my dog still love me even if everyone else says I have fleas?

We are sitting on the deck enjoying another perfect summer late afternoon. It is hot. The sun is glimmering across the water as liquid diamonds might. The sounds are of kids and seagulls laughing. Summertime and the living is easy.

We have been exchanging notes on art, photography, writers and writing and the associated crafts of each. She asks about the screenplay and I provide an update saying, as exposition, that I remain turbocharged by the story and anxious to push it along.

The conversation shifts to the idea of every characters fatal flaw, the hamartia each hero must overcome in order to create both the drama necessary for a worthy confrontation and a satisfactory conclusion. I tell her mine.

I must, and this is an absolute no-questions-asked requirement, research the heck out of my topic. That means the background, history, connectivity, tangential detail and both historical relevance and accuracy. I say this because, in tipping my hand, I do not possess the depth of information necessary to write free-form stream of consciousness prose. I am no Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Kerouac or Allen, the literal prodigies of the craft. It has been reported that Woody Allen was writing for fifteen hours a day when he was fifteen. The legend of On The Road has Jack at his typewriter for three straight weeks knocking out his seminal work on the beat generation. THREE WEEKS.

I don’t have the talent, patience or depth of understanding to sit and script for thee hours.

So research fills the void. Cram the facts. Fill the cookie jar. Preform the due diligence. Prepare.

We sip chilled fermented fruit and agree. Yes, there is that. But without the base training, the understanding of the elements of design, the structure of complex abstracts, and a formal grasp of accepted forms, styles and arrangements, we are, one is, riffing on the jam, noodling. There needs to be some (the more the better)  structure and continual, focused progress.

We use words for effect. Chord progressions keep us from cacophony. Colors are primary or secondary. Photos and video are either in crisp focus or not.

And an artist, in daily struggle or present moment bliss, faces the fact that in order for he or she to come out the lighted end of the tunnel of doubt, a history of dedicated practice on the chosen path is a prerequisite. We learn, we practice. We grow, we practice. We master, we practice. This might take a while, perhaps even a lifetime.

But time is not the enemy. Doubt is.

The True Story

As mentioned in a few earlier posts, the research part, its due diligence, is a crucial element in the telling of an accurate, but still interesting story, It deftly explains why we categorize works of literature, be they serious, formal, high-brow or their fanciful, casual and blue-collar counterparts, into two distinct groups: Fiction or non. The made-up (often to great entertainment) and the historically accurate and precise.

But leave it to Hollywood to come up with a hybrid. A little bit of one and some of the other, and not necessarily in that order, ratio or scale. As long as the following disclaimer runs (after the Interpol announcement that video pirating is not a victimless crime):

BASED ON A TRUE STORY.

Seriously. What story ISN’T? Just be sure to change the actual names in order to protect the innocent and avoid any copyright infringement and/or privacy, libel or just plain old slander laws. This entire issue was magnificently explored in Tim Burton's phenomenal Big Fish. If you haven’t already done so, stream it tonight, keeping in mind all along that it is based on a true story.

The path, that gritty, messy, treacherous, utterly magical process by which we move, sometimes gracefully, sometimes clumsily from inception to completion, is always in first person, active and now. It is a process with a life of its own. It is a living, growing thing. Like a child under our care it needs as much love as water. It needs constant attention, discipline and the space to grown, flourish and make mistakes. This is how our characters learn. As is often said of the process, the story, the opus, it is our baby.

My baby is in the romantic phase. I am fantasizing over the possibility that its (I don’t want to give a gender just yet) future mother has caught my eye and heart and that something miraculous could be on the horizon. But, like Mr. Everyman, I have seen the possibility and must act true to my hard-wiring and move on the impulse. I have seen this baby evolve from the ‘what if’ to the ‘what now?’ It is like fanning through a flip deck seeing every year pass, until that magic day of reckoning ends the time-lapse, the project is done, the work complete and the baby grown to maturity and competency.

In today’s romantic phase, research, we found a few interesting details that will shape the character of my two big guns. Protagonist One and Protagonist Two. They will travel very different paths to arrive at the same point eventually arriving with the same truth after months of agonizing introspection, and make the same decision. They will meet in a head-on, face-to-face mano-a-mano confrontation with the game (the war) on the line.

My research, intended to provide an outline for the rhetorical metamorphosis each will experience, traveled east and west. The eastern trek landed in 17th century Japan, where we explored the Samurai code of Bushido and the crafting of the katana, the sword of the Samurai.

Back west, we sailed to Pearl Harbor on Dec 7, 1941.

At Pearl we found that the USS Arizona, sunk within the first 15 minutes of the surprise attack, went down with 1,177 crew members aboard, junior sailors and Marines. There were three that share my surname and one was from California, my home state. Nine hundred of the crew are still buried at sea and remain in the hull of the Arizona. The Pearl Harbor Memorial is built atop the wreckage (see photo) but does not touch it. There is a direct association between the Arizona and my story, a dot I will connect as historical reference and motivation for Protagonist One as his cousin was one of the sailors. In that sentence the first fact is accurate and the second fictitious. I am not sure how important that is at this point. But I am quite sure that by the end of the story I will know without question.

The eastward pilgrimage took us into the mindset of the Samurai and their code, known as Bushido. Here are the 8 ‘virtues’ it ‘commands’ of its followers:

1) Righteousness
2) Heroic courage
3) Benevolence and compassion
4) Respect
5) Honesty
6) Honor
7) Duty & loyalty
8) Self control

My guys will both be in the place and time, although separated by thousands of miles, where those traits, these facts and that motivation will shape their thinking, and in turn, allow them the presence to convert their sacred knowledge into secular wisdom and do the ‘number six thing’, the honorable.

In the heat of battle, under extreme stress and with the eyes of the world upon them.

All not simply based on a true story, it IS the true story.

My Personal Hamartia

Since the days of Aristotle, when the arc of our common understanding of storytelling originated, the concept of the hero having a basic fatal flaw, his or her hamartia, has been a traditional element of story structure. The skill that a screenwriter uses in bringing an audience into the complexity of the hero’s courageous decision of fight or flight, is the main reason why we are so drawn to literature and movies.

From Hamlet to Spiderman, Harry Potter to Indiana Jones and Bridgett Jones to Marty McFly, we see it as action moving towards the heroic confrontation with the inevitability of fate. We all know that eventually Luke must face off with Daddy Vader and that 007 must use his brains more than sheer brawn as he ages up.

It was brought to my attention yesterday that my intended protagonist, the guy to whom have given the awesome responsibility of telling ‘our’ story, was actually arrested and tossed into the local pokey as a complex and dramatic situation was playing itself out. He was arrested because the local authorities were ‘concerned’ about his possible violent response to awarding honorary citizenship to the former Japanese pilot who dropped four bombs on his hometown during WWII. The arrest, parade and subsequent award took place almost twenty years after the end of the war and is illustrative of, in my opinion, how deeply ingrained the morals, ethics and emotions of the war had upon the American people. Emotions that continue to color our world to this very day. One could say that is is the hamartia of America.

