Around 4200

I think the magic is gone. Driving has gotten to be a bit of a chore. I'm still enjoying my adventure, don't get me wrong. It's just that my focus has shifted from the road to the people. I have enjoyed meandering around and seeing the sights. But even for an only child who is used to being alone, it gets lonesome out there. In these past few days of driving, I have found myself calling my friends and family more than I ever have before. The long hours on the road pass much faster if I have a friend to chat with.

I have come to realize that I am happiest when I am around my loved ones. I'm not so much sick of driving as I am eager to see my peeps. I realized this while I was visiting my cousins in Illinois. I was going to leave and head back on the road, maybe explore the Great Lakes. But I was having so much fun with my family that I decided to extend my stay. (It's nice having the luxury of making my own schedule.)

Here are some highlights from my time in Illinois:

My cousin Geoffrey and I went fishing. I hadn't been fishing in twenty years. We wanted some male-bonding time. I told him I wanted to do something manly. Because I'm such a manly man, you know. He chose fishing. So we went to the local lake at dusk to cast our bobbins. Wait, is that even a thing in fishing? I don't know, but I caught the first fish. And the biggest. I caught two fish, thanked them for playing the game with me, and released them back into the water. Geoffrey caught three tiny little baby fish, but I suspect it was just the same stupid carp trying to eat the same lure three different times. So I won.

I got to experience Real Chicago Deep-Dish Pizza. It was excellent, of course. How could cheese and sauce and crust and meat not be a wonderful taste sensation? I don't think pizza is the right name for it, though. It's really a cross between a pizza and a calzone and a lasagna. It needs it's own special name. Something Italian-sounding. My buddy Jeff suggested shmaguli. I like it. Chicago has great shmaguli.

I went into Chicago to sight-see with my cousin-in-law Gretchen. I think adding the -in-law to her cousin designation diminishes the way I feel about her, so I will no longer use it. She is my cousin, my family. We had fun seeing downtown Chicago. Did you know the Sears Tower is now the Willis Tower? It sucks, I know. But I had fun at the top. Gretchen is a little acrophobic, but I was proud of her for going up with me, even if she didn't stand on The Ledge. We also went to Navy Pier, which I guess is a thing, and walked around downtown a bit. We even ate at an authentic Chicago restaurant. It was nice spending time with her.

I got to spend some time with my nephew, Otis. Being that I don't have any siblings, but have always wanted to be a fun uncle (as opposed to a creepy uncle, which would also be fun), my cousins have bestowed upon me the title of uncle. It was really sweet of them. So now I have two nephews, Otis in Illinois and Sam in California. I'll get to see Sam at the end of my trip. Anyway, it was fun seeing O. At first, he didn't like how I would come over and steal his parents away. But after a nice, lazy evening watching movies and eating Chinese food, he warmed up. He's two, so he's the perfect age to be entertaining to everybody but his frantic parents. I bounced him on my feet. He showed me how he likes to brush his teeth and swallow the delicious toothpaste. I remember swallowing toothpaste. It was like a refreshing minty treat you got for brushing your teeth. Mmmmm.

Also, Geoffrey, Gretchen and I went to see Inception. It was a fantastic, wonderful, smart film. See it. That's all I'm saying about that.

After my time in Illinois, I was eager to haul ass to New York to see my good friends. I blasted my way through Indiana, Ohio, Michigan, Pennsylvania and New Jersey. Here is a summary of those states:

Indiana: Doesn't have it. You know that indefinable quality that a place has? That little piece of personality that says, "Hey, I'm a place. Why don't you stop here?" Indiana doesn't have it.

Ohio: Indiana with more people.

Michigan: Now, there's a state. Nice, salt-of-the-Earth people. Whatever that means, it's true about Michigan. Ann Arbor, where I stayed, is a great little college town. Maybe I'm prejudiced toward college towns, having only ever lived in college towns, but I really liked this place.

Pennsylvania: Loooong state. I have some adopted-familial ties to Pennsylvania, so I felt like I needed to pay my respects. The people were very nice and the scenery along the northern half was attractive. But unfortunately, I saw Pennsylvania as just a long stretch of road between me and New York. Maybe some day I'll return and see what it has to offer.

New Jersey: Really? What's the point, New Jersey? Being so close to the greatest cultural center in the country, if not the world, makes your whole New Jersey thing seem sort of silly. Maybe consider moving Jersey to the middle of the country? You might get a fair shake if you didn't have to live in your big brother's shadow. I hear Indiana needs something to make it a real place. Why not relocate there, New Jersey?

And having passed those states, I am now happily having an extended stay in New York City. I am not going to be driving for a long while. But before I put my car keys away so I don't have to shlep them around anymore, I have a few thoughts on driving in the big city.

As a courteous Oregon driver, I was a little intimidated by the prospect of having to negotiate the mean streets of NYC. But I've surprised myself so far. The transformation occurred in New Jersey, actually. Four miles before the George Washington Bridge, the bridge into the City, the traffic ground to a halt. It took an hour to travel those four miles. But don't think I had the pleasure of driving four miles an hour. No, most of that ground was covered in five-foot increments between minutes of sitting, trying to make up stories about the people in the cars around me. Actually, most of that time was spent trying to will my car to fly. Anyway, this is where I stopped being Alec the Nice Guy and became Alec the New York Driver.

Driving in New York City is a little like driving in a video game. When I get behind the wheel here, a different Alec comes out. I get to tap into a primal part of my brain where self-preservation is the ultimate goal. All pretenses of civilization fly out the window. It's not about driving, it's about surviving.

My hands grip the wheel with an intensity that alarms me. I gain a preternatural awareness of my surroundings. It's about imposing your will on the traffic. The traffic here is a living, breathing organism. In Oregon, the roads are there as a system of conveyance, nothing more. In New York City, the roads breathe and pulse with life. They do not want you on them. The traffic will try to tell you where to go. It is your job to pilot your miniaturized space ship through the body of the city. You have to inject yourself into the veins of the traffic, and once you are there, you have to fight to make your way to your destination. It requires all of your attention. You have to be strong. You ever cut someone off before? It feels great. Just like peer pressure, it's ok to give in if everyone else is doing it. Right? Everyone should come to New York so they can experience the thrill of cutting someone off. It is so cathartic.

I've always been good at cussing. I like to think I learned from the best. My mom was a champion cusser. I thought I knew all there was to know about what combinations of different verbs, nouns, prepositions, adverbs, adjectives, interjections and commands it takes to make a good cuss. Driving in New York has taken my cussing to previously unheard-of levels of creativity. By mixing it up and adding simple non-cusswords and stream of consciousness randomness to your cusses, you can make previously clean concepts fantastically dirty. There are just so many ways to yell at fools in traffic. It's all terribly fun.

I'll be in New York for a while. It is the geographical half-way point of my trip. I have gone just about as far east as I can. After this stop, it will be time to head back to the west coast, my coast. I like this place, though. My mom came from here and I can see how it influenced her personality.  I can imagine her as a little girl, amongst the huge buildings and millions of strangers. I like being in the place I heard so many stories about. Being here toughens you up. I only hope it imparts some of that strength on me.

