About that new adventure.....

I am not often compelled, or at least I do not remember it being so, to follow up a post so quickly. I think I feel required to respond publicly to some of the feedback I have received privately. Names left for another time, and words paraphrased so as not to make anyone too uncomfortable. I appreciate any and all feedback, be it shares, likes, comments, or private messages. (I assume we are all on the same page with the jargon, as I only share on that one social media site.)

I think mostly what I wanted to say here is that the last article I posted (If you haven't read it yet, I'd suggest doing so now ) was written while I was riding a high. A natural high, one that came from realizing that I have persevered once before, and that I can certainly do it again. The flip side of that coin, is the downtime. I do not refer here to the communal understanding we have of downtime among whitewater folk. Instead, I reference the darkness, the emptiness, and the despair. I had some people tell me how they wanted or wished they could see things the way I do, and go live their lives the way I am. I can recognize what they are getting at, but I am really afraid I have given off an aire of eternal optimism.

I am not in anyway, an eternal optimist. I fret, I worry, I suffer from sometimes debilitating anxiety attacks. My most recent episode of anxiety left me trembling, chest tight, and forcing myself to breath deep and slow. I re-read this paragraph just now, and upon doing so realized a flaw in my logic. Optimism is not diagnosed.Anxiety is. I try very hard to keep an upbeat or positive outlook, and during my time in Chattanooga and shortly after leaving Chattanooga, I certainly was a positive energy, and people around me made note of it. My confidence soared, and with the help of my old friends and some new ones as well as my amazing parents I was soon back on my feet and employed and heading in the direction I wanted.

When I was fired, a tailspin ensued. I could hear the plane engine revving out of control and see the world spinning outside of my canopy and the green fields flying up towards me uncontrollably. What I had not realized at that dark moment, was that my plane was not completely disabled. I had taken a hit, it had knocked me off my flight path, but I was still in the plane and I could still control it. The drive during the rain when the clouds cleared, that is when I was able to stop the spin and level off. I found the horizon, pointed my props that way and flew.

Great story right? Everything is going to be just fine right? Well, I wish it was just that simple. It is not. I suffered, and I still do. I spent my day today, first at the gym (gyms bring to mind the same repetitive doldrums I felt trapped in once before), just to be sure I do not stagnate. Idleness is driving me insane. I need to work, or explore, or boat, or hike, or....write. The gym is good for me, I've been steadily losing weight and becoming healthier since I returned home but it still doesn't rid me of that feeling of despair that has been with me since my plane leveled off. I joined my mom for some errands around town, then returned home to do some much overdue maintenance on my truck. All the while my stomach is tight. My mind would wander back to my current situation, the angst and anxiety trying to override my temperament. What is so supremely bizarre to me is the similarity to how I physically feel now, and how I felt back in May when I uprooted and ran south. The bizarre part, is that it is happening for exactly the opposite reasons. I hated having a job then, despised it, felt anchored to the bottom of a sea with it. Now, though, I feel completely useless, idle, and for the most part on the verge of giving up.

What would giving up mean? Laying on the floor and never moving? Running off into the wilderness to live on squirrel and tree bark? This question scares me like no other. What does giving up look like? I am frightened because at times I really truly want quit it all. Not suicide, please do not think that. There is light in this mind, and there is darkness in this mind and sometimes I feel like just embracing the dark, letting it swallow me and wallowing in the comfort of not having to give a damn.

What gets me out of that cave, well I wish I knew. I was deep in darkness all day today. I struggled just to open doors and maintain while out shopping. I watched the cashier at Wal-Mart, frustrated by an elderly lady, act indignant. All the while thinking to myself, does he have any idea how I envy his job. Not the specific task mind you, but the idea. I had never been fired before in my life and perhaps that stands to the reason I am having to try so hard to make sense of what is happening inside me.

A spark hit me late in the day. I had struggled with working on my truck, the previous oil change saw the oil filter itself pretty well over tightened. I had to struggle first for good access, then for good leverage. ( A family trait this is, I can remember many many dates with my ex-wife delayed or cancelled because of Murphy's Law) I lost my temper and threw a ratchet, then immediately felt foolish. Took a few pacing steps, took a breath, and got back to work. I also had to change my negative or ground battery cable, so as I struggled with reaching the bolt on the bottom of the engine block I begin to slip back into the darkness. I lost the bolt, all went black. I can not recall exactly what I was thinking or how it came into my head, but there I was standing on the edge of an abyss leaning closer and further into it. I snapped back and found myself holding two replacement bolts and upon sliding back under the truck I found better vantage point and the work was done shortly. I did have a bit lighter work to do, and I got the sub-woofer installed pretty easily with some quick thinking help from my father.  Maybe that was it. Perhaps the light that drew me like a moth to flame out of that dark tunnel, was the fact that I had finished something. I had a task and I did it. I had a job, and I did that job.

I decided before washing up for dinner that I was going to go out for a bit. Maybe meet some friends or maybe just find a quiet corner in a slightly hipster pizza parlor that I am very familiar with. So, anonymous reader, here I sit, in the back corner of Rivermont Pizza typing away and deflecting the looks I receive for being "that guy". What I find profoundly comforting, is that none of these people know exactly what "that guy" has been through and persevered, and therefore have no idea just how much I am capable of accomplishing.

I will accomplish it, but it won't be roses and rainbows the whole time. I will suffer, I will hurt, I will tremble and shake with anxiety, and I will writhe in despair. I will hate life, I will regret my decisions.


I will see you on the river.

The end of one adventure the beginning of another.

It has been some time since last I dawdled in the digital. I have not written to you, the anonymous reader, in some time now. Things have happened since I wrote a tearful letter to my dear friend. I was able, through amazing luck and generosity, to attend Carter's memorial. It was tremendous, a GDI road trip minus the boating. My band of merry travelers took excellent care of me and the journey was definitely the defining moment of the weekend, and of my recent life. Camping at Turkey Creek campground and finding myself taking a later night/early morning shower (a la copious amounts of beer and minimal food) and then having a random and certainly scattered conversation with a fellow camper as I stumbled my way from the bath house.

It was an odd time for me. I thought I had gotten past the hurt of losing Carter, and yet as we drew closer and closer to Apex, I knew I was wrong. The van was full of hilarious boating stories on the way out, recounting the early days of long boats and C1's of yesteryear. Some hi-jinx and tomfoolery as well, lets not forget we were four men left to our druthers in a van for several hours, so for my readers of a delicate sensibility I'll leave the details for campfire story telling. Simmering underneath all of that joy, each of us felt it creeping in and settling on us like a blanket of snow. Building its weight in that beautiful way. Memories of Carter slipping in to our conversations here and there. The memorial was beautiful, it truly was something that he would have been proud of, and I even got a cold beer before the keg tapped out.

