�The Land of Tar� is a 5-month travel narrative zine, separated into three parts, from the beginning of May through the end of September of 2005, during which the author traveled all over the country to experience life lived. Most of it is based on random and scattered journal writings. Grammar is thrown out the window in exchange for a more intimate stream-of-consciousness story. Also, events may or may not be in chronological order. There is no time.

Part 1

they call it the land of tar�
it�s our final destination.

the streets are deserted. not a soul alive�perhaps not even these two who walk here. same old� a constant reminder of what used to be. inescapable. history is frozen in plain view. but its nothing but a series of failures. malcontents and the despair of a fragile child. always tears among the ruins but no nostalgia. we cry because nothing lives anymore. and why is that?

the search has begun�
we seek everything.


1.
The story starts out with me. Me, my face attached to a 4-foot tall green transparent bong. Me, inhaling hard and the smoke is traveling slowly up the tube. Me, sucking it all in. Then it tastes like flowers and a thick cloud erupts from my mouth.
The thing is, I didn�t know it was opium.
This is going to be an interesting day. At this point, as I�m coughing, unable to breathe, the mucus in my body screaming �evacuate!� and thus pouring out of my nose, the threshold has been crossed.
The next thing I know, we�re standing outside, in the driveway of the panda house, on this cool and cloudy day of may 9th. Not one of those oppressively cloudy days that are typical of Seattle. Not a thick veil of clouds that suffocates (think of choking on black lace, or wet burlap clogging your throat). Our bags have been packed into the trunk of the car that will take us south. The grey highway of interstate 5. South to olympia, centralia, vancouver, portland, eugene, and beyond. There�s a partial congregation of the Panda Tribe here today, though the deck is crowded. All of us, smoking cigarettes, giggling away these last few moments.
But then it�s time to go. Armed with a pack of american spirit cigarettes, high as fuck on opium, I get in the driver�s seat. Micah in the front seat with me. Scrappy, Justin, and the pirate D in the back seat. I start the car and pull out of the driveway. This is the last time I see seattle as home.
Then we�re on I-5, somewhere in seattle, going south at a steady speed of seventy miles per hour. I�m chain smoking cigarettes, swerving into the adjacent lane as I flick ashes and embers out the window. and I�m anxious. excitedly, I tell micah that I can�t believe we�re doing this�that I�m doing this.
he says, �you build up momentum, and when you land you hit the ground running.�
as each instant passes, we�re getting further and further away from seattle and going towards whatever may lay beyond. and as we get to just about vancouver, I let scrappy drive her car now. snickering, I tell her I was high on opium the entire time driving. and she gets mad. she yells at me and I console her, saying, hey, we�re not dead. but when she gets in the car, she drives 120 mph. through afternoon traffic. she�s almost hitting cars, weaving in and out of traffic missing them barely. we sit wide-eyed and silent as we almost die before even getting to portland. luckily, we make it.


2.
we wake up to rain at the crack of dawn. we drive straight to eugene from the woods we slept in. and we�re hungry as fuck so we start thinking. we work out a master scam. an intricate dine and dash scam. leave an empty wallet at the table and say we're just going out for a smoke. at the International House of Pancakes, we feast on food, ordering as much as we can, and we�re smiling because we know this is gonna work. well, micah gets cocky, left with the 4 of us, when he should have stayed inside for a minute. that�s where the plan falls apart. as we�re trying to look inconspicuous, calmly sauntering away while smoking, a waiter comes out after us. fuck. busted. a good scam gone wrong, and not only that, justin has to pay 50 bucks for our wonderful meal. the kid�s motto in life: "whatever." defeated, and slightly angry that we failed, we drive east into the mountains, where D says are the natural hot springs. there�s rain dripping down on us from heavy pine trees. six pools of water, each getting hotter as you go up the hill towards the source, a small cave where steam rolls out. we stripped off our clothes, and jumped into these waters of life. sitting naked in a natural hot pool of water.. holy fuck, nothing like it. you can smell the sulphur and feel the water cleaning you. you take a stone and rub it all over your body, scraping all of the dead skin and dirt off. all the toxins seep out and when you get out, there�s a cold stream running alongside the pools and you bathe yourself in that and it feels like rebirth. we fill up our water bottles with the sweet water and head back for eugene.
its raining when we get back to eugene. scrappy drops off me and D and drives away to santa cruz.