Now that I am an adult, New York isn't as intimidating as it once was. It has the most history of any other place I've been. It has diversity. It has culture. It has some of the best food in the world. It is home to some of my favorite people ever. It has the worst traffic I have ever had the displeasure of driving in, but with a little creative cussing and some offensive driving, I think I can handle it.

See, New York has already me tougher.

The Nosepicker

This is a very rough draft of a story I made up somewhere along I-90. A note to those of you with delicate sensibilities, this story contains salty language and adult content. Reader discretion is advised.

The Nosepicker
By Alec Brown

Tim saw it first, through the trees. He and Ron were scouring for edible berries to snack on. The smooth leaves were tiger-striped green. They were almost perfectly round. The strange plant grew in the center of a circle of tall trees. It was almost as if the trees were protecting it with their wooden bodies. Or trying to get away.
It was Tim’s first backpacking trip with Ron and Lester. They had been going into the woods together for years, doing God knows what. Tim was always a little jealous. They were the Three Amigos, had been since high school. Tim wound up going to college in Boston, while Ron and Les stayed in Washington. That was when they started backpacking.
At first, Tim didn’t really mind. He was never the outdoorsy type. He would rather watch a good (or bad) movie on a hot day than float the river. But as the years passed, it began to irk him. For one thing, their excursions were now almost a monthly occurrence. Rain or shine, his friends would head into the woods. And when they got back, they never really talked about it. It was as if they were on a top-secret mission. They would barely even acknowledge that they had been gone. It drove hum nuts.
On the long weekends when they were away, Tim had nothing to do, no one to talk to. They were his only friends and even his parents had their own social life now that his little sister was away at college herself. For some reason, they didn’t see the need to entertain their almost-thirty-year-old, still-at-home son. So he sat alone and played Xbox in the basement, where he lived. His dad wouldn’t let him hook it up upstairs, so he sat in his sad little cave, shooting middle schoolers in their faces and sulking.
Before Lester got married, he and Ron went on a week-long camping trip. Les called it, out of his fiance’s earshot, of course, his “last taste of freedom.” It was the closest thing to a bachelor party he had and once again Tim sat alone in the basement and stewed.
When they returned, Tim confronted them. “Guys, I’ve been thinking about it, and I want to try camping.”
“Really?” Said Ron. “You do know there’s no video games in the woods, don’t you?”
“I can bring my DS, but that’s not important. I want to see what all the fuss is about. When you guys leave, I have nothing to do. It’s boring.”
“Oh, I’m sorry we hurt your feelings,” said Ron. “Would you like me to get you a kleenex for your weeping vagina?”
“Shut up, Ron,” said Les, always the diplomat. “Tim, we never even realized you had any interest in camping. Of course you can come.”
“Yeah, of course. It would be awesome.”
“Are you sure I wouldn't be interrupting your circle jerk, Ron?”
“There’s always room for one more on Brokeback Mountain, Tim.”
Ron and Les promised to take it easy on Tim for his first camping trip. They waited until they could count on sunny weather. Tim wanted his first trip to be memorable for all the woodsy fun they were sure to have and not for shitty weather. Lisa, Les’ wife, dropped them off at the trailhead. The trail ran roughly parallel to the road in the direction of a charming little hamlet called Williamsville that could barely be called a town. In four days, she would pick them up from there.
The first day had gone smoothly. Backpacking was fun. Tim had found a lot of old camping gear of his dad’s in the basement and he felt well-equipped. It was a little bulky compared to the ultra-lightweight stuff his friends had, but he had no problem shouldering the load. They broke off from the trail and followed a small stream. The sunlight reflected off the surface of the slow-moving water. The birds were chirping. Being outside was actually pretty cool. The environments were so much more dynamic than on Xbox.
Tim had downloaded a plant app to his phone. You could take a picture of a plant and it would scan a database and then tell you all the information you could ever want to know: it’s name, whether or not you could eat it, all it’s potential uses, who first discovered it, on and on and on. Tim had great fun pretending to be an expert, telling his friends random facts about every leaf or moss they found. You could take the dork out of the woods, but you could never take the dork out of the dork.
They made camp that night in a clearing. Les dug a fire pit and lined it with some large stones from down by the stream. After they ate, they stood around the fire, shooting the shit. Tim was pleased to find out that the campfire had a confessional nature. Anything you said around the campfire would not leave the campfire. There was no judgment. It was wonderful.
The next day was when Tim found the strange plant. “Hey, look at this,” he called to Ron. He pulled out his phone and snapped a picture of the plant.
“I’ve never seen anything like this before,” said Ron. “Look at the underside of these.” On the underside of each leaf was a pattern of small orange bumps. They were smooth, but had a slight leathery texture.
“Hmm. The plant companion can’t identify it. It says ‘no signal.’” Tim started the cellphone dance and attempted to find a pocket of space that would provide a wireless signal. So far they had been lucky. There was consistent cell coverage in most of the areas they had been. The other men were slightly annoyed by this fact, for Tim had had his phone glued to his palm for most of the trip.
“I got it! I’ll try to identify it again, Ron. Ron? Jesus, Ron. Again?” Ron liked to poop in the woods. More than that, he liked to sneak off to poop. But he wouldn’t go far. Oh, no. He liked to poop near the action, so he could talk while he did it.
“I’m over here,” said a voice close by. “What is it? The plant?”
“I don’t know. It doesn’t know. Why do you have to do that?”
“What? It’s perfectly natural, buddy. This is how most of the world does it.”
“Yeah, but why do you have to do it so close? Don’t you want privacy?”
“Everybody poops. What’s more private than pooping in the woods? Besides, Mr. Privacy, you pick your nose constantly.”
“I have a lot of boogers.”
“You’re picking your nose right now. I can hear it in your voice.”
“No I’m not.” Yes he was. “I’m an activist. Everybody picks, I’m just willing to admit it to the world.” In high school, when he thought that kind of thing would work, Tim was known to try to impress the ladies by putting quarters in his nose. He was still single. All the years of digging for gold had blessed him with large, elastic nostrils. He could even pick with his thumb. So far this camping trip had yielded some nice boogers. There was a lot of dust and pollen swirling around the forest and he had found some nice rare brown ones. “I say, don’t be ashamed of your boogers.”
“We’re quick! We Pick! Get used to it!” Ron emerged from the bushes, pumping a fist in the air.
“Shut up, Ron.”
“I saw some blackberries back there, we should go get them.”
“I’m not eating those. We’ll find some that aren’t near a pile of poop. Fuckin’ shitberries.”
That night at the campfire, there was tension in the air. Les was quiet as usual, but Ron was also strangely silent. This was almost unheard of. “What’s wrong with Ron? He run out of shit to talk?” Asked Tim.
“He has something to tell you.” Ron shot Les a dirty look. “Why don’t you ask him yourself.”