I had my self together, I felt calm and cool and in control of my emotions. Then Emma spoke, and nothing I had constructed could hold back my pain. How this teenage girl could stand before a crowd as she did, and not only deliver the most touching eulogy I have ever had the privilege of hearing but also somehow comfort everyone there by doing so. Every single person in that crowd loved Carter, because he loved every single person on that crowd. In all of these people, and all of the strength gained from growing old and experiencing life, somehow this young angel of a young lady simply picked us all up and carried us on her shoulder and said to us, simply, "It's ok, he would want us to go on and be happy."

I cried as her words wove the most touching tapestry of a man's life for which any of us should hope to be lucky enough to qualify. His words of wisdom to her, to not just survive life, but to LIVE it. Experience all that you can and want to, because you only get one chance.

Emma Worthington, you moved something in me for which I need and want to thank you from the bottom of my heart.

The ride home from Apex meant a stop over in Ashe-vegas, where, thanks to a boater's awesome suggestion, we got some great pizza and wings, and beer. We camped, I mean, visited outside a boater friendly place, I in my tent alongside another traveler in the backyard, and others in the van on the street side. A morning confrontation with a, we will say misunderstood, elderly gentlemen led to a surprise visit by the local Police, who were more than polite and actually quite nice to deal with. They wanted to make sure we weren't squatting and in fact when they arrived we were nearly ready to depart. No camping in front of Old Man Calahan's place!!  The remainder of the ride was filled with laughter and memories of a different type. Stories of fathers since passed and still with us. All with a common value in the center, time spent with parents is invaluable.

Let me take a second and recap my travels so far, if you will indulge me. Carter's memorial, was August 8th. I had left my home, and the town my parents live in, on May 18th and for the first time in my entire life, had lived an existence without seeing them in person at least 3 times a month. Judge me as you will, but I had always found it important to visit at least once a week when I could. Just to eat dinner and catch up on the latest in their lives. I had moved about 6 and a half hours away to Chattanooga, found a job and a place to live. One night, as I lay bed (which really meant my air mattress and sleeping bag) I thought to myself:

You've done it! You wanted to leave and come to a place with more of what you wanted and you did it! You packed up your essentials and journeyed into the unknown and survived! 
I had done exactly that, and in the meantime had paddled some awesome rivers with some great folks, and even solo (Come feel the cool waters of the Tellico ) I had also been able to be completely alone and survive it. I lived on ramen and canned ravioli, I scraped together money for rent, I purchased fuel 5 dollars at a time, I drove around with my windows down to save gas (in Chattanooga, in July....), and I did all of that, and never once did I regret my decision to leave Virginia.

Until I watched Emma, I watched her say goodbye to her father. I listened to my traveling companions share stories and reminisce about fathers and mothers. As we passed through Greensboro on our way home I glanced out the passenger window at Highway 29 north, and a mere two hours up that highway were my parents. Still alive and missing me in such depth and pain. I had avoided calling them, texting occasionally, because I didn't want to be reminded of how much they hurt that I had left. My parents missed me so badly that for weeks they barely left the house and nary said a word at dinner.

I suppose, until that ride home, after Emma had broken through the ice cold barriers to my heart, I had never fully faced the idea that I would be so desperate to see my own parents again. Nobody ever gets younger, and I had suddenly realized what I had thrown away. I am very close to my mother, and my father and I were just starting to develop a relationship really. He worked multiple jobs during my formative years, and after I graduated high school, I just couldn't be bothered to be around. Once my divorce happened and in some time just before, I began to reach to my father to go paddling. He enjoys his kayak and I enjoy time spent on the water, talking about the river and the mountains and just getting away from the work week with him.

I had walked away from this, which is not something you get a second chance at, ever. Upon returning to Chattanooga, and in turn to the meager room I rented, I lay upon my bed (a hand me down from another tennant which I only had for a week) and wept. I couldn't stay, I knew I had to go home. I could not remove from my head the idea that my parents would leave me before I go to see them again. I began packing my belongings back into my truck. The folks living in the house began gathering, asking me what was going on and all I could say was I needed to go home. Then I did.

Full circle. I left Lynchburg and headed north to Fayetteville, Wva in May, and when I returned it was from the south. I have no regrets, and upon returning to town and beginning a job search, found myself getting a lot of paddling in. James River, New River, Nantahala River, and finally a year after declaring it my ultimate goal, I had my first descent of the Lower Gauley, at Gauley Fest (more to come on that weekend as I get time). A job came my way, a dream of a job. I was rehired at my last place of employ in a different, much more comfortable and lower stress department. Life was looking great. I had collected some new people into my life, one in particular has made a huge impact and She knows that.

She met me broke, tired, lost, but happy. Accepted that my situation was but temporary, and we moved on. I had a job for about a month, and was unceremoniously let go. It wasn't a performance issue, or a personal issue. It was strictly political, and I don't politic well (at all). I was fired November 17th, and I sit here typing  on November 19th. The past day and half a dark tunnel of timelessness and self loathing. How could I have come so far from May until now? Just when things start to fall into place and I start to climb the hill of debt I have, I just slide right back down?

I drove today through a messy rain storm with cloudy skies of dark grey and purple hues. As if the weather took on my mood and followed me around like a cartoon character having an unlucky day. I rounded a corner and the clouds cleared and this crystal blue sky emerged. Azure and clear and clean and sharp. The sun beaming down through the window instantly warmed the truck and I rolled my window down, turning off the heat which had been blowing warm air. My elbow hanging outside the window and fresh warm air, carrying the scent of the rain whispered in to me.

"You did it once before, you will do it again"

And I will. I know I will.

Life is short, life is finite, but do you know what?

My life, right now, is pretty damned good, and I'm not done having fun yet.

See you all on the river.

Ridiculous

The darkness pulsates, flickering from empty nothingness to brightly colored patterns in kaleidoscopic form. Cool breeze from the open window, whispering softly across the exposed toes and knees and hands and chest. Each wisp of air tickling the hair on the chest, barely moving yet seemingly waving like the tallest oaks in the mountains during a thunderstorm. The blue sheet lays across, weightless on the body while simultaneously anchoring the helium balloon of a human below it.

She tarried to and fro, the last minute routine of drifty dreamland preparedness.  Tidying and primping, cleaning and rinsing, door locked, dishes away, candles extinguished, cat fed, teeth brushed, time checked, sheets pulled back, slipping into.....

Just to touch, to feel, to associate the internal feeling with external stimulation. Just to touch. The pleasurable static tickling from the inside out at every joint. Knees alight with electric light. Toes gone ballistic. Fingers trembling with magnetic excitement. Lying completely still and yet full of vivacious movement. Vibrations of the most sensual kind from follicle on head to pad of foot. 