3.
just arrived in berkeley. gotta make this short and sweet.
hitched out of eugene on wednesday after smoking copious amounts of marijuana for 2 days with D's friend, Joe, who was simply a silly guy. the rain was unrelenting and created a strange depressing atmosphere. they said the natives that were driven out by the white man had cursed the place. I started to believe so. you can just feel it. something not right. . .

. . .a huge burly old man sits in this rickety van with me and D and Joe as Joe tries to fix something on the dashboard of the van, and the old man, the artist with painted wooden sculptures in his yard, he draws on the condensation of the window with his fingers. he draws a cowboy smoking a cigarette. D draws icicles as they talk. . .

in roseburg, OR, we catch a ride with a drunken Vietnam vet who was drinking a fifth of jack daniel�s whiskey when he picked us up. said he was going to alabama. he asks D to drive. then he bought more whiskey when he finished off the fifth he was already working on. this drunken vietnam vet, he keeps reaching from behind the back seat, grabbing me and shaking me, making slicing gestures at my throat because I�m not talking to him. he creeps me out a bit. he keeps saying he�s gonna kill me, then laughs a drunken laugh. but he kept giving us cigarettes and dr. pepper and he buys us dinner.
he drops us off in stockton, california, 500 miles from our starting destination, a nasty fucking town. we left eugene at noon, got to stockton around midnight. me and D sit at a truck stop, drinking shitty gas station coffee and chain smoking (D says it would not be wise to sleep outside in Stockton), and we�re talking about our parents. we talk about our family. hours go by, and in the early morning, a man comes running out of the gas station with a black tray under his arm, change spilling everywhere. he jumps into a car in the shadows and peels out. the attendant comes running out yelling at the security guard in the parking lot, �we just got robbed again!� I watch the entire event with vague interest and hope the guy got away. and just before sunrise, we get kicked out of the truck stop for having a sign at our feet that said, �BERKELEY�.
hitched out of stockton on a two-lane highway into the fucking countryside as the sun rose where rich white people yelled insults at us and benevolent mexican folk helped us out. we thought we'd be stuck there for sure for another day but a nice black woman came out of nowhere to pick us up, delivered us into concord, and we took a BART into berkeley. we haven�t been to sleep yet.

4.
in the bay area of california, the nights are cold, the days are hot. we eat pistachios and papaya in people�s park when we arrive. we still haven�t slept, but we don�t feel tired. instead, we feel lucid. D talks to an androgynous hippie girl with dark skin as she swings on a swing. in dusk, sleep deprivation causes me to see two figures cloaked in black, their faces unseen, and they�re dancing around a fiery cauldron, fanning the fire with their gloved hands. I blink and they don�t go away. I look away, and when I look back, they�re still there.

5.
saturday night, micah and justin show up in berkeley. we chill in the park and talk to the people who hang out there too much. two punk kids joined our little group, cid and calvin (who later break up and go their separate ways). since every night is an adventure in regards of where to sleep, we catch word that there�s an abandoned brothel a bit down telegraph avenue. we assemble a gang to go squat it. we hear of remaining shag carpets (the color of crimson red I imagine) and mirrors where hookers became vain at themselves. we climb over a chain link fence and climb up the vines that blanket the building. we can�t be anymore obvious: we�re throwing our bags to the top of the first story and there�s sounds of things breaking. we get to the top and the windows are boarded up. we try to break through them but no luck. we�re being too obvious, the boards cracking echoing all around. seven travelers on the top of an abandoned brothel? this is too bold. we just decide to sleep on the roof.

sunday night we meet Old G, who showed us where to sleep and protected us that night from fools on tweak. berkeley is trecherous for sleeping...

monday we left berkeley, thank god. that place was crazy, it was time to get out.