From the cinematic viewpoint, and this was tossed around last night in round table discussion, my protagonist will evolve through a range of dramatic personal growth through the process, the unfolding of the story. His growth, and his eventual arrival at the truth, the right thing, and the honorable course of action is oddly similar to those facing my secondary protagonist, the Japanese pilot himself, as they each seek their redemption. The katana, the 400 year-old Samurai sword that the pilot offers to the American citizens as recompense, plays an important role in the thematic treatment illustrating the triumph of man’s good nature over his darker tendencies.

As every day brings a deeper understanding and respect for both the story and the process involved with its telling, my enthusiasm continues to rise. This emotional response to the task and its challenge is the primary example of how I know that I am on the right path.

Without this constant cosmic reminder of the importance of passion and the creative imperative, of gumption and sincere interest, and without this vital enthusiastic engagement, it would feel like work.

And this feels like the farthest thing from it. Interestingly, a brutally honest assessment of my default character shows this point on the time-line, facing the challenge of getting all his down in the manner that its historical significance and potential morality-play impact demands, could be my personal hamartia.

Or Should

Pre in his hometown, Coos Bay, OR

It has already been a long day. Two spin classes and I am one cooked bird. But, with the renewed momentum (re-mo) of the streak (consecutive days blogging) I am done with the physical and onto the cerebral. As much as I can be, anyway.

My short run yesterday, coming on the heels of the post about considering another Ironman, reminded me of how fast, left unattended, our fickle fitness will dash for the door. A measly 5K and I felt afterwords about the same as if it was its 26.2 mile counterpart. And then this morning. Why do I do this?

The second session this morning, a more civilized version of the morning’s non-stop power sprints, allowed a slightly longer degree of extended time between gassers. I took full advantage using the recovery time to explore a few ‘critical’ topics; focus, courage, dedication, honor, gratitude and respect among them. I think it worked out well, providing the final topping of motivation to the main course.

But it was after the session that the diamond hiding in the rough appeared.

In chatting with one of our longest tenured members, I asked, open ended, if he thought there might be something I missed, a ‘reason, inspiration, goal or strategy’ called upon to get us to the level. Specifically the famous quote from Steve Prefontain that suggests that a person giving anything less than their best effort it is sacrificing their gift.

How we get there, how we convince ourselves, and others, to aspire towards this lofty goal and once the aspiration is in effect to then execute, is the subject of our inquiry. There will be no sacrificing of gifts here!

He replies that he would frame it in the form of a question. Is there something inside, some dark and mysterious room where this ultra-personal secret is kept, closely guarded and under lock and key (with video surveillance)? I agree, echoing the idea of the importance and challenge of opening that treasure chest and taking a brutally honest look at its contents. This could also, we agree, be so personal, so deeply protected and guarded, that the mere mention of bringing the subject to the surface is unfathomable. Way too scary.

He goes on to tell me a story that he uses when asked to over-perform and achieve maximum output. It is a beautiful story about his son, in the heat of lacrosse battle finding a reserve supply of high-octane inspiration and presence to single handedly do the seemingly impossible - or at worst, the athletically improbable - to change the outcome of the game.

We have stumbled on a subject that reverberates between us like a thunder bolt. We know the feeling. We respect the power and the hero’s ability to call upon this gift on demand. Some got it. And some ain’t.

Several characteristics align to form this person, someone  the Chinese call the superior man. He or she will possess, and have command over, discipline, dedication, courage, presence, honor, respect, gratitude, devotion and humility. The last being perhaps the most important.

Because every warrior knows that he or she must relentlessly practice their craft with full knowledge that failure, loss and death are all hiding, just ahead, behind the heuristic mask of arrogance.

We know what we know as we know what we don’t know.

Or should.

Understand Hurt

I know what it feels like. It hurts. It hurts a lot.

Although I could be talking about love, rejection, loss, a hangover or financial ruin, I specifically refer to the physical sensation while participating in and immediately upon completion of, the event known as Ironman.

It fucking hurts.

If one is fortunate enough, has impeccable DNA, a bullet-proof disposition and courage to spare, not to mention the time and cost of training and participation, one is asked to traverse 140 miles of mind numbing, muscle shredding, spirit testing suffering. The event, a 2.4 mile swim, 112 bike ride and a full 26.2 marathon, is basically designed as a test of will. It comes down to the simplicity of ‘will you - or won’t you?’

Will you dedicate one solid year, or more, to the training necessary to ‘endure?’

Will you have the discipline required to rise before dawn and hit the pool, club or track?

Will you find the inner strength necessary to train hard, eat right, sleep well and still maintain your professional status and family obligations?

Will you be wise enough to budget your time and money, seeing this as a hobby and not a profession?

Do you currently understand the difference between muscular soreness and injury?

Do you have ONE COMPELLING REASON why you should take the first step down this daunting path?

Because, dear friends, if you do not, you are doomed. Sure there are a few physical specimens whose Olympian parentage passed along the cellular combination of fast twitch muscle fiber, a lean BMI and superior cardio capabilities to waltz through it, but 99% of us, as Sisyphus, will be tasked with rolling the boulder up the hill for what seems like eternity. This is where the myth becomes the reality. A ‘reasonable’ finishing time is over ten hours. Ten hours of low intensity cardio. Those of you that participate in spin classes averaging an hour can go ahead and imagine ten times that. Ten times. For the sake of comparison the world record, held by the UKs Tim Don is 7:40:23. Daniela Ryf of Switzerland holds the same honor for the gals at 8:26:18. Adding insult to injury in last years Ironman World Championships, the winner in my age group ran an incredible 11:00:54. Forgivingly the AG I will next be competing in was won with a 11:55:23. So there is that. My PB is ten hours, done back in 2002 when I was a spry fifty year old, with a soon to be diagnosed heart arrhythmia.

In this event, after a while, sometimes three hours - sometimes eight - the suffering becomes comical. Why would any sane person voluntarily sign up for something so ridiculously outlandish?

I ask that of myself often. I have completed a dozen of them. In the last one, in Pentiction, British Columbia, Canada, I committed the unpardonable offense of dropping out five miles into the run. Because my back hurt. The humiliation of this has lived in the great room of my psyche ever since. It greets me every day with a sarcastic ‘good morning loser, what are you going to quit today?’ reminder of my weakness.