This wasn’t good. Ron was the least serious, most open person Tim knew. He had no natural inhibitions. If there was something he didn’t want to talk about... Shit, it must be bad. Tim felt a quick twist of pain in his forehead. Tentatively, he approached his friend. “What’s up, Ron?”
“Thanks, Les. Thanks a lot.”
“You need to tell him. Just do it.”
“Once again. What’s up, Ron?”
“OK. OK. Remember Les’ wedding? How drunk we all got?”
“Yeah, but honestly, I’m surprised you remember it.” It had been wild. Both sides of the new family drunk, happily dancing to lame wedding DJ songs- The Macarena, YMCA, The Electric Slide- stumbling all over the floor, laughing their asses off. “You were the first one to pass out.”
“Well, I woke up and returned to the party. After you finally crashed. And. Well...”
Tim didn’t like where this was going. Another spark of pain flashed behind his temple. “What, Ron? Say it.”
“Well, Cassy was still around, trying to find some more champagne or something.” The son of a bitch. No. “And, well, we... Hooked up. I’m sorry, Tim. I slept with your sister.”
“Motherfucker!” Tim hit Ron in the jaw. It was a weak blow, but Ron acted as if it hurt. It was what Tim needed. “You’ve fuckin known her practically her whole fuckin life! She’s like your sister! Not cool. Les, you knew?”
Les didn’t spaek, but the light of his headlamp bobbed up and down.
“I’m sorry, Tim. We were drunk and we both realized it was a mistake. She didn’t want me to tell you. But we’re friends and...” It was silent for a long time. Tim was getting a headache. Les stared into the fire, the diplomat with nothing to say. Finally, Ron tried to break the tension. “Cassy has gotten pretty hot in the past few years-”
“Ron, no.” Les tired to stop him.
“-since she went to college.” That was it. Tim lashed out with another weak punch, this time to Ron’s gut. This time it really did hurt.
“Go fuck yourself,” Tim spat. “Fuckin creep.” He stormed off into his tent. There was no door to slam, so he angrily zipped his zipper. Zzzzip! Zip! ZZZZZZIP!
That night, Tim didn’t sleep. He couldn’t believe that his oldest friend in the world had betrayed him like that. He still remembered Cassy’s fourth birthday party. They had been jealous of all the attention she was getting, so they decided to show her what’s what. They got some milk, sugar and dirt and mixed it all together. They told her it was oatmeal, her favorite. Special birthday oatmeal. She ate the whole bowl. They both got their hides tanned for that stunt. Now, he wanted to do more than tan Ron’s hide. He wanted to remove it and make a lampshade out of it, make Ron-hide toilet paper and wipe his dirty ass with it.
Sometime shortly after dawn, he decided he hated camping. He decided to pack up his shit and bounce. He began to dismantle his tent. He did it loudly, for he wanted his “friends” to wake up and try to stop him.
“Tim, what are you doing?” It was Ron. He had unzipped a corner of his door and was looking at him with bleary red eyes. Apparently, Ron had trouble sleeping as well. Good. Tim continued to pack, ignoring Ron. “You gonna leave? Don’t be stupid. You’ll get lost.” No response. “Look, I’m sorry... You can sleep with my sister, if you want. She’s fifty and in a committed lesbian relationship, but I offer her to you in apology.” No smile. Nothing. “If it makes you feel any better, I think you broke something. My stomach hurts something fierce.” That was true, and his confession raised the corners of Tim’s mouth slightly. But not enough to be considered a smile. More like a grimace of satisfaction.
By now, Les was awake. He emerged from his tent cautiously, with his hands raised, palms out. Like a hostage negotiator attempting to diffuse a tense situation. “Look, Tim. You don’t need to do this. Let’s just calm down and talk.”
“No, Les. I’m leaving. Don’t try to stop me.” But still totally try to stop me. “I hate fuckin camping. I’m done with Ron and his bullshit.”
“You don’t know anything about wilderness survival.” It was Ron. “Don’t be stupid.”
“Shut up, Ron. You’re not helping. Think about this. Where are you going to go?”
“My phone has GPS and compass. I’ll follow it to the road and walk to Williamsville. I’ll stay in the motel until Lisa comes to pick us up in two days. I’ll be fine.”
“Tim, don’t. Just calm down.”
“I’ve had all night to calm down, and you know what? I just got madder and madder. Fuck Ron. And fuck you for not telling me sooner. I’m done with this shit.” With that, Tim donned his father’s old oversized 1970s-style backpack. “I’ll see you assholes in a couple of days. And then I’m done with you guys. I’m outta here.”
Tim started walking. Ron rose from his tent and tried to block his way. He moved slowly, one hand gripping his stomach. Tim stared into his former friend’s eyes and said, “Les, tell Ron to move or, so help me, I’ll beat the holy living shit out of him.”
“OK. Fine, go. Go sulk in the woods by yourself. I hope a mountain lion eats you.” Tim cocked a fist at Ron’s gut. Ron quickly moved aside.
The trek through the woods took longer than Tim thought it would. His phone’s map was accurate, but they were about five miles into the forest and the going was slow with all the bulky gear he had. When he finally approached the road his head was pounding and his legs were about to give out. He sat by the side of the road to have some water and rest. As he ate the last of his supply of granola bars, his phone rang. It was Ron. He declined the call and thirty seconds later his phone beeped to let him know he had a voicemail. He deleted it without listening. He rose up and began the long walk into town.
He arrived at dusk, tired and hungry. The motel had plenty of rooms available, but unfortunately the only restaurant in town had just closed. He ate a meal of peanut butter crackers and an Almond Joy from the vending machine. He tried to watch some television, but it proved too difficult with his headache. The guy on the Food channel was visiting a small diner much like the one that had been closed. He was biting into a specialty sandwich made of alternating layers of bacon, roast beef, cheese and fried dill pickles. It was all too much. The grease running through the guy’s fingers. The sound of him loudly chewing. Tim had to switch it off. His head was killing him. Goddamn Ron.
He laid on the bed in his dark motel room. Through the gaps in his curtains there was red light from the motel’s neon sign spilling across his floor. He could hear the ice machine churning out cubes through the thin walls. He could smell the stale smell of decades of tobacco smoke permeating every inch of the room. His left eye throbbed and leaked tears down the side of his face onto his thin, smelly motel pillow. It felt like someone was boring a hole through his skull. He had had headaches before, but this was something else. Maybe he was getting a sinus infection. Maybe he should stop picking his nose.
He slept restlessly. Normally he was a side-sleeper, but his headache insisted that he sleep on his back.
He was awakened by his phone piercing his brain. This time it was Les. He must be calling to check on him. He really was a good guy. Tim decided that when he was done being mad, he would still be friends with Les. But he didn’t want to answer yet. He hit the decline button. He knew that when the phone went directly to voicemail without ringing the requisite four times, Les would know that he had pushed the button. That would tell him that Tim was alive, but still mad.
He rolled out of bed. His eye pulsed with his heartbeat. It felt like his head weighed a hundred pounds. His left nostril was completely stuffed up. Scouring his backpack, he found a first-aid kit. Amongst the yellowed band-aids, bee sting ointment and tick tweezers he found what he was looking for. The aspirin had expired in 1988, but it was better than nothing. He washed down four bitter pills with water from an individually wrapped plastic motel cup.