Bedtime traditions at a terminus, binding no longer she heads to the bunk. The darkness moves from her way, a wake of shimmering onyx waves flow back from her shoulders. Night envelopes her body but light shines out from within her coil. Rippling curly hair falls down as a shadow across slim shoulders, skin peppered with soft freckles contrasting the alabaster vellum. Glowing a calming red, the hollows of her collarbone catch the light from the street outside and bouncing it around cooling the rays from white hot to warm embers. Radiating from her torso brilliant silver shimmering shining strands of light. Dancing in unison like an anemone in a tidal pool catching the sea moving in and out. Rays reaching out from her arms and tickling outstretched finger tips. 

Smile. Smiling. A grin beaming warm tingling laughter, it touches the nose and sends shivers to the toes. She falls deftly onto the mattress, in repose along side with hands interlocked. Her breathing resonates through the cushion, ribs reverberating rhythmically and transferring taut respiration repeatedly. 

Limbs shiver, thighs shake gently as the breeze from the window flicks gently at the follicles. Static travelling out from the bones to the skin. Fingers gently caress the svelte radius of her right arm. Silky smooth skin and the fingertips barely graze as concentric circles are traced. Tension rising inside, a burbling babbling bubbling brook of temptation and sensation. Tingling and ringing, pulsing and fluctuating all on a microscopic macro cosmic level. Universes spin inside, planets align, lava rising and pumping potent pleasure towards the surface, an eruption of sensation and entertainment. 

Intense. Intensity. Lying completely still as a stone save for one hand circumnavigating her delicate forearm. Overwhelm. Overwhelming. 

The digits daftly dawdle downward toward the wrist, palm sliding down to impact arm and fingers wrapping around to grip solidly. Tingling nerves melt into warm simmering pools beneath the skin. Feeling a rainbow coursing through the veins. Ruby and tangerine run tiny loops. Saffron and emerald marching in tiny cadence up and down the legs. Azure and indigo firebolts electrify the nerves and send muscles twitching. Violet travels to center of the chassis, igniting a fuse.

Touch. Touching. 

Share. Sharing.

Pink Moon

The truck trundled up the hill along the road that was mostly just a rough tractor trail. He was tired after having spent three days enjoying the company of thousands of like minded adventure seekers. Were it not for a shimmering smile and sassy personality waiting for him somewhere in the festival fields, he would have been thirty minutes from a hot shower and a comfortable air mattress and a washing machine. Camping gear and coolers and water bottles bouncing around the truck as it moves up the hill. Perhaps a bit faster than necessary but the vehicle could handle it with ease.

The drive from Summersville consisted of twisty windy and steep back roads cut in half with a short stint on interstate 64. The farm was in the definition of "nowhere" no reception on cellular phone and he had been flying blind as far as timing his reunion with that smile and those eyes. Jumbling up the hill, watching for rocks and big potholes, he glanced up and saw her, standing by the road. She was beaming. He was beaming. The truck stops and she hops in, grabs a ride to the top of a mountain where the truck will remain parked.

A quick well deserved nap and some dinner, then off to see some music performed live in Wild Wonderful West Virginia. The light show is incredible against the opposing valley and ridge line, the musicians energetic and enthusiastic despite a small crowd lingering. The folding chair cradles him, her legs draped across his as she sits perpendicular. Her head bobbing as sleep overwhelms and she drifts off. His eyes snap open and all that is seen is the starry sky and bright light in varied colors sweeping overhead. They're both just too tired to stay awake.

The bed of the camper is made, and inviting and the sheets are cool on the skin. Once settled in, they can still hear the thumping droning bass line from the stages on the other side of the ridge. Sometimes when the wind blows correct, the other instruments come through with such clarity. Small talk, whispers and sweet nothings. Tight hugs back and forth and delicate kisses on wind chapped cheeks. In and out of slumber, dreams to reality and back again. They doze.

First Dates.

She wore a Green Dress. The type of green from military uniforms. Quiet and calming and unassuming. The green that puts you at ease. The shade that makes you think, even if for a fleeting second, everything is being handled. Envy is associated with green and until this day I had never understood, well not completely, what that meant. It wasn't just a dress she had put on, she donned it. She slid inside and each curve of her tall slender body met with a perfectly curved bit of that dress.

Large Brown Buttons down the front. The first at the top of that collar that folded down so nice and pressed. Brown Button One, holds the neckline together. Nothing showing that a mother wouldn't approve of, nothing more needed to be shown. Modesty arouses more than just the intellect. 

Brown Button Two, just above the bust, pulling the fabric together just right. Nary too tight or naught, perfect and tightly drawn across the bosom. I shall not tarry here, suffice my choice of the words to supply information enough to support the idea of perfection.

Brown Button Three below the bust. The top of the tummy. Flat, soft and warmly inviting of my hand. 

Brown Button Three and Four work together and keep the Green Dress pulled once more taut and trim around her waist. Slight wrinkle between them, enough for one finger to fill the void when my arms sneaks around from behind her and I pull her close for a hug and sneak a kiss on those impeccably kissable cheeks. 

Hips, those amazing hips, they curved outward from her waist at the exact angle that they should. Sexy degrees, that's the angle. I will not submit for argument on that point. Her hips filled the Green Dress. 

Brown Button Five, just below that cute navel. Hidden beneath the Green Dress, adorned with a quiet curved metal stud. Soft white skin and perfectly round, the belly button. Brown Button Six just below and right above the pelvis. Brown Button Six is the last. 

The Green Dress extends to just above her knees. They are pink on top and slightly bruised, standing out like a pair of toes on a white rabbit's foot. White legs, smooth and hairless and long. Miles long. Hours long. Lifetimes long. Her legs go all the way from her ankles to her hindquarters. Skin white and clean, well cared for but also well used.

She doesn't sit in my passenger seat so much as she curls up in it. As I drive with my left hand, she grips firmly but gently my right. Her fingers slender and long, wrapping around to the back of my hand, palms together. My hands not sweating with nervous energy. Calm, relaxed, at ease, and full of comfort our hands mesh well, My long bony and somewhat misshapen fingers and her perfectly daft digits finding ways to fit. She guides my driving along with calmly spoken verbal cues. Confident in my driving, or her ability to feign such is outstanding.

We arrive, amidst a cool late summer drizzle. My wipers have no setting which keeps both my windshield clear of water and my wipers from not chattering across a dry glass surface. I ignored the chattering, as I dare not lose grip of her delicate hold. Green Truck is parked, I scamper out of my door, quickly around the bed. The race to chivalrous intention is afoot. I fling myself around the passenger rear corner of the truck bed. My boots slip but only slightly and I lurch forward hand reaching toward the door handle. I make it in time and open the door. There, in my passenger seat, curled up and looking stunning and coy, she sits. I extend my hand and she accepts, her brown boots pointed toe down and probing towards the wet pavement.