I have, over the years, reconciled with it. We have a deal, negotiated after years of bitter dispute. The terms of the peace accord are straightforward and simple. While I appreciate being reminded of my failures on a daily basis, as long as there is a thread of hope remaining, the slightest possibility, the proverbial long shot feasibility, of doing another Ironman (with the specific goal of qualifying for the World Championships), I will focus more on my faith in the future than the pain of the past.

One of my favorite teachers was fond of saying that there is no pain in the present moment. At some mile marker between the starting gun and the finish chute the wisdom in that reality overwhelms whatever suffering has come from doubt and fear.

To get there one must understand hurt.

How'd Ya Do?

Yokosuka E14Y 'Glen'

I always appreciated Jeopardy’s tag line asking for ‘quick recall of specific fact’ from its contestants. Not only was it cleverly and succinctly indicative of its objective, it was a delicious marketing ploy as well. Quick recall of specific fact.

There are without question thousands of people who have this gift. Many have never spent a single day on a college campus. Stuff simply sticks. I would like to think that to qualify for this lofty position one must be a voracious reader, podcast listener or news junkie, but those, while helpful, aren’t prerequisites. It is like IQ or your SAT scores, both having more to do with DNA than time spent in the library.

It is with this as backstory that I unwittingly waltzed into yesterday. The research is well under way for the latest project and as I sat and played with various plot devices to tell my story, words, ideas, dialogues and interactions started popping up like heated kernels of dried corn. There was flow and I was in it.

Until I reached a point where i wanted to expand the depth of one of my main characters in order to better convey both the historical implication and my characters response to it. To do so I needed…..quick recall of specific fact. Because I wanted to stay in the joyful, powerful and productive creative flow.

The facts that I deemed necessary to accomplish this were simply not available. In searching all I found was a 404 error. The information you are looking for does not exist at this site at this time so please try again later. BUT I NEED IT NOW.

I will provide, as a game show might, a couple of the questions to which I sought detail and fact later, but first I would like to briefly mention the insight that came along on the ride sitting shotgun.

Research is important. Vital. Unless you have the mind of Einstein, Joyce, Robbins or Morrison, and are hence able to write verbatim for hours without referring to a dictionary or thesaurus, somewhere along the story-line you are going to have to do the diligence of thorough research. And the more, the deeper, the cleaner and the truer, the better. Research is where it is at. When at equals quality.

Before we get to the quiz, let me say that yesterday, in this process I was invited to visit the University of Oregon archives, the Seattle Public Library and Portland, OR to research some of the details on the subject matter. Even two hours wielding the Google tool only got me as far as the glaringly obvious. I did make some headway and always careful to not enter the wrong rabbit hole, ordered two books, a DVD documentary and made a trip to my local library. Progress.

And now the quiz. (play open theme)

1) The Samurai sword is also known as this.
2) How many months separated Peal Harbor from Hiroshima and Nagasaki?
3) Who is known as the American Prometheus?
4) What were the Doolittle Raids?
5) What is the code of the Samurai called?
6) How long had the Japanese been planning Pearl Harbor prior to Dec. 7, 1941?
7) What was the Yokosuka E14Y code-named by the Allies?

How’d ya do? (play closing theme)

Being Himself

My ‘storyteller’ must, I feel, above all other characteristics, be authentic. The person in whom I will entrust the power to narrate the story, on who’s shoulders rests the immense weight of success (or its entertainment counter, boredom) must be real. So real you can, as often said, ‘relate.’

Which of course got me to thinking as I sat to write this morning, what qualities demonstrate this important trait?

First off it is important to recognize that my character is based upon a real person. Someone who was in a place and time able to interact with events that would become pivotal in the course of our history. My instinct is to make an editors note here emphasizing the importance of the scope of that statement. So let me try another take. My protagonist was present at a time when the course of human history was about to be forever changed.

The guy had better be authentic what that responsibility at stake!

Secondly, and from my involvement, equally important, is the responsibility I feel in providing him with sufficient fealty, honor, purposeful motivation, humor, courage and humility. Do we like him yet? The challenge of taking a real person and assigning to him lines of dialogue, stage movements and the third-act opportunity to be a hero, is one that screenwriters have struggled with since the days of silent movies. Look at any biopic and consider if the titular character applauds the screen portrayal of him or herself, or feels that the truth was somehow ‘missed.’ A shadow of the bike racer is not the bike racer himself.

I recall at festival screening of a twenty-minute documentary I produced about a doctor who was hit by a drunk driver. He spent months in rehab regaining not only his physical capabilities but the spiritual and emotional ones as well. After the screening a question was asked of him in Q&A about anything that the my doc might have missed, or understated. Without missing a beat replied that the rehab process was a lot harder and longer that how I had shown it on screen. The audience responded knowingly and I learned a valuable lesson.

Show the struggle. There must be a moment where it might be easier to quit, to just say to hell with all this effort, pain, suffering, doubt and fear. It is at that moment that the authenticity of the hero is tested.

My guy will be an understated hero. He will be true to himself, his morals and ethics. He has a personal involvement with the action and his retrospective narrative will show compassion, wisdom and presence. He will portray kindness and respect under fire. He, and this is one of the thematic comparisons, demonstrate a very Zen-like awareness and ability to stay in the present moment. He is open-minded, open to the fairness of equal opportunity. He recognizes his imperfections and vulnerabilities.

And perhaps at the heart of his character, of his authenticity, is his deep belief that he is worthy of love.

I pray that I may do justice to his legacy, to his actions and words even through my story is based on his actual events in response to a dramatic circumstance in which he played a (relatively) small part. With this backdrop I will be assigning a role for him to play.

The role of being himself. 

A Wall of its Own

It’s not perfect but it doesn’t have to be. It must simply be.

Yesterday, in a semi-crazed rush of creative urgency, I dismantled the office space to my immediate right. The wall that once proudly displayed my giant logo, housed library-like, my third collection of books, video equipment, compact discs, DVDs and other ornamental paraphernalia, was cleared just short of down to the studs. A feng-shui cleansing of old clutter in preparation for something new.

However symbolic this change, the space now holds minimalistic shelving, a hybrid of styles ranging from traditional early American to recycled solid core door below, the initial main feature of the story board time line in the center and (I just couldn’t help myself) the final addition to the space screaming for memorabilia, a cool poster of the first night game at Wrigley Field on 8.8.88 and a Louisville Slugger once used professionally by my old buddy Rob Picciolo, above. In this retrospective design analysis, we have storage space for reference material and access to tools below, the main creative working space centered and a tribute to friendship, history and hope above. However humble, there it is.

The space I refer to as ‘center’ is intended to house the time line of the screenplay. Moving from left to right along the critical years of inspection, December 7, 1941, September 9, 1942 and August 6 & 9, 1945 and September 2, 1945. This four year span represents the chronology of the story. Transposing time and space to the actual occurrences, we see (as the story board will soon show) the unfolding of what I - and everyone I have told the tale to so far - a most interesting sequence of events. We see:

Pearl Harbor > Japanese bombings of Brookings, OR > Hiroshima and Nagasaki > End of WWII.