Once the throbbing subsided, he decided to try to blow his nose. He knew it would still hurt like the dickens, but being a semi-pro nosepicker, he couldn’t stand to have a stuffy nose. He doubled up on sheets of rough tissue, pinched his right nostril closed, and blew. Suddenly, his brains were trying to escape out of his ears. The pain was so intense, he had to sit on the corner of one of the double beds. Nothing came out. Not even a drop. Steeling himself for more pain, he blew again.
This time he could feel something dislodge, but the tissue was still dry. There was a booger in there. A big one. Probably one of those hardened fuckers that would come out attached to some nose hair, making his eyes water, making him sneeze. He extended his pinky, his most delicate instrument, and carefully inserted it into his clogged nasal passage. It was like a desert in there. Dry, cracked and pleading for moisture. As his probe found the tip of the booger, his phone rang again, startling him. His finger jerked out of his nose. It was Les again. Damn Les, get a clue. He silenced his phone and prepared to re-enter the abyss.
When his finger found the spot where the booger had been, he was surprised to find it was no longer there. It had moved. That was good, that meant there was at least some airflow going through. He swiveled his wrist around to allow his finger to ascend higher into his sinus. Ah, there it is. He could barely feel the tip of the booger. He was right, it was a hard one. And the little bastard was deep. He took a deep breath through his mouth and made one final push to retrieve the errant piece of dried mucus. He had it. He adjusted positions again, so he could use his nail to scrape it out. It was almost out, when he felt a sharp pain on the tip of his finger. Snot began to flow around his finger. Good, he had opened the nasal passage. He decided to attempt another blow before he tried for the booger again. When he removed his finger, he was shocked to see that it was not snot that had begun to flow, but blood. Deep red blood from a small puncture on the tip of his finger. What the hell kind of booger was this?
He placed one of the aged band-aids on his pinky. His head hurt worse than ever. His eye pulsed. He thought he could hear the bones within his skull creaking as his swollen brain expanded. Every slight movement enflamed the pain. He fell back onto the bed and slipped into blessed unconsciousness.
He was dreaming. It was the night of Les’ wedding. He was dressed in a white ninja outfit and bird mask, carrying a blade made out of blue steel. Somehow, his white outfit kept him perfectly camouflaged in the dark night. He was standing outside of the hotel room he had shared with his parents. Only now it was Ron’s room and adorned with pink leopard-print curtains and matching sheets. Ron was a vampire and he had hypnotized Cassy. He was about to suck her blood when Tim burst through the window, the sunlight reflecting a million rainbows in the broken, falling glass. He stabbed his wooden sword through his former friend’s chest, pinning him to the green zebra-striped bedspread. As Cassy screamed at the monster she now realized Ron had become, ninja Tim commenced kicking vampire Ron’s ass. It was his only weak spot, for Ron was an ass-vampire and everybody knows the only way to kill an ass-vampire is by kicking him in his vampire ass. With each kick, the Ron creature wailed. Tim kicked harder and faster, using his ninja training to defeat the fiend. Tim looked down and saw that he had kicked the vampire’s ass so hard that it was starting to come out of his mouth. Ron could no longer scream, his mouth was choked with his own inside-out ass. But Cassy was screaming. At Tim. No, no, I love him! Don’t! She had called the police. The sirens were approaching, coming to take Tim to ninja jail, coming to take Ron to the vampire ER. No! My poor Ron! You bastard! The sirens got louder as Cassy beat upon her Ninja Brother’s chest. No no no no no-
Tim woke with a start, still hearing the sirens from his dream. But they were fading into the distance. He sat up on the bed and looked across the room to the mirror. His left eye was red, beyond bloodshot. His nose looked like that of a kindergartener who had shoved three or four gummy bears up there. And- and he could see something poking out of his nostril. When he stood to approach the mirror for a closer look, the bloody booger retreated into into its cave. It was alive. He could feel it move, not just in his nose. No, it seemed to be moving around behind his whole face. His eye welled up with tears of pain and anger.
“That’s it, motherfucker. You’re mine.” Tim rifled through the first-kit for the tweezer. He saw the tiny bottle of pills and decided to take four more aspirin before attempting to remove whatever it was in his nose. As he waited a few minutes for the pills to kick in, he could see his nose undulating. Something was trying to crawl deeper into his face, but whatever it was, it was too big to make much progress. He stood up and approached the mirror.
Grasping the tweezer in both hands, he inserted the tip of the tool carefully into his nose. He felt the thing in his nose try to avoid the device, but it had grown so large that there was nowhere for it to go. When he grasped it with the tweezer, it thrashed frantically. But the thing was caught. It couldn’t escape.
Tim counted down in his head.
Three- he took a deep breath.
Two- he tensed his muscles.
One- He pulled with all his might.
The fire exploded inside his head. This was worse than the time he crashed his bike and one of his testicles had receded into his body. The thing would not budge. It was strong, but Tim was stronger. He redoubled his efforts, took one last breath, and with a mighty scream, he pulled again.
He could see bright white spots in his vision. He was passing out. Suddenly, he was falling into a tunnel, the bright incandescent lights of the motel room’s vanity disappearing into distant blackness. Still he pulled. The cartilage in his nose was cracking, the bones in his face were breaking. It felt like his nose was giving birth. Finally, whatever was inside him let go. Suddenly, the world burst back into view. It was so bright, so wrong. He could see his own torn, stretched nostril. A geyser of blood erupted from it. The world spun. This had to be a dream, how could you fall out of your own nose? At the same time he saw the tweezer in his hands, as he extracted the creature. They were grasping a wriggling, writhing worm-thing that was covered in blood. The thing had a large, white sac clenched in its powerful pincers. As it struggled, caught in the tweezer, it dropped its egg sac. The bloody white globe bounced once on the counter and rolled into the basin of the sink. Tim realized what it was.
He had pulled his own eye out through his nose.
He fell dropped the squirming worm-thing and crushed it beneath his bare foot with all his strength. He fell to the floor in a heap, victorious yet defeated. His phone began to ring. It was Les’ ringtone. He didn’t have enough strength to pick up the device, but he was able to sweep it off the counter and on to the floor, where it landed upside down. With the last bit of his will, he flipped the sleek gadget over and swiped his finger across the screen to answer, leaving a trail of fresh blood smeared on his beautiful phone.
“...ello? T...m? ...s Les. Hello?”
“Hoss. Bital. Need. To go.”
“...at? ...an’t hear ...ou! We ...oing to the hos...tal now! Ron ...urt real...bad.”
“No. Me. Hospital now. Please! Take. I-” He was fading. He could barely speak.
Over the static of the phone, Tim thought he heard Les talking to someone else. But then he must have passed into an area of better reception because suddenly, Les’ words were coming out clearly. He was speaking loudly, as people with bad cell reception tend to do. “Tim, I am going to the hospital with Ron! Something terrible has happened! Do you hear me?!”
“I. Need. Hospital, too! Help. Please, Les.”
It was silent for a couple of seconds. Before he lost conciseness, Tim heard Les say from the distance, “Oh, no. You didn’t wipe your ass with those strange leaves, too, did you?”