The boots, brown and covering just above the ankle, Brown Boot One slides down, pointed toward the ground and slowly lowering. The toe just grazing that wet firmament, flexing slightly, and before the heel touches, Brown Boot Two quickly matches pace and before falling to the heels, my arms wrap around her waist and I lean in.

I steal a kiss.

Dear Carter

Dear Carter,

I had not expected the drive to be so hard. I had driven this route once before a few months back and had a life affirming experience of wonderment and achievement. It was the eighteenth of July, and I thought I had a handle on this southern Tennessee summer. Well, I was wrong. The heat was intense, even early in the day, as I began to pack my meager camping supplies into my truck. I needed to paddle. I had not been able to bring myself to get on a river since that day. The day you left.

The campground we all know and love is along my route to the Tellico River. I could not simply pass by, I had to go see that relic. The joke left on display. Hung on the wall and so proudly displayed as a symbol of your carefree spirit. Live and let live, move on from the disappointments and embrace the joy instead. Not a small investment, this paddle, and so shortly lived it was. I do not believe many others would have handled its failure with such grace and humor. I certainly would not have been capable of such restraint. It makes perfect sense, that on a wall in a campground store, seven hours from where your home was, hung a perfect shining example of why so many of us love you. I remember seeing it there after that magical day I spent alone on the river. The day when nature and my heart and those encouraging words from all of my friends, and Carter you were a loud clear voice in my head and heart, all sang a unifying song of confirmation. I stopped in at CMT Campground to scavenge a shower, for at the time I was something of a vagabond still. The owners accommodated me for a very reasonable fee and as I walked out the door I glanced over and smiled so big at the sight of that broken paddle there on the wall. Signature across the shaft in black marker, ornate, with that certain flair we knew.

This trip, as I drove, I began to ponder a grand speech I would make in your honor, some touching remarks to be made to an audience of none. I knew there must be some pageantry to be had, a magicians flourish to honor you. I had visions of grandeur and an elegant explanation to innocent bystander that attached to this mere wall made by human hands was the paddle of a god. Here, anchored to the earth in such a way no mere mortal could remove it was Mjolnir. I was overwhelmed several times on my drive. Tears welling up and frustration with my lack of control over my emotions. Anger that I would not get to see you again. Confusion as to how I hurt so much. I wept and I drove.

I turned into the gravel parking lot and much to my chagrin the place was vacant save one other car. Not a damned soul in sight at CMT. Nobody was stirring about, no one was mowing or sweeping or hauling fire wood. I hopped out of my truck and headed toward the door and without realizing how it had gotten there my own paddle was in my hand. Darkness inside the mausoleum. The store was locked, closed, and sealed. I stood dumbfounded and hurt. Lost and ready to just return home instantly. I needed to see, to be inside and say those amazing words. Recite my speech and make my peace. It was not to happen this day, and I eventually unglued my feet from the concrete and began to slowly make my way back to the truck.

(Hello? They're closed. Family reunion, they've all gone fishing.) A faint voice over my shoulder caused me to turn slowly. A woman about my mother's age standing by a table with an umbrella open over it on the patio adjacent to the store.

I turned and paused, wordless and staring for a pregnant moment. (Hi, I just wanted to come visit my friend's paddle. He, um, well he's not with us anymore and I was just hoping for a moment to say hello.)

I went on to explain how we had camped there before, and had developed a friendship with the owner, Wayne. I am not certain as to whether my eyes were red and puffy but I am certain she could see pain in them.

(Come on, I have a key, I'll let you in for a bit so you can have some time. Let's go in through the kitchen.)

I followed her and was let into the lobby of the store. On the wall hung the paddle. Alone. Quiet. Still. So alone. I froze, words left me. Speech erased and magical flourish dropped by the wayside. I slowly stepped forward and sat the blade of my paddle on the concrete floor and leaned the T-grip over towards the signature emblazoned on shaft hanging on the wall.

It was so quiet in that room. I could hear my heart, not beating, I'm certain it stopped beating as it broke. Clink, plastic and carbon met wood-

A thunderous echo as the blade smacks flat against the water just behind me, I flinch in my outfitting. That son of a bitch silently paddled up behind me and smacked his paddle flat against the surface of the river like a beaver tail sending out a warning. Cold, very damn cold water flies against the back of my neck. The Nantahala is always so gloriously cold. Carter's laugh echoing closely behind the thunder clap of his paddle. I slice at the water and send a splash of cool aqua his way. The third lap on this river in two days has made us comfortable and restless. GDI style boating is about to happen. Demolition derby in plastic canoes. We fall back from one another only to fly up behind and try to knock each other off line. Trying for rock spins and failing, mostly. Yelling at one another words of encouragement, insult, and suggesting moves to try. This day is beautiful. We are not alone and in fact are in the company of quite a few other open boaters and really enjoying the day. Kayaking group after group passing through the chaos that is our canoe group. We zig zag the riffles and wave trains, flying into eddies as hard as possible, purposefully trying to blast the other out of the way. 

Carter and I take turns surfing a spot while a handful of kayakers wait patiently and undoubtedly wonder how the two of us can be having so such fun while being so unsuccessful at the feat we attempt. He's on the wave, holding his own, which means I simply must join in and ruin the streak. I dig hard, get above the wave and turn broadside, leaning hard downstream and when the bow of his boat meets mine I nearly get knocked over the other way. I grab on and hold myself upright as we are swept out of the wave together, cold water being shoveled into my face by his paddle. Huge smiles and bellowing laughter from both of us. We separate and began to paddle to catch the group. Idle chatter of the weather and water and future paddling plans. The next drop presents some more fun and we zig and zag some more, hitting eddies and trying tricks.

Our group came across a gaggle of kayakers, Something happened that I began to get used to occurring, Carter knew them. Hellos and pleasantries exchanged. I charged hard towards the side of Carter's boat, intending to push him off line and into shallow manky water. He countered hard and we ended up bouncing off one another and glancing into a kayaker wearing a helmet with a wire face mask. This kayaker was quite obviously displeased and began to back paddle to avoid the fracas. 

TOO CROWDED FOR ME! TOO CROWDED FOR ME! 

I heard the words from behind the wire mask shouted and like a troop of soldiers the kayaking group began to assemble in a single eddy far from the group of open boaters who never stopped smashing into one another and hurling expletives the whole time laughing and smiling. I had never seen this behavior before, I was never ashamed, just confused. Could they not see the fun they were missing? Hadn't they heard the laughter and felt the joy?