That story line will come to life on my wall. What it will produce is an outline, structure for the narrative to move from the date that remains alive in infamy to the story of Nobuo Fujita, the pilot of the Japanese Yokosuka E14Y ‘Glen’, armed with a pair of 170lb incendiary bombs launched from a submarine on the mission to start a West Coast forest fire. Fujita would, after the war, return to Brookings and offer his 400 year-old samurai sword as a solemn token of forgiveness and hope, asking to the citizens of Japan and the United States to ’unite instead of fight.’

After this historical review perhaps you see the same need for visual structure as I. In my previous attempts I used 3x5 index cards, each containing information, character backgrounds, and detailed notes that in turn, flip the action from one card to the next. I found it easier to create the story in traditional sequence when looking at the cards like chess pieces in live animation moving towards eventual conflict (and its resolution).

We’ll see how this evolves. I continue to feel as if this is a saga that has all the elements necessary for a good story.

It now has a wall of its own.

REALLY?

Ran into an old friend after class this morning. We sat and sipped coffee, exchanging notes. She has been experiencing some professional ‘racial tension’ in her work as a physical therapist. Seems some of the red necks don’t much appreciate her liberal attitudes. I shake my head in horror as she provides detail.

The conversation shifts with each participant reaffirming the importance of removing the current cancer from the American body politic. Along with this affirmation, the blue no matter who, comes her story, illustrating how important it is right now to demonstrate the equal and opposite, the yin to the yang, of hate, fear, cruelty, oppression and the other sordid attitudes that accompany the myriad insidious forms of racism. She tells her story.

“I am grocery shopping after work and the lady in front of me at the check out counter is emptying her cart as she struggles to control her pair of obviously tired and hungry kids. The cashier finishes and the lady swipes her debit card. Declined. She tries another one. Same result. One of the kids shrieks as she watches Mom start to walk back her purchases of candy, pop tarts and raisin bran. As she is doing so she has started a rambling explanation of the situation, her boy friend supposed to deposit his check that morning, the car needed a new battery, the rent is late and one of the girls needs braces.’

As I listen I already know what happens next, but bite my tongue to allow her to tell the story in her own words. She continues.

‘So I step in and tell the cashier that I will take care of the balance. The cashier says that it will be around $60 and am I SURE that I want to do that? I answer that I am. And do.’

What a beautiful story and magnificent gesture I say.

‘We, all of us, need to start doing nice things again, not slam others because of differences, not condone violence, not politicize poverty, not incarcerate children into cages of fear and not constantly flame the fires of racism, intolerance and greed.’

Sing it to me sister.

When she has finished I tell my story about buying a disabled veteran a gift certificate at a DQ in Northern California. There was a hassle because it was a busy day and the cashier was new and flustered on the job having had no training on anything other that taking orders and making change. After my conversation with the assistant manager, probably a junior in high school, a gift card was paid for and I went back to the initial cashier and announced that we had been successful in the transaction, so could she PLEASE see to it that the Vet received the card before leaving. She says sure, who should I say left it?


Nobody. Anonymous. Just say somebody wanting to do something nice. She looks at me as if I had just landed on a saucer from Mars.

Really?

Ditch the Car

We were absorbing the meaning and potential of the latest cheesy acronym, AO, appropriate to the occasion, when an interesting side possibility popped up as if crawlin' from the wreckage. Contextually centered on pragmatics, how we use it, the thread evolved from consideration to application. Or what was once asked ‘what do we do with this?’

It has long been understood, although not universally, that people come into our lives for specific reasons - the trick, the secret, being our ability to recognize this and determine what that reason is - and put it into play. Love, learning, mentorship, guidance, proliferation, procreation, peace, companionship among the many reasons. If this is universal fact, then could not ideas, thoughts, be in the same category? Consider:

A random thought magnetically finds its way into our consciousness. Call it the light coming on or getting hit by an inspirational bolt of lightening, whatever metaphor suits your style, and this thought stops all tangential autonomous thinking (usually on default cruise control) as we wonder A) Where THAT came from, and B) What does it mean, what is the literal translation, and C) What do I do with it?

Surely in the grand design the organic engineering includes a filter specifically designed to address this circumstance. My instant flow of consciousness filter was just activated and suggested that perhaps this is the reason that meditation is so powerful a tool. It cuts through the myriad layers of crap that we have developed over many decades of neglect, mostly as defense mechanisms but equally as often as bias filters. We see examples of this every day as we watch the news cycles spin wildly out of control like beach balls in a hurricane.

Yet that ONE thought has made its way, perhaps magically or maybe miraculously to the point in our hypothalamus that allows cognitive reasoning and abstract thought. And we harrumph, and scratch our chins until a dead-end (no outlet) sign indicates that passage is impossible. UNLESS WE DITCH THE CAR AND WALK.

Then we can get there. The possibility was there all along, all we had to do was use non-conventional means to make it. Like an exciting and energetic new person strolling into our lives or the flash-bang of inspiration, everything changes. We take one more giant step upward for evolutionary possibility. There is a solution. An answer. An alternative. A better way. A kinder way.

Gifted, trained, talented, successful people know this. They let it roll, open up to the cosmic energies that connect us with universal truths and the creative imperative. They have a skill set that keeps them on the right path, despite the relentless physic stress lobbed their way by corrupt and greedy bullies. They are not susceptible to hate speech or fear mongering. They have fully developed bull shit detectors and state-of-the-art truth meters. It is a very high frequency.

At one point in the development of this model, they recognized the power of the present and welcomed those of like mind who shared the dream, wanting to turn that sleeping vision into a waking reality. They had an idea. They examined it closely. They did not allow distraction. With lazer-like focus they worked out the calculation on the white board. They asked each other ‘why not?’

Why not?

Why not good health and optimum fitness? Why not clean water and air, fresh fruits and whole grains? Why not peace and temperance? Why not care and compassion? Why not love and sustainability over hate and fear? Why not truth?

Is not the question appropriate to this occasion?

Go Watch TV

It has been suggested on more than one occasion that the most important step is in the formulation. That precious drop in eternity’s bucket where our analysis, introspection, consideration and speculation meet with our motivation, reality, character, meaning and need. When all of that collides the bucket overfloweth.

The three part process of deep analysis, consideration and formulation of a plan, and its execution is the process by which we accomplish great things. Any idea of merit first passes through this gauntlet. If we can’t dedicate the time necessary to ‘see’ the project in its entirety clearly, be prepared to address its challenge, cost and benefits, and then find the courage and meaning to carry it out, we might as well go watch TV. Let somebody else take charge of our lives and lament the fact that everything is so fucked up while draining another 12 ounces of ale.