6.
left berkeley and arrived in san francisco.
Berkeley is weird, kind of like how Eugene is weird, has weird vibes, but on a different level. its just in the air, you can feel it, you can look around and see it. essentially, berkeley is its own world. peoples park was our central point, and even that small space contains its own reality. you sit in that park, look around, and it feels different from telegraph avenue or anywhere else in the city. a temporary autonomous zone. sort of. the people who are always in that park all know each other, like a small community. there are homeless, travelers, tweakers (who are everywhere), stoners, crazies, old crazies, and the occasional college kids. free food is always handed out in the park, from churches, outreach organizations, and regular people that live nearby. trading is always going on, as well as giving away of extra items that people don�t need anymore. free clothes are always dropped off by the dumpsters. there�s always people sleeping in the park since you cant crash there at night--apparently people always get mugged there during the night, mainly by the tweakers. the people we met and hung out with were very interesting. Bear, an older hippie who has done massive amounts of ketamine, Old G, an old black guy who dresses like a pimp preacher. he helped us out our last night, showed us where to crash and protected us from tweakers. the guy was chill.
there was the guy we called the Gatekeeper, a name we gave him on our first day there. he came up to us, and in a scruffy voice, says, "just closed 15 gates-- 15 gates to hell-- 15 steps." he smoked a cigarette butt furiously, like one would a joint, then walks away. and on another cloudy day, he yells, �last call! last call for anahol!� and proceeds to list all kinds of alcohol. we�re adding names of alcohol to his list, but when I say, Jagermeister, he responds with, "Jagermeister, yeah whatever." he carries a cane which he doesn�t use and wears a green trench coat. i rolled around laughing at just about everything he said.
then there was the guy we called "orangutan-style" from one of his long multiple-personality babble rants. this guy was equally funny, though what he said never made any sense. his words were eloquent, it was schizophrenic epic poetry babble. but it flowed perfectly, it flowed like rhymes. he never hesitates, just continues. talked about the right to jerk off (what the fuck is orangutan-style? like when you hold your pinky out while jerking off, like jerking off a baby!), ninja turtles, fixed up his hat so that he looked like Prince and sang madonna songs or something. he kept adjusting and changing around his clothes. he played with sticks in the dirt and had a black eye.
on the last night, we meet a "tweak warlord", so Old G said. she walked up to us, stone cold face, black trenchcoat, looked at each one of us, then walked away when she realized we were with Old G. Both eyes were lazy. we slept under a light that night.

...an old guy who never talked to anyone, always looked at crystals, then scratched out the sky with it, all damn day...

when we awoke the next morning, TVs were being smashed in the park by a homeless tweaker...

its impossible to starve in berkeley, but i wouldnt want to stay for too long. it just gets to you eventually...

7.
Last night on haight st. was fairly miserable, and we knew it around dusk when the rain started. it came down harder as the night wore on, and by the time we got to camp, the ground was soaked. we laid down the tarp, and THAT got soaked in about 5 minutes. so me, micah, and D decided not to sleep that night. so we wandered into the city (where I realize cities are built solely for economics, a manifestation of virtual market), calling all the pandas in seattle on justin's phone card. had some coffee, and the rain stopped so we decided to head back to the camp. turns out there were puddles all over the place. wandered some more, tried sleeping on some scaffolding, but cid came by and told us she had a better spot. a doorway. it was definitely cramped for all 4 of us, and getting woken up at 5:30am by the cops wasn�t so pleasant. now we're all incredibly fatigued... at least we got our clothes dry this morning on our last 2 dollars at a laundromat.
tonight I'm supposed to meet up with my aunt for dinner. I�m planning on asking her for some money as an 'early birthday present' as well as a shower at her place. and tomorrow, finally, we're hitching the fuck outta here. i�m incredibly stoked.