Slack water now and as I paddle up next to Carter and glance over, barely able to breath from laughing so hard. I open my mouth to throw down the next insult and before I can his paddle comes flying down flat and swift to the surface of the water, spray hits my face, my cheeks. The water feels....

warm. Tears, hot tears roll down my cheeks and I sit down on the bench behind me. I stare at the wall, next to the door that over looks the gazebo that we shared a beer under just back in March. I sit for a moment more then rise to my feet. Shaky and angry and hurt and chest heaving with holding back sobs.

(Take your time hun, I know it can be hard) she's there behind me, a respectful distance.

(No ma'am, I need to go. He'd be angry at me for not being on the river already.)

I reach over to grab my paddle and I pause, try to smile, then give up. This hurts, it still hurts.

(Thank you for allowing me this, I really appreciate it.)

Those are my only words to the wonderful woman who let me in to visit. I say nothing else and I climb back in my truck, alone, I allow myself to break. If felt that an eternity passed as I sat there, waves of hurt and pain passing over me and I cried. It was only three minutes though and I was headed toward the river. I would set camp in the same spot we stayed at back in February. Then drove back down to the river and put in just above Baby Falls, hit a few eddies and played a bit above the falls, then paddled hard and landed dry. Took a few seconds below the falls, looking up at the horizon and remembering that day in March that you made such a finish at the OUT race. I smiled, finally, but it didn't last long. I felt tears coming again, so I paddled on.

I suppose, eventually, the tears will stop. Eventually I'll be able to see that waterfall through dry eyes, maybe.

I miss you, you fucking hipster. A lot of us do. Just wanted you to know that.

With Love,

Purebeater

P.S. Thanks for the mashed potatoes and meatballs.

The time I awoke, and realized I could be my own hero

In March of 2014, I decided I wanted to attend a paddling festival specifically held for open boaters. We are a strange breed and only recently have I felt competent enough to include myself so willingly into that brotherhood. I am an open boater. I am not the best. I am not the worst. I have good days, stellar days, in fact I am reminded of my day on Wilson's Creek in North Carolina for instance. I did not have perfect lines all day but I nonetheless had a perfect day. I also have bad days. Goshen Pass knows that all to well.

March 2014, Ain't Louie Fest.

I arrived late Friday night and was met instantly by an extremely energetic blonde boater, who upon examination recognized me and lept through my truck window and gave me a glorious hug. The next day I met the rest of those people I had come to know through social networking. Soon, the decision to run the Tellico was made. My Probe 12 and I had a rocky history with each other. That history consisted of failed attempts at Goshen and countless swims on the local class II training ground known as Balcony Falls. (Local in this instance refers to my previous home, not the current). As I rode up next to the Tellico river my heart sank. There was no way I wanted to paddle this. Ledges and waterfalls? No sir. Not. This. Guy.

I had a blast either way, Running shuttle and bunny hopping down the road to watch the crew run the next drop. It was a gorgeous day in a truly gorgeous place. Crystal clear water, friendly people and just enough parking to keep the crowds down....most of the time. I believe most of the crew ran the Ledges clear to Jared's Knee. The whole time I was being goaded and pestered into putting on. Some of the tactics: "Its the safest Class 3 there is!" "It's all drop pool with consequence free swims". I held resolute. It was enough for me to be there and observe the place and the people. It truly was. I have no regrets of that day. That night back at the campground I came to know the Local Rowdies, a group I immediately felt at home with and would seek out for trips abroad. 

I have said this often and to many. I love open boaters. We are fewer in number than kayakers and I think that has something to do with the reason we are so close as a community. Boaters I have met one time have offered the world to me. When someone is down, we come together to try to lift them up. When we venture off into the Great West for soul searching and new adventures we stay in touch and try to shine the light of friendship on those dark lonely shadows that creep into each of us. (You know who you are, names not needed here. Love you all, miss you all, come home when you are ready and I will make dinner) 

I caught a lot of shit, to put it bluntly for not paddling that Saturday back in March. I mean a lot. I am a big boy, I can take my fair share of shit talking and good natured criticism. Those of you that know me personally can attest. I began to push myself on the training grounds, attainments and counting eddies. Learning to surf and side surf, hairy ferries and so on. I noticed my body start to change. Shoulders and back becoming stronger, even my thighs. I ditched the probe, and eventually the Nova Craft, saved up my pennies and purchased a plastic whitewater canoe.

Along the way and prior to my purchase of  Lanie, I had incredible people going out of their way to help me into the world. I was lent a boat and instructed to make the saddle fit me, which meant cutting a great deal of foam from it. I did my best to keep it clean but I had never really done that before. A long day at ASCI and many many swims later I was able to run a lap clean, albeit not very dry. I was in awe of a young paddler who has incredible mentorship, She, yes she, is absolutely one of my heros. Maybe 1/4 my size, but she stands taller than I. The following day I was shown the wonder of the Lower Yough. I had a great day even though I was admittedly exhausted and hung over. Sleeping in my truck on account of my cheap tent was not even close to water resistant. It left me cramped and tired. I think I did fairly well that day, I swam. Then I swam some more. Afterwards I went for a swim. The last of which was rather painful as my exhausted body was drug across a very rocky river bottom at a speed too fast for me to gain foothold safely. I remember a talented boater from across the pond helping me gather my stuff. She very calmly and politely asked "Are you ok?". My reply was something about being fine, just very tired. The look in her eyes hinted that I may have looked a lot more haggard than I was claiming.  I was still smoking then, a pack a day at the time. It took its toll.

My first weekend in plastic boats complete, my future purchase was set in stone. I needed a short boat. I needed plastic. I needed this life, these places, these experiences. I needed these people in my world. My life while married was defined by the marriage. Walls built up and blinders put on to where my heart truly wanted to be. I missed paddling in the prime of my physical life because I was not allowed to see the world around me and explore those possibilities. Not all marriages exist this way. I know this for a fact as I have numerous married friends who paddle many more days a week than I do. They are happy together, they match well. This is not about divorce in America. This is about my efforts to find the path hidden for me in the underbrush of the forest floor that is my soul and heart. 

February 2015, a handful of friends decided to meet in Tellico for a day of boating and I enlisted a Local Rowdy for splitting travel duties. We made our 7 hour voyage late on a Friday night. That journey is a story for another time, remind me to tell you. We arrived late, most had gone to sleep but a few were awake and after setting camp and sharing some local peach libations, we retired. The next day brought about hugs from friends long missed and introductions to new ones. We had no idea Ain't Beaterfest 2015 was going to turn into one of the larger open boat gatherings on the Tellico outside of the OUT Race. I was privately terrified. I felt comfortable and in control in my Octane 91. Her name is Lanie, yes I named my boat. I knew I had to conquer a fear that day. I am terrified of falling. Let me rephrase. I am MORTALLY PETRIFIED of falling. Yes, that is much better. I went for a swim early. Glad to have gotten that out of the way. I ended up cleaning the landing off Baby Falls, and going on to running Jared's Knee with a bit of flair at the end (read: fainting goat low brace save). I had the pleasure of an outstanding crew of paddlers to show me down the Tellico, (Strange, they are all very far west at this moment, is it me guys?) 