This means, dear friends, that even the most inconsequential and trivial actions all wash past this concentrated effort. Look at it (whatever it is), consider it thoroughly and as objectively as you can, and then create a plan of action, a response that satisfies your highest understanding and is a truth you are willing to take a bullet for.

As we age up it becomes more and more apparent that this is all there is. We must stand for something and we must make that stand as if it is our last. Because it very well could be.

I refuse to surrender to the capitalistic consumerism that preaches of big screens and mobile devices, of new cars and more of everything. I will not idly stand by and watch the greedy and powerful empower their sponsors even further with hateful, discriminatory and racially profiled legislation and fascist rhetoric. I will not give in to hate and will never succumb to fear-based propaganda. I will speak up, speak out and speak my truth.

I implore you to do as well. We are at a critical point in the history of our nation. We are under attack. Our current administration, the """leaders""" we (I use the pronoun with extreme prejudice) ‘elected’ are a  cabal of criminals solely intent on furthering their power (money) and maintaining the status quo of white supremacy as long as possible. This is a consortium of spineless hypocrites who will lie, steal, cheat and rob you of everything including your dignity and identity. Once they have taken your job, your family and your home, they will come for your spirit and soul as they conveniently provide others even worse off as those to blame for your ‘failures’.

Take a close look at this. It is happening under our very noses and on our watch. If you are so shallow that ‘the economy’ is worth the pain, suffering and discrimination of half of America, you need to re-access your morality and values. If you claim to be a Christian as this evil unfolds, I am sad to say that you have been duped. If you accept the lies and propaganda relentlessly gaslighting you as a means to an end, you need to re-consider the myth of your entitlement and the errors of your bigotry and racism.

Failing that, if you still feel that God somehow created a superior race and that the poor should feed the rich and that all men are created equal (but some more equal than others) and that all this hate and fear is necessary for the draining of the swamp, please do me a favor, shut the fuck up and go watch TV.

The A of the O

There must be a lesson in here somewhere. As you  know, I finished up a 2,700 mile (over 10 days) trip last Tuesday. Out of my regular exercise routine for this seemingly small block of time should have meant little in terms of overall, general fitness.  On Wednesday we were back in the club for the usually 0530 spin class which was followed by a 2x20 set later in the evening. Maybe I was anticipating more delayed onset of muscular fatigue, or waiting for my heart rhythm to return to stasis, or possibly being over cautions, I don’t know. But I did take Thursday and Friday off getting caught up with video and household chores. And then there was yesterday.

As chronicled in yesterday’s post, our Woodstock theme powered a workout that would match the intensity of a nasty Hendrix solo. I told one of the regulars afterwords that it felt like someone had stuck a knife in my lung. (To her credit she, without hesitation, said all my classes make her feel like that!) I was cooked and needed rest, but the day was just beginning. A smallish sized lawn hand mowed and a weight session with Junior later and I was drooling over the prospects of a Saturday night on the couch. And then came this morning.

The boys were wanting to rip a quick 40 miler. I figured that this might be the perfect opportunity to grab a some video that I feel necessary for the current project (you know the one), so I tucked my doubts under my helmet and said let’s go.

A ambitious verbal start to the ride that would quickly show just how far my cycling fitness had fallen in just 10 days. As mentioned above, it might have been yesterday’s sessions, the layoff, or the fact that my birthday is in two weeks, or that I have chronic atrial fibrillation or that I am back to 168 pounds, or that I have been sleeping on an uncomfortable couch as I dog sit for a sweet young Chocolate Lab with a penchant for barking at shadows in the night, or a hundred other combined excuses. A least I got some decent video.

The lesson pulled from this is a simple one. I will try it out tomorrow on my Monday class and see how far she flies. It is this: If you, as many do, have a challenging time setting your proper level of exertion, consider determining what you are doing prior to matching your degree of intensity in doing it. There is only one consideration when we race. It is start at point A and get to point B as fast as you can. Simple and straightforward. As soon as we toss in training, fitness, spin class, real world responsibilities, stress, motivation and the thousand additional elements that each contribute to our ACQ, Athletic Character Quotient, things get distorted. The question of ‘how hard should I go?’ has long been one of the most common - and the subject of an incredible amount of ridicule and misinformation - asked of coaches and teachers. It is the reason why we have the Borg Scale where we can rate an activity on a 1-10 scale in order to more accurately set optimum intensity levels. Anyone going out the first 5K of a marathon too fast (as we all have) knows the value of this.

From Jimi to Pre this has been an experiment of one. Taking the mythical, the magical and the motivational into serious consideration we create another interesting and potentially powerful rhetorical equation. One that I am calling The A of the O.

The next time you are about to begin a workout, a spin class, a training session, a ride or a race, ask  yourself about the A of the O.

The Appropriateness of the Occasion. Where A = the appropriate intensity and O = your desired result. Are you here to win? To win at all costs? Are you here to burn calories and enjoy class camaraderie? Are you here to get stronger, fitter, faster? Are you here to build endurance? Are you here to listen to the world’s best rock music and manage your stress? Are you here to control cholesterol and blood sugar? Are you here as penance for your over consumption?

In every case questioned above knowing your A of the O will significantly assist getting to the correct level of intensity, your output, required to achieve a successful result.

Let Jimi Take Over

The party is over. And the clean-up begins.

I mentioned in class this morning, a golden anniversary tribute to Woodstock, that a pivotal place in American history can be pinpointed to Jimi’s early Monday morning rendition of that horrible song allegedly penned by Francis Scott Key. You know the one. Honestly I like the version that ends with ‘Play Ball’ a lot better. But consider for a moment all that was on the line, 1969, Vietnam, Nixon, Manson and a boat load of civil and racial discontent. And Hendrix musically slams the flagpole half-way up corrupt America’s red ass. It was a defining moment when Jimi, done lighting his Strat afire after the reverb had decayed to a mere hum, proved we were forever changed, the hippie ethos officially torched in effigy, sacrificed for the hope of peace, love and music. How gloriously ironic! The historians among you (I heard it) will say that Hendrix fire act was in 1967 at the Monterrey Pop Festival and NOT Woodstock, and you would be right, but I am more interested in the rhetorical here than the literal, a play for which I trust you will acknowledge and forgive.

Immediately after the clean-up began. We got hip in a hurry. We stopped a cruel, illegal war and ran the chief muckraker out of office. Policy actually began to evolve granting status to women, blacks, gays and even liberals. Cool books about it all hit the NY Times best-seller lists and music took a delicious turn for the sublime. We had visited the depths of deprivation, walked through hell and came out the other side. Ready for change.

Capsulizing that change can be, in my opinion, rather simple. Here is what happened next: We sold out. Almost before the feedback from Jimi’s stack of Marshals had completely decayed, distorted and dying, the collective consciousness of the generation known as hippies, was similarly over.