8.
thursday was our last night in san francisco. all day we waited for the sun to come out and it finally did by the afternoon, much to our relief after the rainy night before. things went incredibly good this day. D got 20 bucks from Roaddawgs (a radical community art space) who bought his zine to publish. took justin to the greyhound station since he couldn�t handle the intensity of travel, and he caught a bus back to seattle. I went out to dinner with my aunt and uncle down at the wharf and they tossed me $120. and i was only going to ask for 40. and the idea popped into my head. our last night in Frisco? we got some herb.
we wandered Haight St., stoned out of our minds, taking in the sights and sounds. this is how Haight St. is meant to be seen. stoned. the place becomes magical and everything is intriguing. the homeless boy and girl hugging at the edge of the park, the illuminated clock tower in the distance behind them, and the sights and sounds down the street. we searched for coffee at a cafe, but then a red wagon, pulled by a dreaded hippie, comes down the sidewalk with none other than a huge pot full of coffee. he poured us some and we walked some more, smoking cigarettes, feeling enlightened by what had just happened. i called up the pandas back home and got some conversation with them. scored some free food that restaurants were giving away, and eventually crashed hard back at the camp in the park.
what can i say. we got into san francisco stoned. we left stoned. it was the only way. i felt so content.
the next morning, we finalized our preparations for leaving the city which we had gotten slightly comfortable with after being here for a week. at that point, we knew it was time to go. we got up early for showers and laundry in downtown. took longer than we thought, but we eventually got out of there and south. and on one of the buses right before we left, we met an old homeless comedian, named Zobo, talking about hot indian women and viagra. fucking hilarious guy...

well we got south alright, all four of us (me, micah, cid, and D), after hours of riding buses through hilly suburbs and quaint coastal towns. what happened that beautiful friday night was something that broke down barriers and laid upon the streets dreams that cannot be tamed. intoxicating chaos was released. our hearts pounded with the primal. it was just a small college town. imagine: music blaring from a stereo on a skateboard, so many kids running in the streets, dancing and shouting, adrenaline surging, cops right behind us. destruction is creation (capitalism is a stranglehold). we ran fast, hopping fences and hiding in dumpsters, our hearts leaping into our throats. the physical manifestations of the fa�ade we face everyday were scoffed at and tread upon. the illusion was destroyed. the streets were painted with our desires in black. kids running up cars, licking windows. the streets no longer for cars, but for our feet. our feet. stores no longer for business and money but for� anything we want. we created an instant of crumbling walls. an instant where our lives are not a mere resource for capitalism, but for ourselves and for us to live. and when those in blue uniform overwhelmed the dreamers finally, we dispersed and blended into the rest of the gawking crowd, the posh bar hoppers and bored college kids, once again transients disguised. the illusion resumed course. the four of us, we walked out of the town.
a small, cute girl with glasses and fluffy blonde hair picked us up and took us to santa clara where we slept in a graveyard with the dead. woke up at dawn, split up into groups of two at the highway onramp and headed further south.
to san jose� to gilroy�

9.
gilroy to los banos, crashed there for a night under eucalyptus trees, had intense dreams of las vegas, everyone was there, the koala didn�t have red hair anymore...
...down a road lined with thick palm trees, evenly spaced, planted there to shade His Lady during carriage rides through the sunny countryside...
and thus to fresno. me and D didn�t stick around for long...