I nearly cried at the bottom of Baby Falls, I had done it. To many it is just a small, short waterfall. However, to me it was a huge burden I had placed on myself. On that unseasonably warm February day, I learned something about myself. I had become a part of the community I so adored from the outside, and also waterfalls are fun. 

"You ride down the water and go WEEEEE" 
~Source knows who he is~

Actually it was a huge step for me, it was on that day the knob in my brain that determined security was more important than being happy, truly deeply happy, got turned back a notch.

"So many people live within unhappy circumstances and yet will not take the initiative to change their situation because they are confined to a life of security, conformity, and conservatism, all of which may appear to give one peace of mind, but in reality nothing is more damaging to the adventurous spirit within a man than a secure future. The very basic core of a man's living spirit is his passion for adventure. The joy of life comes from our encounters with new experiences, and hence there is no greater joy than to have an endlessly changing horizon, for each day to have a new and different sun. If you want to get more out of life, you must lose your inclination for monotonous security and adapt a helter-skelter style of life that will at first appear to be crazy. But once you become accustomed to such a life you will see its full meaning and incredible beauty."

~Chris McCandless~

Chris did some extreme living. He made choices I will not, however that does not lessen the relevance. I feel his words speak more loudly if I just let them alone.

March 2015 saw another Ain't Louie Fest, and afterwards a bug spread among my friends like a fast moving cold. Wanderlust hit us hard. My Local Rowdy friend is guiding now. He gave up a great income to push rubber and be on the river. Another just picked up and went West, she is guiding as well. I had other demons to wrestle with that I will share later, again just remind me. I suffered through a 7 hour anxiety attack on my way back home. I knew I would have to return to a job I despised. I knew I would be boating less. I knew lots of things I was not looking forward to dealing with. Mostly though, I was certain that I no longer knew who I was. 

I was, without question, aware of one thing. One tiny factoid was ever present on the ride home.
Change Must Happen. Well, it did. I write this sitting in a pleasant and ever so slightly hipster coffee shop in Red Bank. Its gorgeous here. I have already gotten two more personal first descents. Hiawassee (yeah, yeah I know, but it was fun!) and the Ocoee (no, not the olympic section, not yet anyway). Countless more to come. However the single most amazing experience so far came just yesterday. I made my way back to that gorgeous little stream in Tellico Plains. I set my gear down by the water at the put in and slid my boat down out of sight by the water. Drove my truck to the bottom then walked back to the top.

I was alone. Just me. I stretched a bit, did a few ferries and some eddy grabs in the easy stuff, then headed downstream. My head cleared. I focused on the water, each ripple and eddy, each rock and pool. No conversation, no laughing or shit talking. The sound of the water and my paddle and my boat and my breathing and my heart beating.

I swam White Curtain, after pitoning backwards and working my boat loose the curtain poured into my boat and knowing how shallow it was, I just let it roll. Honestly I needed to cool off, I swear...it was on purpose. I paddled on, stopping to scope out the ledges as this was only my second time on this section. Nice dry lines, and I boofed the Beak exceptionally well, although it does most of the work for you. I made my way down to Baby falls. Hopped out for a scout, ran my desired line a few times in my head.

This is when "the magic happened" as they say. Without any trepidation, without second glance or inkling of that parasitic fear, I paddled hard and straight at my line. I missed the boof stroke and on the way down I knew it. Penciled in, foamy and white and a soft landing. I swam out of Lanie quickly and as I headed to resurface a smile broke on my face. I shoved my boat to shore, threw my paddle up on the rocks.

Why would I smile? What twisted logic does my heart follow? I had just day tripped and solo'd a river that just over a year ago I was scared to be on. All the while I had not uttered a word. All I did was listen to the voice of the river and the trees and the birds. The voices of nature that surrounded me came together and they all had the same message.

You have made the right choice. No matter how broke, tired, confused, lost or lonely you feel, you have made the right choice. 

Those voices I heard, they are right.

Waterlick and Leesville

A portion of my life, nearly five and a half years to be precise, I spent laboring for a wage. I worked in a printing shop. We produced local and national publications and advertisements by the tens of thousands and often times into the millions. My shift was six at night until six the following morning for 7 days in a row. The seven days following I did not work. Most of the time I worked extra days during my seven days off and at one point I worked nearly three months straight without a day off. I would get home from work in the morning by seven, and be in bed and usually asleep no later than eight. The alarm on my phone would wake me up at one or half past one in the afternoon. If something else didn't wake me up, a neighbor mowing grass, an obnoxious census taker ringing the doorbell. This cycle repeated over and over. I began to get by on less and less sleep. I started to wake up earlier and earlier. I played first person shooters game after game. My closest friend was a cat named Babygirl, her brother Otis was less so.

Perpetually exhausted. I toiled, in exchange for a decent paycheck and healthcare. I had the job for four months before I got married. After three years I began to loathe my employment. No room for advancement, no raises given regardless of merit. I could not get off the night shift. I grew weary. Along my route to work in the evenings I had to pass through a four way intersection with a traffic light. Once, as I waited for the green light to illuminate above me, and as I gazed down the oncoming road ahead and saw the building I worked in, I had an epiphany.

I glanced to my left and right. Green Ford, barrelling through the intersection, 45 miles per hour. Opposite direction and a light blue Toyota truck flies past me at an easy 50. I stare intently now at the light beckoning my halt. I stare at the glowing unwavering red. Did it just get a little less bright? Is it starting to extinguish and turn off? I ease off the brake pedal and the small Mercury Mystique gently begins to roll forward at a snail's pace. That light is definetly on its way out. I pull my foot of the brake pedal completely and slide over to the accellerator. The red bulb is done, the green starts to illuminate and I press the skinny pedal down. The car enters the intersection.

There is no horn only screeching sliding tires. Its close to dusk, and the headlights are what actually catch my eye. The downward flash and then the darkness as the beams drop from shining into my window to shining against the passenger side doors of the Mystique. The timing is impeccable, and the initial impact is textbook "t bone". My head and body fly towards the oncoming car, held in place by my shoulder and lap belt. Ear smashed against right shoulder hard, instantly hot with pain. Metal shreiks and bends, the glass in the windows doesn't crack. The glass pops, just one finite loud pop, followed by the rain of crystals and the din of groaning rubber and sheet metal and plastic. The passenger front door pressed inward as the car slides sideways. I see shadows dance across the headliner as my skull rolls backward on my neck and shoulder. I close my eyes.

