Posts Tagged ‘poetry’

They stopped on top a hill just outside Espanola. The car was packed with stuff but they squeezed me in anyway. They had started at Wisconsin and had just been hitchhiking themselves, across Newfoundland. ¬†Apparently they¬†acquired a car (I didn’t inquire) and were headed for Winnipeg.

The girl seemed tired but they guy was really friendly. Maybe too friendly, were they fighting?

There was a lot of stops at construction sites and I nodded off a few times. ¬†The radio was droning away in a monotone, half AM talk-show half static, that no one was paying attention to, so I offered some tapes for them to choose from. ¬†The girl chose my Mr. Bungle tape because the other side of it was labeled “Make Your Momma Puke Mix”, a mix tape a friend had made for me back in Barrie. ¬†We listened to the whole Mr. Bungle side and they decided it was too weird for them. ¬†I tried to explain the other side was a completely different style but they weren’t really listening due to their stop and go construction malaise.

As the grateful passenger I offered up full control of the music, my scissored and taped Pot o’ Gold chocolate box I’d fashioned into a compact, space¬†efficient tape case and packed with used cassettes at a hock shop in Sudbury (I discovered I could fit in more by crammin them in upside down on the rightside up ones). ¬†They chose Cypress Hill and played it side to side about five times until the machine inevitably ate the tape as we rolled into Sault Ste. Marie. ¬†They¬†apologized profusely but I didn’t really care. ¬†I still had Billy Idol. ¬†I offered the silver lining “Hey, now I got room for a NEW tape”. ¬†They dropped me downtown Sault where I walked to a hostel as they went for dinner. ¬†I ran into them leaving town as I strolled out of the hostel, baggage free-what a luxury. ¬†Maybe I’ll run into them in Winnipeg……

This I wrote in Sault Ste. Marie:

Walkin down the Street

in my bare feet

Left my boots at home to cool down ’cause they were hurtin’ me

Hope you caught the irony

it’s what inspired me

To write a song about

the walk down to the

beach and back in agony

I was walking up the incline of a bridge a ways out of Sudbury past Copper Cliff. I didn’t even have my thumb out (I liked to start walking if I didn’t get a ride after a while. ¬†I’m the same way with the bus, it makes me late) but he pulled up beside me, beeping his horn until I took my walkman off and saw him. He was headed to Manitoulin Island.. something to do with his daughter, the details of which I can’t quite remember.

He dropped me off at Espanola then showed me some photos of wood carvings he’d done. They were amazing!! And huge! He stood beside them in his pictures as they towered over him.

My destination
perpetually
over this next hill

The sun bakes my skin
My sweat sets the baste
The sunblock starts to run
and drip down my face

My baggage weights more
as my shoulders get sore
My thirst gets worse
til my throat starts to hurt

Take my hat off
Let the wind blow through my hair
I’m always going somewhere
But I’ll never get there

I found that hitchhiking out here by myself really taught me was how to be¬†myself. ¬†No one who picks you up knows what your normally like, leaving you free to be¬†whoever you like and ultimately leading to learning how you act when not obligated to fit into someone’s perception of you.

He picked me up on the entrance to the 400 as I sat playing guitar with a sheet of paper saying ‘Perry Sound’. ¬†The conversation flowed steady for a good hour or two. ¬†He was headed to the Yukon to hold an Indie Film presentation. ¬†He recommended some good indie movies I said I’d check out but forgot about. ¬†He also played in a punk band in T.O. ¬†He gave me some tips having hitchhiked himself. ¬†He dropped me off at the YMCA in Sudbury. ¬†He even got out and made sure I got in alright.

As I wandered around in Sudbury I came to a park on a hill looking over the town. ¬†I’m always writing lyrics to make into songs and this is what I wrote there:

On a road in nowhere

I sit and stare

to catch a glimpse of what I missed and come to grips

that I don’t care

I was so sad to let it go

but here with open hands I know

the sweetness wasn’t having it held

It was breathing it in a blowing it out

Perfected a futilely flawless routine

inevitably becoming monotony

Had no idea what to do, to do better

so I started my story on a fresh piece of paper

Now following the flow

in the unknown

I listen to the¬†rhythms I’m given

to guide, to decide my direction

The passion is pursuit, not possession, of perfection

These damned “no hitchiking. Pickup is illegal” signs! ¬†So after a good long walk down the highway (away from the sign only to end up in front of another and have to continue) ¬†we’re picked up in an unexpected spot where the shoulder is shy but apparently sufficient.

I’m getting tired of Brian telling everyone he’s been hitching with me since Kenora ON. ¬†It screws up my stories and degrades my accomplishments but I guess it’s better for him than saying he just got out of jail. ¬†We’re starting to get our stories straight but I don’t think we need to pitch it to anyone unless it comes up.

This guy that drove us to the skirts of Kelowna was real friendly and clean cut.  Still a long ways from town but it sure beats the side of the highway, in the middle of nowhere, beside a sign that says NO HITCHHIKING

I need to sleep for a week to really loathe being lazy

I almost forgot! ¬†Limping down Alberta St. “downtown;-)” Regina, carrying all¬†my stuff, a girl named Ivy gave me a ride saying, “I’ll give you a ride if you promise not to hurt me or anything.” I thanked her profusely, having kinda been staring around helplessly hoping someone would help me out.

I had gotten off the bus at nowhere and started backtracking. ¬†My foot’s been killing¬†me and I’m walking with a pretty noticeable limp. ¬†It’s been a long couple of past days… ¬†Sweet pity’s carrying me across Canada when I’m too tired to walk.

She drove me to the Regina hostel while I regaled her with my story. ¬†Even though I’m shuffling around in pain I can tell this is a beautiful town. ¬†It’s all city like but sometimes it’s dead silent.

Dumb luck is the purest form of luck.  Getting good at life has something to do with paying attention to the rhythms your given.  The key is predicting where the rhythm will modify.

Very hard to define, but easy to recognize….