2909.1

It's all just a big blur. Flowery motel soap and rough white towels. Why does every little bar of soap break in half the first time I use it? Rest stops and gas stations and regional restaurant chains. I cannot believe that they would allow a fuel depot to call itself Kum & Go. If they had spelled it correctly, it would only be dirty to people like me who hear innuendo in everything. But, no. They had to be all "hip" and "edgy." I guess when you think about it, the very nature of gassing up you car is sexual: You put the nozzle in, squeeze some fuel into the tank, take it back out. Maybe the people at Kum & Go just decided to drop all pretenses.

I've been driving a lot, trying to get to Chicagoland to visit my cousin and his wonderful family. I feel the need to be near people I love right now. I've had a few melancholy moments these past few days. I keep thinking about my mom. It's difficult to learn how to live without someone who was such a large part of my life. I get sad that I can't call her to chat as I drive. I want to tell her about Kum & Go- she'd get a kick out of it. Where do you think I got my dirty mind? I miss my mother, but mostly I just want to have my friend back.

My mom and aunt Helen took a one-way road trip a couple of years ago. They were delivering the car of a friend who had moved back east. They had a blast. When they weren't fighting like, well, sisters. One of my goals for this journey that I'm on is to visit some of the places that they went to. I want to see what she saw and try to imagine how she felt about it. Although she had no desire to be in nature, she could appreciate the beauty of it from the car. We are different in that way. I wouldn't mind living in a log cabin in the woods. There are certain places of undeniable beauty and power. My mom spoke highly of Crazy Horse. It was something that had moved her. Thus, it was something that I had to see for myself.

Visiting the Crazy Horse monument in South Dakota's Black Hills was a very powerful experience. I didn't quite know what to expect, other than a giant sculpture. The unfinished likeness of Crazy Horse is only a small part of the experience, though. The land that the monument occupies is considered sacred by the Native Americans. I felt the holiness of that place deep in my soul. It was a good thing that I was wearing sunglasses, because the entire time I was there, I had tears in my eyes.

Walking through the cultural center, I felt a lot of white guilt. At the same time, I felt like it was wrong of me to be so affected. Wasn't I a beneficiary of the colonial spirit that seized the land from its original inhabitants? Didn't I enjoy my American life?It seems that everywhere the white man goes, destruction and death follow. All in the name of civilization. Later in the day, I couldn't even bring myself to stop at Mt. Rushmore. The two monuments are only a few miles apart, but I had no desire to celebrate those four white men. Sure, they played a significant role in our history. They are considered great men by many. In some ways, they were. But their faces have no place in those sacred hills. Hills that they stole from the native people because someone found shiny golden rocks in it. It is appropriate, then, that the monument to Crazy Horse, which is really a monument to all Native Americans, dwarfs Mt. Rushmore in size and scope.

The story is that a white man once asked "Crazy Horse, where are your lands?" The finished monument will immortalize his response forever: "My lands," he tells the man, pointing toward the horizon, "are where my dead lie buried." I strongly encourage everyone to visit this place. Take some time to reflect on the bloody history that lead us to where we are now.

We cannot change the past. The only hope is to learn from our mistakes so that we will not make them again in the future.

2158.7

The man watched his friend pull up. It had rained the night before and the gravel lot was dotted with small pools of muddy water. His friend drove carefully, avoiding the largest puddles. The man was just loading the last of his gear into his own car. He was eager to get back on the road. The small town in northwestern Montana he had stayed the night in was a little depressing. It was run-down and wild packs of family dogs roamed the streets. So far, Montana had been home to some of the most beautiful country he had ever seen. He wanted to get back out there and resume exploring.

The man and his friend were going on an adventure. They were heading into the backcountry to do some camping. This excited him because previously in his life, the man had gone camping twice. Both times for a single night and both times sharing the tent with at least four other people. This was going to be his first camping trip where he wasn't just tagging along. He and his friend, an experienced camper, were leading this trip themselves. This was to be his first camping trip with his very own tent.

His friend, D, was from Kansas. The similarities between their two lives at the moment were uncanny. D had lost his father the day after the man had lost his mother. Both men were in transitional phases in their lives and both were taking cross-country road trips to figure out just what it was they were supposed to do next. As D was traveling west and the man was traveling east, they had decided to meet in the middle and spent a couple of days in the sticks.

This current camping excursion was mostly unplanned. The men decided to just see what the country had in store for them, so they headed out in a direction that would be beneficial for both of them when they finished camping and resumed their travels. That direction was south. D had a road atlas that listed a few campgrounds. They would meander along, seeing sights and checking sites. When they found a campground they liked, they would stay.

The man wanted to go somewhere remote and beautiful. But, being the son of a woman whose idea of roughing it was having to use generic toilet paper, the man needed to ease himself into a life outdoors. So there was to be no five mile hikes to the perfect, pristine spot. He wanted to sleep no farther than twenty yards from his car and no closer than fifty yards from the next group of people. And the further into the woods, the better.

They drove south on a small rural highway. The scenery was breathtaking. Cattle grazed freely upon rolling hills. Rivers and streams wove their way through the land. The sun shone in the sky and in the distance, the great Rocky Mountains stood over the horizon.

They stopped for gas in a town riddled with advertisements proclaiming various dinosaur-themed amusements. Across from the gas station was an espresso slash ammo shop that they just had to check out. They bought coffee and firewood. Around the corner, hidden from the main street, the one that the tourists drove through, they found a grocery store. They went to shop for groceries for dinner. Because the man saw no point in going through all the trouble to camp if there wasn't a crazy delicious meal to eat around the campfire.

The locals in the shop were perfectly friendly to their faces, but the man sensed a sort of tension in the air. It was quiet, as if everyone was waiting for these two tourists to finish shopping and leave so they could resume their lives. It was a tension he would sense quite a few times, but one that he could empathize with. If he lived in a quiet town that was flooded with gawkers passing through for three months of the year, he would get annoyed, too.

They loaded up on bratwursts for dinner and bacon and eggs for breakfast. The man's family in Washington had given him a nifty cooler that plugged in to his car, but they also bought some ice for when the car was off. They also purchased some fine Montana microbrew, of course. What's the point of camping without beer?

The dinosaur town was about fifty miles from the first site that they wanted to check out. A mile off the main road, the pavement ended. They continued driving on dirt and occasional gravel. As they got deeper into the boondocks, the trees changed. There had been a fire. Judging from the growth on the ground, it had only been a few years ago. The trees were white and grey, black with char. Despite suffering the fire, they had a ghostly beauty. They stopped to sit by a small lake of clear blue water.