When my eyes open again there is young man leaning over me, a pen light shining into my pupils. I say nothing as he questions me, I just stare at his fuzzily outilined face. My eyes close again. Bright light and white drop ceiling tiles. The smell, clinical and sterile and devoid of perfume. Hospital noises and hospital people wearing hospital clothes. I grin slightly before the pain rushes forward and I wince instead.

At least I do not have to go work tonight I think, as the morphine takes me away.

Years would pass, and everytime I aproached this intersection I had to fight the urge to stare at that glowing red lens and wait for it to dim. Some nights the urge was harder to fight than others. Heading to work was a test with but one question, is time away from the job worth the risk. It wasn't until I began having this same debate on the way home, to where my wife was, that I realized something was wrong.

Minutiae

I barely hear what is being spoken at me, muffled inflection and high notes so I know when to nod in oblivious agreement. The sound of my keyboard is what I concentrate on while I stare at my computer monitor and it stares back at me. Blinking cursor, shitting out letters and numbers as it marches across one dialog box after another. Filling out forms with a myriad of specifications and personal information at the speed of synapse. Any given day can pass and I can type thousands of words and not once do I actually know what I am inputting. Names, dates, and addresses certainly but there is no chance of recalling this information as soon as a few seconds have passed.

My monitor owns my gaze. I rarely look away from it. I dive into the soul of my computer through the glowing panel in front of me. I imagine myself floating past circuit boards and wires and litte funny shapped resistors with colored bands. I am actually quite certain those are no longer used but it is my damned day dream. I twirl delicately through the digital air, finding my way into one of those cables that clutter the backstop of the counter top. Picking up speed now and twisting faster I bump along into the PC. Dust everywhere, lots of it. I choke and cough and sneeze, a fan blows my towards a motherboard or hard drive or graphics card. I do not know these parts. I do not care to know these parts. I drift towards the ethernet cable, the internet awaits. A bright and warm and enticing light envelopes me.

I hear a high note, glance up and make eye contact, force a smirk and give that reassuring nod. Fuck off, go away, I have piles of data to mindlessly input. Tapping on my keyboard, every so often I pound the enter key extremely hard for no other reason that to release frustration. I fly the irritated flag so high, it must be above the clouds because no one else seems to see it. If a flag flaps in the forest, and no one is around to hear it, well I digress. I want to egress, I can not. She still stands above me, I have given up explaning that I have a hard time hearing when she speaks. Perhaps she feels that if everything she says is a secret it makes her more important. My typing has stopped, I am not sure why. I glance down at my papers and take a second to inhale a long slow breath. A flash of light on my monitor screen, reflection from the glass behind me. I look back expecting to see a customer vehicle pull in, my heart rate increases my stomach turns into a twisted knot of fire and ache. My pupils get small and I feel the hair on the back of my neck stand up. There is nobody there, no customer, no demon, and nothing happening. I return my gaze to my dreamy liquid crystal display and start to find my way back.

Back to that glowing warm portal to the outside world. The light is intense and bright but I don't need to squint or cover my eyes. I feel weightless as I drift through and become completely drenched in the freeing rays. I'm hovering now over the earth as seen through Google Maps. West Virginia, gorgeous green, mountain covered and river riddled. Friendsville, Maryland with its small town and huge appeal. I float lower and lower, small ripples in the great green country side become larger and rivers become wider. I cruise up the Yough river valley, north toward Ohiopyle, past Deep Creek Lake. Cool mountain air rushes past me and flattens my shirt against my chest. I am amongst the trees, soaring with the birds like Peter Pan. Do not judge me, this is my damned day dream. Lightning, fast and sharp our of nowhere.

The door behind me and to my left swings open and the light flashes across my monitor. I glance quickly, face blank but a fake smile ready to deploy at a moment's notice. Just another co worker. Good morning, the weather is great, sell some cars so on and so forth. Pleasantries with no meaning aside from cursory politeness to those we force ourselves to work with. My heart has already raced back up to high gear, stomach returning to its tightened state. Damn it can't I have just five minutes. I close my eyes for a second and stop typing. Tilting my head side to side my neck cracks, what sensational relief.  I open my eyes, she is still standing there, muttering and yammering. I shrug my shoulders, it coincides nicely with a high note, but ultimately it is just me resigning myself to having to hear more of those noises. Deep breath, nice and slow.

I lift up from the valley of the Yough river. Turning south and pulling far back up into space. I spin South and find Fayeteville. Gliding high above the plateau I hover for a second over the New River Gorge Bridge. People jump from this thing, that's insane. I drop down and fly under the bridge feeling like Will Smith in Independance Day chasing aliens. Swinging down by the river I fly so close the spray from the waves at Fayette Station splash onto my face. So refreshing and so cleansing this water is, it must have been created with some bigger purpose in mind than just to form valleys. I can see rafts and kayaks and canoes, I see campers and hikers. I see smiles and clear heads and happiness. I slow to a hover and touch down on the bank of the New River. I strip of my shirt and pants and dive in. Cold water, my body absorbs the shock and I surface to gasp at air. I catch my breath and head back under, opening my eyes and seeing blurry rocks and plants, such beauty and peace. A bright flash catches my eye, a large fish off to my left.

The door swings back shut, faux smile locked and loaded. Stomach bound and heart in my throat. My 10:30 appointment just arrived.

Letter to the Island Dweller

Dearest Island Dweller,

 

 How are you recently? I know it seems a question more of formality than genuine interest. I assure you it is not. I am curious and I do want to know. Do not answer yet though, there is more to my question. I could not care less if you are feeling a cold coming on. I do not wish to hear about your lower back pain. I certainly am not looking to entertain a conversation on the latest outcome of "college x's" sports team.

 How ARE you recently? How do you exist? The minerals that make up your body, are they the same as mine? When you inhale to breath do you exhale the same as I? You're existence seems so distant from my own. It is as if I observe you, not just from the shore while you inhabit an island, but from a satellite moon whilst you inhabit the terra forma. What planet do you call home? If your home really is where your heart is, where is that? Can you get there from here, and will GPS take me? Should I Google your whereabouts?

 I spend a lot of time looking inward, inside the cavernous skull that houses my brain. The thought factory. I can crank out thought after thought after thought like so many batches of instant macaroni and cheese. Endlessly adding the same amount of milk and butter and stirring the same amount of that God awful yellow powder in. None of these thoughts are from my heart. Do you think from your heart Island Dweller? Can one think from the heart? Feelings are so hard to decipher. My heart speaks Francais, my brain is stuck in English. How can you follow feelings you don't understand? Have you figured out a way to understand them all? If my heart says two different things how am I to know which is the correct choice?