It became quickly apparent - in the bucket of eternity a decade is a mere drop - that this life style, albeit a free, self-supportive, communal experiment in higher consciousness, was unsustainable. Along with the bills came the allure of capitalism. And we traded in our tye-dyed T-shirts for Brooks Brothers button down cotton shirts and found jobs that would support house mortgages, new cars, the kid’s education and memberships to the local country club. We even considered purchasing life insurance. We became the new face of the American dream.

And here we are fifty years later. Cleaning up the mess that we all thought one time would be enough.  It isn’t. It wasn’t and according to all indications, it never will be. The lessons we learned and the things we got right, recycling, organics, solar and wind power, sustainability, music, cooperation, peace, all seem to be overshadowed today by societies penchant for racism, hatred, greed, corruption and exploitation.

This radical shift, the downward spiral of society priorities, has escalated to the point of farce. We are a joke. America sucks. Take a look around and tell me that the damage being done by the party in control is anything short of horrific. I am embarrassed, appalled and deeply saddened by the republican agenda. Here it is: White supremacy and power to the elite. Anyone standing in the way will be chastised and ridiculed at best or arrested and shot at worst.

The part I find amazing amid all this testimony is that 40% of the population actually agree to this Nazi agenda. 

We, the voices of dissent, have one play left.

We can vote them out in November of next year.

We nust rally the tribe. The folks that marched with us, that upheld the moral and ethical paradigms that have stood for American values for 240 years have one last chance to set the historical record straight, to be on the right side of history. We got a lot of things right in 1969, almost as many as we got not-so-right. This one we cannot afford to miss.

I call upon by brothers and sisters, unitedby the power of our collective presence, we, the cultural creatives and keepers of the keys to the kingdom, to rise up in unison and take back the ideals we so courageously displayed fifty years ago in that fanous garden. Our planet is on fire and the politicians are stockpiling gold for the final act of arson. Our kids are in cages and our band-mates in jail.We are the last men and women standing.

This is unsatisfactory folks. We are being ruled by hate, fear and superior firepower. I am sick of it.

And I will not go quietly. There will be blood. The logo for this campaign, the movement to save the planet and our species, will be Jimi kneeling over his guitar, lighter fluid in hand. I can't think of a better metaphor.

Was Epic

Sunset in Brookings, OR

The final tabulation on the gas, food and lodging costs prove what we have suspected all along. That we are being held hostage by the bad guys in black oil drenched Stetsons. As we have seen from earlier observations, real-time experiments in adventurous experience, this case being the ten day intensive road/bike trip from, roughly, Seattle to Santa Cruz and back, peak season motel accommodations are expensive, food is equally costly and often of poor quality, leaving gas as the missing trifecta commodity. Here is what I found out: Nobody is giving it away. I find it amazingly appalling that we, Americans, stand by and willingly trade some mythical notion of the freedom produced by car culture for the price we pay at the pump for said freedoms. It is just the cost of travel these days we say as oil companies post record profits from our desire to get out of town, vacation and see some of the world still unpolluted by fossil fuel emissions. 

I am as guilty of this as the next guy, as the following sums will attest. It is my total gas expenditure for the trip. I failed miserably at keeping receipts that would provide accurate miles per gallon, but I think I can estimate with reasonable accuracy. Here are the totals along with my notes and comments:

I filled up Whitey’s 15.4 gallon tank 8 times over the 10 days and 2,700 miles. 

270 avg miles per day

Total fuel cost was $258.75

Lowest price per gallon was in Florence, OR @ $2.71

Highest was $4.80 in Westport, CA

Works out to $26 per day in gas

Or 10.43 cents per mile as they like to say in truck rental terms

As a result of this detailed analysis I estimate my trip mileage to be around 25 MPG

I wish I would have kept all receipts for better analysis. 

The recap of the big three; gas, food and lodging, is interesting but hardly surprising. I spent zero on accommodations, sleeping in the cozy confines of Whitey’s customized cargo area, and spending an average of $16 per day on food. Totals look thusly:

Gas: $258.75

Food: $165

Lodging: $0

Conclusions: The hybrid functionality of hauling my bike, riding almost every day, and still having the luxury of four-wheel camping, hauling clean clothes, video equipment, tools and enjoying cooking capabilities, makes this mode of travel a bargain. I challenge anyone to travel 10 days over 2,700 miles along arguably the most spectacular coastline in the world for $423.75. And while not exactly the Europe on $5 a day of a long ago, it is still a great value and truly a superb experience. 

I suppose I could build up a super duty road bike and haul a trailer to reduce the cash outlay even further, but I consider this trip's cost-benefit analysis to show a simple closing conclusion:

Was Epic. 

Zero

Following is the list of the locations of my ten sleeps. The tally was 2,700 miles in 10 days, round trip. Although not exactly as the crow flies, this total mileage number is indicative of what a truly exceptional adventure this route presents. You should try it. Soon. 

Sat, Aug 3: Lake Cushman, WA (Staircase Park)

Sun, Aug 4: Neskowin, OR

Mon, Aug 5: Florence, OR (Lake Wohink)

Tue, Aug 6: Brookings, OR (Harris SP)

Wed, Aug 7, Crescent City, CA

Thu, Aug 8, Garberville, CA (Redwoods)

Fri, Aug 9, Stewart’s Point, CA

Sat, Aug 10, Aptos, CA (turn-around)

Sun, Aug 11, Fortuna, CA (see detail below)

Mon, Aug 12, Astoria, OR

There is some discrepancy with the distances between the nightly camping sites. As you may know by now it is my methodology to sleep on the cheap. I refuse to succumb to the activity known as ‘motel camping’, where one is subject to all variations of seasonal price gouging, minimum stays and general blandness (but please do not overlook the wonderful continental breakfasts and plenty of free parking.) Boo. Also, most all of the parks that offer camping along this well-traveled route are full this time of year. To ensure this, it is apparent policy to post (and often enforce) rules stating that day use only means closed (locked) from 10P to 6A. The saving grace is that showers are available to non-campers as long as one uses said facility during off-peak hours. If you Google the parks in the area of intended usage, this important data is mentioned. Logistics, cost, amenities are all subject to change from park to park. I am still undecided whether a tepid but free shower is a better deal that unlimited hot water for two bucks. 

Rest stops are few and far between, nowhere near the regularity of I-5 stops, BUT, the Oregon rest areas have an eight hour policy, meaning that one can get in a good sleep as long as said rest is limited to eight in any twenty-four hour period. So squatting and weekends are out. How this is monitored is still a question without legitimate answer. I would be surprised if they video surveil just to enforce a free stay. But you never know. 