When they finally came to the campground, the man was surprised to see that quite a few of the sites were already taken. These folks had probably been coming up there since before the fire. It takes a certain kind of person to camp in a place like that. He wasn't sure exactly what kind, but he knew he wasn't one of them. They moved on.

After rejecting the second or third site, he realized that finding a place that met his parameters would be more difficult than the man had imagined. He didn't take into account the fact that he was camping in the middle of the summer- prime camping season- and that pretty much everyone else wanted the same things from their camp sites. No matter where they went, it would not live up to the idyllic images he had created in his head. It didn't bother him to drive, he loved it. What bothered him was that they were losing daylight and needed to stop before it got dark so they could set up. That meant he would have to give up the idea of prefect and settle for good.

The site they chose was nice, if a little too close to the highway. Located at the top of a mountain pass, it was on a gentle hill and surrounded by trees and large boulders. The next closest campers were down the hill and nicely beyond sight. They set up their gear. D's camping stuff was the lightest, smallest gear he could find. When illuminated from within, his tent looked like an alien pod. He had a love for backpacking and camping gadgets. Everything was compactable and efficient. On the other hand, the stuff the man had with him was larger and with a mind for comfort.

They built a roaring fire to warm them from the roaring wind. D took charge of cooking dinner while the man went to work making a homemade sparkler. He had gotten a flint and steel firestarter from some friends a few years ago. It had a large bar of magnesium attached. When you scraped the magnesium onto kindling and hit it with sparks from the flint, the magnesium would burn so hot and bright that you could start a fire under water. Sure, it started fires, but the man loved it because it was perfect for science experiments and explosive camping fun.

After dinner and beer and not getting blowed up, the man was ready for bed. Zipping into his oversized living room slumber party sleeping bag, he reflected on his day. It had been a good one. This camping stuff was pretty cool. He was still having a great time on his adventure. He had only the tiniest bit of anxiety. But this was a new experience, so it was understandable to feel a little nervous.

During the night, the fire died down but the wind did not. The man's sleep had been restless. For one thing, he had slept on a hill. He could either lay flat and risk rolling down the mountain or lay at an angle and only slowly slide down the mountain. He chose to slide. After six miserable hours of the unending wind creating a cross breeze through the tent's vents and constantly readjusting his position, he decided to give in and just get up. Besides, there was something he had to do that he had been putting off for a while. His greatest fear about camping wasn't wild animals or wild rednecks. He could deal with most weather. The one thing he was afraid of was pooping in the woods. He liked to use a large, private bathroom with a flushing toilet and running water. He liked to take his damn time. That's why, he thought, God created the iPhone. He didn't like the thought of not being comfortable while he defecated.

It turned out to be just fine, though. He realized the camping pooping was a different experience than regular pooping. It wasn't relaxing alone time. It was business time and that's how he treated it: get in, get it out, get out. After relieving himself, he was in a surprisingly good mood for not having slept well. Camping was damn fun.

He cooked breakfast. He discovered that eating bacon cooked on a grill over a fire in the woods was just about the best way to start the day. They cleaned and loaded up. It was time to head back into town for gas and food.

He was pretty sure that after his native Oregon, Montana was the prettiest state that there was. He could live there, if only it touched the ocean. They stopped in Helena, the closest city. At the grocery store, the man chose the menu for the night. The gentleman who rang up their order was friendly. They asked him to recommend a few campsites. He almost told them about some hidden gems, but he must have gotten a signal from one of the other locals, and he clammed up. "Uh, yeah. I like to go up there. There's some good spots. Up there." Adding quickly, as if they might be able to discern the location from his vague directions, "There's bears, though. Lots of bears." People keep their favorite camping spots to themselves, like their favorite fishing holes.

Lacking local advice, they left the store and headed back onto the road. The driving was good. They had the same trouble finding a site that they had had the day before. But, like the day before, the man didn't mind. It seemed that D's map was inaccurate for the area they were in. They had driven past what should have been three different sites without even so much as a marker on the road. As they approached the border of Wyoming, they stopped at a visitor center overlooking a windy lake for advice. The man did not want to leave Montana yet. Wyoming and Yellowstone were for tomorrow. Today was still Montana's.

The wind through the gorge made the bluster of the night before feel like a weak breeze. For the first time in his life the man felt the wind moving his rather large, solid frame. Usually he was as a mountain in wind, but there were a few times in that gorge that day when he felt like it could carry him away. It was nice to be reminded of the power of nature without being witness to its full destructive force.

The cute girl who was vacuuming the closing visitor center let it slip that, yes indeed, they had passed a few campsites. She politely pointed them in the right direction and told them which signs to look for. Her name tag revealed that she was from a state back east, probably working for the US Forest Service as a summer internship. She had no problem dishing on the local spots.

They followed her directions to a long, winding dirt road. There was a popular fishing hole a few miles before the hidden campsites. As they made their war along the road in their foreign-model sedans, a few locals going the opposite direction in their pick-ups and jeeps would give them a little salute. Just a simple gesture, raising their first and second fingers lifting off the steering wheel as if to say, "Brother, I approve." The man quickly changed from his usual one-handed slacker driving position to the more appropriate ten-and-two so he could return the salute.

When they came to the hidden campground, they knew they had stumbled upon pure camping gold. There were actually two different campgrounds, each by a lake. The first one was full of locals who eyed the tourists in their absurdly dirty little cars. Their faces said, How did you know about this place? They left the first lake site and were headed to the next one when D, who was in the lead, turned on a dirt road only marked by a tiny sign of a hiker. On top of the hill, they found their prize: a secret, double hidden, third camp site. They found the best vacant spot and began to unpack.

There was no settling that day. The site was surrounded be trees on three sides and a cliff on the other. The ground was flat. Dinner that night was sublime. They had fire-grilled bacon mushroom havarti cheeseburgers. After the first bite, the man let out a whimper of pleasure. He needed to stop and reflect on the fact that he was eating the best burger of his life. It was unreal and a little insane how good this burger was. This was the kind of meal that could ruin a person for all other meals.

After dinner, fire. After fire, sleep. He rested well. D had given him a couple of extra blankets, but the wind wasn't a factor so he barely needed them. In the morning he made breakfast again. They packed their cars slowly and drove back to the highway, saluting the locals as they passed. This was the end of the interlude. Once they made it back to the main road, they would go their separate ways. D was making his way west. The man was going east to Yellowstone. They stopped their cars to say farewell by the side of the road. Their paths would cross again, but it was anyone's guess as to when.

As the man pulled away, he raised the first two fingers of his left hand from the steering wheel. Brother, I approve.

1072.4

The moth had lost one of its iridescent green wings, but it was still alive. Its five armored legs worked their way carefully around the carnage strewn across the battlefield. It hopped over the corpse of a quetzalcoatl. The gaping hole through its chest was still smoldering. With only one wing left, flight was out of the question. But it still had plenty of fight.