 I have so many more questions. Practical and impractical. Tangible and abstract. I hope to hear back from you, perhaps even soon. I know on the ever winding path that you walk, that this a trying time of change and transistion. I am at the trailhead of a winding path for myself now, and hope to keep your company through this correspondence as I wander.

  

  Have Canoe, Will Ramble,

  PB

That time I dreamt I was my own hero

Six forty four and fifty seven seconds.

The amount I have had is enough.

Six forty five. I am awake 3 seconds before I hear my phone vibrating next to my head. Reaching over to find my phone without lifting my head from a mildly comfortable pillow is futile. The night before when laying down to go sleep I purposely placed this device far enough away as to force myself to have to actually move to get it to stop its annoying vibrating. Rarely is the time when I allow the vibration to lapse into full on alarm. Those shitfuck horrible sounds meant to arouse without the misery that is associated with the typical clock radio alarm din.They fail, and flail, and ding and ring and fuck that noise.

The amount I have had is enoug.

Exit the bed. Now. Not five minutes from now. NOW. Shower quickly, just enough to wet the thick hair adorning my head. I need it tamed and combed. Teeth scrubbed, hair trigger gag reflex tested, it is still there and a I still gag. I dry off as best I can. I take my nexium, modern wonder drug that keeps my body from digesting itself from the esophagus out. Washed down with water left over from last nights bedside glass, ignoring that reflective rainbow film across the top and just knocking it back. Deodorant, marketed towards someone in search of a smell that will attract females by the herd, women ready to mate based on olfactory alone. This is not my grandfather's old spice.

The time is seven ten.

The amount I have had, is enough.

Seven eleven and I'm searching for clean underwear, they are blue and relativley new so they still fit fairly well. Pants are next, shitfuck cheap dress slacks provided by THEM. Three damned buttons. THREE FUCKING BUTTONS, and a zipper. Cool white, or what used to be white, tee shirt. The chill from the cotton on my chest causes my nipples to tighten, its not an altogether unpleasant feeling. I have always enjoyed slipping into fresh clothes after a shower. Clean smooth skin against clean smooth cotton and nylon and denim and khaki and these shitfuck cheap dress slacks even. Socks, I nearly forgot about socks. I bend over fumbling through the drawer. I have had enough, but I want good socks today. New socks have so much more cushion and elasticity and support. There are no fucking new socks this morning. Old socks, worn at the heals to near opacity. Socks with holes in the toes, elastic torn, shitfuck socks that fall down around your ankle in those obnxious bunches. A lifeless pair of socks chosen and applied, no pleasure found in putting them on. I do not wish to talk about the socks.

Seven thirteen.

The amount I have had is very nearly too much.

I have been awake barely half of an hour. I turn towards the closet. Hanging like straight jackets ready to wrangle the lunatic into submission. So many asylum orderlies standing about face looking into a blank wall of the closet, ready to stifle my wild urges. White, collared, buttons from bottom to top, each button a nail in the coffin of that man of epic worthlessness. So many of these shirts. A shirt for each day, a bullet for each head. I grab the first and swing it on and around me. My fingers working each button while inside I hear nails scraping, dragging across the floor of my mind. I removed the shirt from the closet and on its hanger I placed my soul.

Seven thirteen and thirty seconds.

The amount I have had.

The amount I have had is, is too much.

Shirt tucked in, belt laced and buckled. Truck started, traffic cut off, hard on the gas and the engine rages as the rear tires spin. RED FUCKING LIGHT. There is a red shitfuck of a light ahead of me. The truck stops. I can feel my belt buckle digging into my stomach. The light is eternally RED. Some idiot behind me beleives that the closer they get to my rear bumper the faster the light will turn green. This theory is a foolish one. RED. Noone at the intersection is moving. Green finally, out of the corner of my eye. Just the corner because I am staring intently at the forehead of the person behind me in my rear view mirror. I imagine them in a straight jacket, bouncing off of cushioned walls. They cackle about how traffic lights react to impatient drivers as they try to bite thier own ear and slam into the padded door. HORN. I hear the horn and see the maniacal gaze being returned to me in my rear view mirror. I make the right turn and I can see the place I work.

Seven twenty nine.

Somehow the truck is parked. Somehow I am inside the building staring at a computer monitor that I claim is mine. I am certain that the Monitor also claims me the same way. I wonder privately who is correct. I have no definitive answer. I have clocked in. Announced to the workplace that I AM HERE.

Seven thirty.

Too much.

I begin to shake. Not a chill, or a shiver. I can not keep my fingers on the appropriate keys. Typing jibberish instead of commands and customer complaints. The first smiling face arrives, they forgot the smile. The face asks for the world. I promise the world. I know I can only deliver a pebble, a small part of the world, it will not be enough.

Seven forty.

The amount I have had is more than I can continue to endure. I am done.

I rise from my seat, it rolls backwards into the counter top behind me. The drawer which holds my truck keys and wallet is ripped open. Keys and wallet removed and deposited into my pocket. Left ajar, the drawer is a glimpse into my day, adrift amongst the pens are nickels and straws and pennies and pistachios and a fiber bar. The concrete jungle warrior's survival kit, cellular phone charging cable included. I pull up on the straight jacket yanking the tails out of my waistband of these shitfuck dress pants. The first door swings open with a smack of my palm and slams against the wall as it swings all the way around. I wish the glass had broken, I wish the wall had fallen. The top button of the straight jacket is undone and the second is on its way. Dead stop. A pause. Perhaps for dramatic effect as I decide to say fuck it and go full superman on my straight jacket. Pop pop pop pop pop the buttons fly. Walking, slowly, with confidence I have not had since my high school wrestling days. The straight jacket flung open and the tails swinging in the breeze. I roll my shoulders back and flip the collar off my neck. The straight jacket falls off my right arm and my left hand balls up the white stranglehold.

Seven forty one.

The straight jacket, white with starched and formed collar and pearlescent buttons, lays upon the dark black paved parking lot of the asylum. A gentle breeze blows across the lot and the straight jackets moves ever so lightly. Tiny bits of gravel and sand bounce onto and off of the sleeves. A roaring noise is growing and with it there is a shrill squealing sound. The breeze blows and the sound grows, not high pitched but shrill nonetheless. The front tire of the truck rolls quickly over the shirt, the tread pattern outlined in gravel dust and parking lot dirt. Rear tire now, spinning faster than the truck is driving, smoke rolling off the rubber as it melts from the heat. The shirt is flung backwards, torn and ripped and ruined.

Seven forty two.

The amount I have had is ever increasing.

I am at my desk and my eyes blink back open. The computer monitor that I claim as mine, and that in turn claims me as its own stares back.

Seven forty three.

Seven forty four.

Seven forty five.......