As with all cheap sleeps, there is the issue of safety. We run into some sketchy characters out there (hello Southern Oregon and Northern California), but I refuse to generalize or stereotype by mere appearance alone. After all, someone pushing a shopping cart filled with junk, in need of a shower hair cut and a balanced meal, is not necessarily a terrorist, axe murderer or meth-head. However, to the guy, meeting this description, that tried to pinch my bike as I slept, I am sorry that I questioned your intentions and integrity. And no I am not with the CIA. 

Be safe. Be aware. Be visible. And lock your gear securely even if you are sleeping inside the van where your bike is locked to the rack and the rack locked to the van. 

This is a risk I will gladly take. To me, it is the only way to go. Take a look again at the list of destinations detailed above and put an estimated price on accommodations. I learned in Europe a long time ago that the less I spend the longer I can stay (that was when $5/day was possible.) Here is the total amount I spent on accommodations over the 10 days:

ZERO. 

So Good to See You Again

1993

2019

There were so many highlights that they blend together to form a composite. Isolating just one of the many, like a screen grab, seems an impossible chore but we will try. 

Because we are always willing to try the impossible. One theory  suggests that we consider, experience and report. Go, see, do and tell. 

It was late September of 1993. I was fresh off an eighteen month assignment with a defense contractor working in the Indian Ocean. After traveling through Europe upon completion of contract I flew into LA to visit Mom and my brothers and sisters. While I cannot recall the exact moment that the possibility entered my radar screen of outrageous possibilities, somewhere from the end of contract, past the capitols of Europe and to my stay in LA, the idea was born. Since I am a free man, with money in the bank and a waiting cabin at home in Washington, why not finish off this amazing adventure with a bike ride. Why not ride my bike home, from LA to Seattle? That was the consideration part. The experience was about to follow as part two.

I bought a decent mountain bike, a Raleigh MT300, in Santa Monica (Helen’s Cycles) had it outfitted with aero-bars, panniers and a few other custom attachments and found a cool book on riding the Pacific Coast that provided all the GPS (before that was a thing) necessary for the intrepid cycling pilgrim’s navigational and camping needs. And I was off. 

I can honestly attest that through this experience my life was forever changed. For the better. Returning to the theme of capturing one screen grab highlight, the story unfolds as we hit the small town of Garibaldi, Oregon. 

On my initial trek up the coast, defying all convention to ride from the North, an interesting moment in time presented itself to me for consideration on that magical first into-the-wind trip. It was a stack of rocks just outside Garibaldi. For whatever reason I was struck by their natural splendor and harmonious peaceful presence. I pulled my bike over and shot an entire roll of film, wanting to capture the serenity and zen-ness of the rocks. That was twenty-six years ago. I have often admired one of the shots in my favorite photo album ever since. 

Fast forward twenty-six years to three days ago. I am cruising home from an awesome 2,700 mile trip to Santa Cruz and back. I am blissfully rubber-necking along 101 North and just happen to look to my left and see…… the three rocks. I immediately pull a U-Turn as fast as safely possible, park Whitey and walk the railroad tracks back to the exact place where almost three decades earlier I stood with Kodak Instamatic in hand, shooting for inspiration with fixed-lens auto focus glee. 

The difference is stunning. Or maybe it’s me. I am struck by the difference in the rocks as well as the changes in my consciousness in admiration of them. It is a profound moment. 

I can almost hear them welcome me back. I feel them announce with pride and determination and joy that ‘we’re still here’. 

Yes, my friends, so am I. So good to see you again. 

Glad to be Home

Harris State Park, Brookings, OR sunset. 

I am ashamed. Bogged down with the 270 average miles per day, the download of 3 hours of video, charging of batteries, camping and the occasional ride, something had to give. And what gave was the streak. 

Sorry.

I got back a couple of hours ago, off-loaded Whitey, started a load of laundry and cleaned out the refrigerator where several stages of science projects were well under way. Watered the plants and checked the e-mail account that had not been visited since the grand departure ten days ago. 

Now it is time to start the media transfer and clean up the files consolidating to one external hard drive. It will be interesting to get the actual tally on total media hours where, as mentioned, I think we averaged over three a day. That is thirty hours of video. THIRTY! 

Some of it will be trash. Some will have moisture on the lens from the coastal fog and some will witness the ignoble deaths of tiny insects always wanting to go center stage, or in this case, center lens. But….

There will be moments of absolute brilliance. This is something I refuse to take 100% of the credit for, as it is a fact of outdoor videography that capturing ‘money’ footage is, more often than not, a matter of simply being in the right place at the right time. You know, luck. The old saying, lifted from one of many “Good Lovin’ encores from the Grateful Dead, that ‘even a blind man knows when the sun is shinin’ is particularly poignant in this usage. 

I can tell you from the brief transfer checks that I perform before forever deleting media after transfer (to free memory for the next day’s shoot) that the blind man knew the sun to be shining’ on the lens brightly in:

San Francisco.

The Golden Gate.

Marin Headlands.

Tamalpais (the second take)

Sunsets in Soquel, Astoria, Brookings (see above) and Staircase.

Garibaldi.

The Redwood Highway.

Yachats. 

The plan is to mash it all up into a one hour special video to be premiered at the club (the Bainbridge Athletic Club) as a special video night spin. We are in the negotiation process for the date as we speak, and as always, YOU will be the first to know as soon as the info comes available. 

The laundry is done. I am out of food and the media dump is underway.

To make up for lost time and missing posts, we will renew the streak effective immediately. 

Glad to be home. 

Data Six

Data Six. Cool name for a band, eh? Synth nerd outfit anyway. Whitey Ford (my 2010 Ford Transit Connect) and I, have been on the road for a day short of a week. And no, to answer the musical trivial question du jour, while we have been six days on the road, but we are NOT gonna make it home tonight. Unless of course we want to call home wherever we end up at sunset this evening.

This day began in a rest stop alongside Highway 101, just outside, one mile actually, North of  Brookings, Oregon. Harris State Park is an absolute gem. We set up the Canon atop a sea-stack around 7 and let 'er rip till the red-rubber ball had disappeared into the blue-gray waters of the Pacific. It was a spectacular show. Directly across 101 from the park is the rest area where authoritarian signage informed wayward nomadic pilgrims that they need to limit their stays to four hours (between ten and six). Unsure of how this was surveilled, I decided to test the system so we pulled anchor and battened hatches around ten.

Woke before dawn and headed directly across the iconic highway to the jam packed state park to shower before the camping masses had their morning coffee. An unlimited time hot water shower for $2.00 is something to write home about. The steaming water on my back and Dr. Bronners peppermint on my shoulders had me singing John Denver camp-fire songs (where soap replaces sunshine). This is such a great reward for road-weary adventurers. I don't really know what to compare it with. It is so simple, such a wholesome and organic experience that anything less than a metaphor of orgasmic fireworks or love at first sight are grossly inadequate. We do grow accustomed to the simple things when living normal lives. Out here, noting is normal other than what we bring to the reality. Out here, a hot shower is one small slice of heaven.