10.
we got to bakersfield at night, and its a darkened land lit by neon that spins. found cid and micah at one of the nearby colleges. slept under a bridge by a river. the nights here were as hot as the days. left bakersfield in the morning. got to barstow early evening. it�s a small town in the desert. 150 miles from vegas. got picked up by a married couple outside of bakersfield who didn't talk much, a white woman and a hispanic guy. they just listened to hip hop the whole way and drove 85 miles per hour. we stopped at a gas station in the arid desert and while the woman was inside, the guy gave us some weed. the weed was brown, though. that night we smoked it and got pretty high. for a short time anyway.
D loaded the bowl, looks at me, already high, and says, "you want browns?" all i could do was giggle.
the same nagging feeling comes back that there is something not right here. locals drifting with blank gazes. the feeling of a curse. i guess the natives really didn�t like the white men.
but barstow is a lucid dream come true. the desert, old and rugged, mystical sort of... the sunset beautiful, setting right behind the tallest hill... abandoned buildings on the way in, abandoned houses on the streets every corner you turn, eternally swaying tall grass burnt by the fierce sun. open windows, for sale signs that have been there forever. they say you don't want to be on the streets at night. liquor stores are apparently abundant here. strange sounds in the distance, voices of children far away, sounds of industry and machinery. a whistling sound that sounds like music to my ears-- long drawn out notes, doesn�t vary much, with long silences in between each note. the little grove of dead trees we slept in, there was a wind blowing through all night, and when it did, the trees creaked and made sounds like old rusty wires and pipes. the view is amazing, though. the town is on a hillside and there�s a valley down below, the rest of the town there, and a vast range of hills beyond that. crevices and curves, sparse trees and bushes on brown dirt. the rusty mattress frame near our camp makes this place feel old. i feel like i'm in another world, and i suppose i am. each town is a different world.


13.
Las Vegas was a nightmare.
Arrived on the 24th of May, a Tuesday, coming from Barstow. Me and D met with Cid and Micah at the Silverton Casino, right outside of Vegas. Micah was supposed to stay at his grandma�s out in Bonnie Springs, where crimson mountains tower in the atmosphere all around. Reluctantly, we leave Cid and D in the city.
Friday we return to Vegas to find that Cid and D skipped town three days ago and went to Florida because they freaked out. No, they�re already there. Fuck. Now we have a problem. The same lesson I learned last summer came back to smack me in the face: expect nothing. This causes me to freak out. The city... O the city...
We stand confused, the two travelers, in the glaring sun of this barren land. And there before us are sprawling palaces of money (the pale horse), buzzing (grinding whirring infectious) neon lights that have been alight for centuries and will never cease to glow. But we look up and see these screens, these windows, flashing pictures�no, we�re seeing other realities. But how do they construct realities? It�s the flash-flash that ensnares our eyes and rips them out and suddenly we�re somewhere else. But I close my eyes and shake away that desperate feeling, that sudden oncoming delirium, and know that this is not real. We look down and we�re walking on so many glossy pictures of that perfect blonde female with statuesque hard body and striking (cold dead) blue eyes and huge breasts�we�re walking on them like they�re lily pads on a sea of black blood�she�s nude but this isn�t real either. These realities that entrance us the most will never be real.
There is she, the goddess, adorned on these glossy dead shards of dead trees. There is she, the flesh embodiment of everything you see, everything that entrances (see her hypnotic eyes). Goddess of debauchery and rape, goddess of gluttony and greed and selfishness. Goddess of war. Goddess of consumption. Goddess of perfection and cleanliness. Goddess of society and the market and your suit and tie. Goddess of DVDs for $19.99 and McDonalds cheeseburgers (disease), open 24 hours a day. Goddess of the fa�ade, the spectacle, and the despair we try to escape. But you can fuck her for an hourly rate of $200. Find (fuck) her anywhere on the strip of Las Vegas. But is she flesh or merely plastic? Go ahead, touch that smooth fleshy ass. Caress her. Fondle her silicon tits. You know you want to fuck her. That gaping silicon vagina dripping with thirst. You know you want to fuck (fuse with become) her. Glaring garish shiny plastic slut, there is she.
We avert our eyes from this unreality and see these mannequins pass us, that are supposed to be people, plastic, worshipping she and manifesting her likeness. They almost bump into us. Those without money do not exist here. But then again, they do not exist to us (their eyes are glazed) because they are already dead (unbeknownst to them). We run in fear.
We call up Koala to see if we can crash in her hotel that night, but she said we couldn�t no matter what. Too much security that weekend, too many people, and she didn�t want to get caught. We go and see her the next day, in the evening. We see Koala for maybe an hour as we wandered around one of those palaces. She has blonde streaks in her chocolate cherry hair. In the hotel she was staying in is a faux Italian shopping mall with facades to make you think you�re outside, walking cobblestone streets, in Italy. The sky is fake but it gives off light and the clouds move and the weather changes. But it�s not real at all. There�s a canal and a boatman who ferries people with his long oar and sings romantic Italian songs.
But I know it�s not real.
We talked, we hugged, we parted, and got the fuck out of Vegas. Almost. We go to Blue Diamond Road, where we started out when we got into Vegas, and retrieve Micah�s sleeping bag which D stashed in some bushes. We run into two traveling girls from Montreal, with thick French accents. They�re weather worn and dirty. They say they�ve been to Mexico and they�re now on their way to Los Angeles. Since we�re bored, we invite them to the place we�re crashing at. That is, if they don�t get a ride. We set up our sleeping bags in a dirt field, littered with rocks, right under the gleaming lights of a mammoth neon sign. Well, those two girls never did get a ride, and they didn�t come to hang out with us either. Upon further consideration, they probably thought we were a bit creepy. Oops�
In the morning, after getting kicked off the on-ramp within two minutes and threatened with jail, we get ambitious. We walk seven miles in grueling sun out of Vegas to the next town.