Its one hundred eyes darted around, scanning the ground while it used its antennas to radar the sky. The signal was fuzzy. The evil red dragonfly had blasted off half an antenna. This was a problem because it meant the homing missiles were ineffective. Being heavy artillery, the moth relied on its antennas to get a lock on the target. Then the missile guidance system took over. That damn red dragonfly had found the green moth's weakness. The only places the moth didn't have armor were its joints and its sensitive antennas.

There was a blip on its six-o-clock. The moth spun, in a split second firing off one thousand rounds of hot lead. At nothing. Curses. The chaingun was its only remaining effective weapon. It had plenty of ammo, but the red dragonfly was fast, for it eschewed heavy weapons. It was only armed with a single plasma cannon on the tip of each of its four wings. The evil dragonfly won its battles with fancy flying and quad bolts of scorching red plasma.

Dodging behind the rainbow wreckage of a cyborg parrot, the moth took a moment to get its bearings. It could feel the unseen enemy in the sky above. The green moth needed a plan. It was used to finishing a fight quickly. Its homing missiles each carried a quarter-megaton neutron-bomb payload. Usually it reserved its chaingun for desecrating the twitching remains of its fallen foes. That was, if there were any remains left to desecrate.

The moth hoped that the red dragonfly lacked a full-featured radar system. The lighter opponents usually did. That meant that the dragonfly relied purely on visual detection. Scanning the remains littering the battlefield, the green moth spied a fallen robin whose breast was stained red with blood. The robin had wielded a semi-automatic grenade launcher loaded with a variety of different explosive rounds. If there were any smoke grenades left, the moth could blanket the area with a thick fog. Then the damned red dragonfly would have to fly in low and slow to find its target. And even with malfunctioning radar, the moth would be able to detect its foe.

The moth broke cover and ran as fast as its slow, tank-like legs would carry it. The green moth was only twenty yards away from salvation, when hot plasma began to rain down right in his path. Quite nimbly for such a large, armored creature, the moth dodged backward while simultaneously raising its chaingun in the direction the shots had come from. The green moth sprinted the rest of the way to the grenade launcher, never ceasing the barrage of bullets pouring out of the gun's twenty fifty-caliber rotating barrels.

The launcher was intact. The digital ammunition readout showed one incendiary grenade, two flashbangs and four smoke grenades. In the split second it took the moth to read the display, it had already rotated the magazine to "smoke" and began to pull the trigger. The first bomb exploded at its feet, immediately covering everything in a ten meter area in a rapidly expanding cloud of smoke. The green moth spun in a circle, firing the three remaining smoke grenades in one hundred and twenty degree increments.

The moth changed positions, slipping on the slimy tail of a slain flying fish. It fell to the ground and froze. The only sound was the last of the compressed gas leaving the grenade canisters. Silently, the moth regained its footing. A bead of sweat rolled into its eyes, making a good forty of them blurry. The moth ignored the sweat, focused only on trying to scan for the dragonfly with its damaged antennas. The moth raised its chaingun in one hand and the grenade launcher in the other. It hadn't yet been able to change to another grenade type. The satisfying metal clicking sounds of switching would betray its position in the swirling fog. The moth waited.

Something was wrong. The enemy should be trying to flush it out. The moth's one and a half remaining antennas spun, searching for the enemy. By the time it saw the movement, it was already too late. The fiend was on his tail. Literally. The evil red dragonfly stood atop the moth's huge, armored abdomen. Being that close, through the fog the moth could see that his enemy had another weapon, after all. For through the mist, the moth could make out in the dragonfly's evil grin two rows of laser-sharp diamond-studded mandibles. And the evil red dragonfly was licking its lips.

I'm going to interrupt here for just a second and describe to you a childhood memory: It is a cold, late-November morning. I lay on the old, comfortable leather couch in my aunt's living room. The house is just beginning to wake. I can hear my aunty's hair dryer in the bathroom. I have to pee, but I am holding it. I'm good at holding it. My mom stirs on the floor. She's not quite ready to wake up yet, but I could bet money that by the time I get out of the bathroom after Helen's done in there, she'll be getting a cup of coffee from the kitchen. Right now, I pull the crocheted blanket that my grandmother made up to my chin and gaze toward the ceiling.

Adorning the wall above my improvised mattress are fabulous paper kites. There are tropical birds and butterflies. A veritable rainbow of flying paper creatures. My favorite is a big, blue butterfly with black and yellow and green accents on its wings. The little boy that I am begins to daydream about these kites. But it's not a daydream with flying and sparkles and unicorns. No, the little boy that I am pits them against each other in mortal combat. The violent kid's movies of the 1980s influence my play. As I wait to use the bathroom, the final competitors in this morning's battle royale face off.

Before the green moth could even squeeze the trigger of the chaingun, the evil red dragonfly plasma-zapped its barrel, fusing the metal into a glowing, dripping glob of useless. The dragonfly, quick as lightning, ducked down and with its powerful, deadly jaws, and began to bite through the armor on the moth's abdomen. The only thing that could penetrate that kind of armor was diamond laserteeth. The armor that the dragonfly was biting through was the armor upon which the moth's missile launcher had been attached. In an instant, the dragonfly had severed the weapon and thrown it into the hazy distance. The moth screamed in pain and rage. The dragonfly, with its uncanny speed, darted off again into the sky.

The wounded green moth was now only armed with a scavenged grenade launcher that had two flashbangs and one incendiary round. That could work, though. The moth could blind the dragonfly with the flashbangs and then burn it to cinders with the final grenade. Even if it had to incinerate the dragonfly at close range, it would do so. The moth's remaining armor would keep it protected.

The moth's antennas detected a blip. Something was falling from the sky. The moth raised the grenade launcher and squinted its eyes in anticipation of the flash grenade exploding. But once again, something was wrong. The blip falling from the sky was too small. It was not the dragonfly. But it was heading straight for him. The moth dodged backward and took cover. Unfortunately its damaged radar had misread the trajectory of the object. The small cone of metal landed squarely on the moth's thorax. The moth had only a split second to register that it had just caught the neutron-bomb nosecone from one of its own missiles before a streaking plasma bolt detonated the small object.

The explosion created a crater surrounded by piles of black and green and white bug guts. The evil red dragonfly flew in a downward spiral over the blast site, enjoying the carnage it had created. It gloated over the destruction. Something blue and fast, faster than the dragonfly, shot by just over its head with a peculiar hum. The dragonfly's face hurt. In the fog the dragonfly could make out a silhouette of glowing blue butterfly wings. Glowing blue lightsaber butterfly wings. The evil red dragonfly spat out a mouthful of shiny severed mandibles. Lightsabers were the only thing that could cut through diamond laserteeth. The humming blue shape streaked by again. Son of a bitch, thought the evil red dragonfly as its decapitated head rolled through a pile of stinking moth entrails, that butterfly is fast.

843.6

This is the happiest I have been in quite some time. Today I was repeatedly struck by how beautiful this country is. I've only been through four states so far, but it seems that around every bend there is another natural wonder to marvel at. It makes me wish that I could put the car on autopilot so I could gaze at the gorgeous scenery.