After yesterday's research and pilgrimage to the trail they call the Japanese Bomb Site (this being an integral part of my research), and the day ending video shoot of the Brookings sunset, the day ended on an ever better note as my niece (and some of her kids) are meeting with me for lunch today. I haven't seen her since her brother's wedding seven years ago and she has had twins, their second set, since. We are meeting a local pizza joint that she guarantees is kid friendly. I will file a report on this tomorrow. Wish me luck.

All for today. Right now it is back to research work, as I have sourced the names and numbers of the producer of a documentary and the author of a book on the subject matter that has brought me here.

In only six days.

Day Five

It doesn't take very long to develop new habits. I have read that as little as seven days can start the motivated person towards a completely new and in most cases, productive, routine. I am finding this to be so. It is day five of our hybrid journey into adventure, the half-way point of the trip in terms of days, not mileage, the passage measured more by time than by space. The days have started to blend into each other, cross-dissolving seamlessly every two hundred miles or so, separated only by the night and my feeble attempts to categorize, format and understand my real-time assessment of overloaded sensory movement. Put another way, it is sometimes difficult to keep the primary objective in clear focus when said objective is in itself intentionally obscure. Habitually then, we default to the habits, skills, desires and basic needs that provide the foundation. Or, perhaps more accurately, that have provided a foundation in the past, but are now in question, the daily subjects of change, in flux and flowing like class five rapids. As an example.

It is now common practice (this was an easy one) to slide open Whitey's side door prior to first light. Down here in Southern Oregon, that means around 0600. Pretty easy duty for a guy that regularly hits the ground runnin at 0400. But, and this is where it gets interesting, one of the important items on the trip video shoot list is what we call atmospherics, video to be used as time-lapse transitions. Sunrises are perfect for this application even if one is shooting on the coast known more for its sets than rises. One needs to be up, loaded for bear, and on site well before the sky begins to lighten. To accomplish this, one needs to be rested and to be rested one must slide the door closed for the night at an hour most adults would consider early. And this requires either a lot of discipline or the development of new habits. Being on the road means that my habitual nightly routine of CNN, MSNBC and one episode of the current TV series (Homeland Season 5) and then an hour of reading, is not longer applicable. Again that is the easy part.

Day two in Brookings has been spent doing research. I have unearthed several fascinating facts abut my subject and this morning (leaving at first light) I trekked 16 miles up a windy, gravel fire-road in search of the actual site where one of the two bombs we dropped by Japan on Continental US during WWII. Yes, it happened here, in Brookings, OR. That is why I am here. Doing research.

I get to the top and finally find a clearing to pull into and make coffee. It is so quiet up here at  three-thousand feet that I can hear birds leap and land on tiny fir limbs. The coffee is good and I finish the giant cinnamon roll I bought yesterday about five hundred miles North. I am going to shoot an intro as well as video of the location. I have a better idea of the concept after making the hour drive. The story will be stylized using three color pallets; Sepia tones for the scenes taking place in Brookings in 1944-45, film noir for the Manhattan Project scenes, and super-saturated color for the scenes of the present tense, where the story is actually being told in present time. Yesterday I found that I am not the first to bring a camera to this placation for this specific purpose. One of today's chores will be to track down the two docs that have previously been produced about this tiny town's claim to fame.

I am sipping the steaming coffee in this solemn location, wondering if this is how creative inspiration comes screaming into the world. Like a double espresso on a chilly morning.

We have been witnessing a lot of coastal fog. In the beach community where I grew up we would invariably say to anyone asking, that it would burn off by noon, but this soup seems to not have received the memo. It lingers all day.

Like a bad habit.

Day Three

Day Three. I sit in Whitey Ford, in Florence, Oregon, on Monday. Together we have traveled over five hundred and fifty miles since our ignoble departure Saturday afternoon. Truth be known, Whitey has done most of the work, all four cylinders and maybe two hundred horses of her. All I do is steer, speed up, slow down and keep it between the lines. I think we make a good team, Whitey and me.

Last night, Sunday, we pulled into Neskowin (Pop 134) just before sunset and took a cruise on the beach, capturing some decent video and scouting a place to camp. Camping, for those of you just joining us, means finding an out-of-the-way parking spot that offers the single amenity we require. We don't care about hookups, electrical, hot showers, beach access, wifi, or bathrooms. We care about the cost. As in it must be foxtrot, romeo, echo, echo. FREE. Accordingly, this excludes most areas considered 'normal' by traditional camping standards. So we seek 'alternative' locations. To give you an idea, Saturday night was in the overflow parking area of a sold-out Washington State Park (Staircase) and last night was in the Neskowin park and ride lot across from their golf course just off of 101. It was everything we could want in a short stay. We were lights out by ten and on the road by five, rested, ready for the day and with the forty dollars the campsite wanted for a primitive spot, still tucked in the front pocket of my faded Levis.

Previously that evening I tipped a Denny's hostess five to seat me near power access under the condition that I would be a while. The mission was to download all media, recharge batteries and, wifi permitting, post to the site. Three hours, a house salad and a grilled cheese sandwich later, we had accomplished the first two but failed on the third. You can blame the streak interruption on Denny. The video, should you be one of those interested in the current project, is quite OK, including the reconstruction of video I thought was lost forever due to tech issues on the first night of shooting. After diner and the short drive we were pleased with the overall quality of the day, the drive, and the new media.

Today was another double century, from Neskowin to my current location in Florence. Lot's of good material today including the first bike video and an amazing time lapse sequence in Yachats. It is a few minutes before three and I am waiting to hear from my old friend Jerry, who lives on a nearby lake, to see if we can hook up for dinner.

If not we will repeat the search procedures outlined above and end a most productive day the way we started it.

I had an interesting thought today, somewhere I think near Depoe Bay (Pop 1,398). If we can, as many say, talk ourselves into a bad mood, is the reverse not available as well? I find it amazing how, alone at the wheel for five, six, seven hours, the mind, mine anyway, drifts back to situations, scenes, conversations, places, smells, that in total, comprise our entire deep storage, literally the uninsurable bank of our memory. Almost always I will recall, like today, some weird, silly and sometimes embarrassing take-one scene from my movie. Who the fuck wrote that and how did it get into production?

Likewise, after today's episode, I thought that I would try something new instead of wondering why I had suddenly fallen into the septic tank of internal humiliation, and bingo I was in the process of taking myself into feeling like the first time I had blazed this trail, young, alive, free and wanting only the experience of the adventure.

I tapped the stereo and there was the song. Asking me to wake up to find out that I am the eyes of the world.