Don't tell anyone, but I'm actually very sensitive. All it takes is some sort of visual, aural or sensory cue to trigger a wave of emotions. There's a song by Le Loup called "Sherpa" that describes how I feel quite nicely:

"I am a man, but I'm taken further
Not just a surface, but a complicated structure
And all that I have dreamed
And all that I have seen
Wells up sometimes inside me
Sometimes it seems to swallow me"

I have always felt constrained by my body. I want to be able to experience everything. The time we have is too short. There is so much out there. So many stories. I want to go everywhere and do anything. More than that, I want to do it all at once. There is a great force inside of me. I have always been aware of its presence, but I have only recently begun to tap into it. When I am overwhelmed by my emotions, it is that force, that power, talking to me. Talking through me.

Today, boundless joy: I am on an adventure that I have been dreaming about for ages. I am exploring areas of our country I have only read about or seen in movies. I am visiting the people I love. I got to take a ferry! I am the only thing guiding my life right now. I have never felt so in control of my destiny. I have never felt so optimistic about what will happen next.

Long before settling in for the night in Missoula, Montana, I stopped at the Wild Horses Monument in eastern Washington to stretch my legs and take a moment to pause and reflect. At the top of a large bluff there are fourteen steel horse statues. They are dynamically posed, galloping toward the cliff. It is a fine, manmade tribute. Very moving. Very Dramatic. What brought tears to my eyes, though, was the clouds above the statues. Wild horses in the sky.

324.3

The anxious joy of anticipation. It always began at the Tacoma Narrows. Coming around the bend before the bridge, the road dips. There is a white pedestrian bridge or small overpass or train track that spans across the freeway right before you can see the Narrows. In 30 years of driving to my aunt's house, I still don't really know what it is that goes across the freeway. All I see is a white blur at the top of my vision that gets overshadowed by the anticipation of seeing the bridge. It is a small detail that gets overlooked but is nonetheless a part of the whole picture. It might not even exist. I have been known to make stuff up.

There is something magical to me about the Tacoma Narrows bridge. It is a long, thin suspension bridge, a beautiful piece of architecture. I used to stare up at the towers and imagine standing up there with the wind in my eyes, about to take flight. The curving road and the hills on either bank hide the bridge from sight until you are almost on it. This astonishing reveal excites me every time I cross it. Large bridges can be scary for some people to traverse. The Narrows is great because it doesn't give you a chance to back out. By the time you see the bridge it's just about too late. Your'e crossing, buddy. Whether you like it or not.

The famous footage of the first Narrows collapsing runs through my mind every time I cross. Seeing the bridge sway in the wind and fall like a cheap model in a Godzilla movie had a profound effect on me as a child. But it didn't scare me. No, it thrilled me. I have always been drawn to violent images. In the days before disaster movie CGI effects where entire portions of the world get wiped out, that grainy film served to remind me of mankind's tenuous control over the natural world. Concrete and metal give the grand illusion of permanence when compared to our soft, squishy bodies. But our planet could easily scratch all of our structures off its surface like a scab.

And yet the Narrows also speaks to indomitable human spirit. Human beings will always try to surmount the most insurmountable obstacles. I guess it's a beautiful thing, our arrogance. It's gotten us where we are today. Wait. Is that a good thing? Hmmmm.

I'm pretty tired right now and I don't know if I want to be cynical or hopeful. Do they have to be mutually exclusive? I'm off on a tangent, anyway. The whole bridge thing was just an introductory paragraph in what was supposed to be a reflective essay about my family in Washington. But that will have to wait for another day. I love them too much to half-ass it when I'm tired. It's not like this is a college essay or anything. This is important.

One other thing: There are two Narrows bridges now, one for each direction of traffic. And the new one isn't even that narrow. What the fuck? Don't you know that you destroyed some of the magic, State of Washington?

54.1

Corvallis and I are at an interesting place in our relationship. It used to feel like home. I guess that makes sense, I was born here. It used to be that I could go home, visit my mom, and just be in a comfortable, familiar place. No matter where I was in my life, I could go home if I needed to. There was always an open door and a washing machine that i could use for free.

Since my mom passed, Corvallis has felt strange to me. I still have many emotional connections to it, but when I visit it feels like I'm, um, well, visiting. It's like crashing for the weekend with some old friends whom you haven't seen in a while. You're welcome at their place, of course. The stuff is still mostly in the same spot. There is a familiarity that is comforting. A connection to times passed, good times. But something about your friendship has changed at a fundamental level. You are a guest now and this is not your place anymore. That's how I feel about Corvallis. We'll always be friends, but it will never be like it was.

It has its charms, though. Corvallis was a good place to grow up. Summer here is beautiful. Especially when the college students leave and everything just quiets down. Eugene is like that to some degree, but it doesn't have that same feeling as if everyone is taking a nap. When I think of Corvallis in the summer, I think of sleepy, sunny, green tree-lined streets. I see blades of grass from bare feet floating in the warm water of a backyard pool. The smell of water on hot asphalt. Drinking from the hose. It is a good town. It is clean and safe and it is a part of me. It seemed appropriate to me to begin my journey from the place that I, myself, began.

These days when I come to town I stay at my aunt Judy's. She's not really my aunt. But she is. My mom and I met Judy on the day of my Bar Mitzvah. She was a friend of a friend who agreed to watch the young children in the kid's room. She and my mom became fast friends despite being at polar opposite ends of the political spectrum. I ended up with a weekly babysitting gig watching Judy's son Matt. Matt is the closest thing I have to a little brother. I taught him things like how to properly play at a restaurant table and how to make food puppets. There were lots of video games and water fights. One time we tried to sell his dog. Ah, youth. In college I housesat at Judy's during the summers. I used to think I was so clever stealing shots of whiskey and rum and then refilling the bottle with water. Later I realized that, A; I was the only one drinking the liquor so i didn't really need to hide my pilfering and, B; I had diluted it down so much throughout the years that its piss-like taste eventually made it extremely non potable.

Over the years Judy's family became part of my family, her home was like my home. Matt used to call my mom his second mother and Paul, Judy's husband, called her his second wife. They even painted pottery for her to that effect. Judy was in the room with us when my mom died. I'll never forget what she did for me that day. My world had just been shattered apart. I had lost the most important person in my life, the only other member of my home. I was an orphan. But Judy, she hugged me tight and whispered in my ear, "You are not alone. You will never be alone." Impossibly, I wept harder. She was right and I needed to hear it. I needed to hear it exactly at that moment or... I don't want to go to that place. Let's just say that she comforted me at a time when I was near-inconsolable and she'll always have a special place in my heart for that. Judy is my aunt now. She honored me by putting my high school portrait on her wall. It is the same one that used to hang on my mom's wall. It was her favorite, the one with the Looney Tunes tie and the shit-eating grin.

In the coming weeks, I will be visiting the people and places that are most important to me. It will be a joyful time, catching up with friends and family. In between these visits, I will be spending quite a lot of time by myself. As an only child, i am used to that. I will be using this time to explore, write, meditate, and follow my heart.

My heart, it is the only thing that is guiding me right now.