we catch a ride to needles, california, about 70 miles south of vegas. at first, needles appears to be a quaint little desert town with a nearby lake. we keep seeing white people with boats drive by at the on-ramp. we got no rides. and then we realized why it was called needles when we walked across the town.
needles is the asshole of california. the dirty shit-encrusted hemorrhoid-infected pus-leaking asshole of california. see, needles used to be on the old route 66. there�s nostalgia for it all around, but its falling apart. the signs are worn. no one walks the streets. tumbleweed blows across quiet roads far too often. the constant searing desert wind and fierce sun bites your skin and burns it and picks up trash only to blow it far, far away. suddenly your skin has burning needles in it. that�s why it�s called needles.
we walk across town, to interstate 40, and there�s a few local kids hanging out at the jack-in-the-box. a woman comes out, she works there and she�s on her break, and she sits down to smoke a cigarette. she�s staring off into the distance at nothing in particular and mentions how last week it was 130 degrees. the wind does not stop blowing.
we meet a real hick of a kid at that jack-in-the-box, and his name was nate. he was in a wheelchair, his legs withered from not being used. he offers us weed resin hits from his pipe. we smoke it in the open. what happened was his car broke down and he�s been waiting here for hours for his dad to come and fix it. he says, you don�t want to break down around needles. he says he�ll give us a ride to kingman, arizona. but we have to wait.
until his dad arrives at night, he wander around the town, stoned out of our minds. i paint the word of the panda on side-railed train cars and concrete tunnels. i�m able to tag in the daylight. that�s how dead this town is. walking around, i absorbed these eerie details, examined it curiously, and saw it not as hell, but a deranged sort of ghost town. we were perhaps the only living souls walking these streets.
he gets his car fixed, his dad leaves, and he takes us to kingman.

14.
been a while since writing, yeah. me and micah have been going through hell to get across this damn country.
if vegas is hell, then the midwest is purgatory, east coast is heaven.
passed through kingman briefly, stayed a night in flagstaff where a very hospitable hitch hiker (who now lives in a house) gave us a place to stay, cooked us dinner, and smoked us out hard. on to winslow, then the red rocky albuquerque.
once we got out of albuquerque, things got lame. we got to amarillo, tx. an unholy texan pit of quicksand, sucked down and suffocated. the first night we got there, some kid handed us about two grams of weed. got some seeds out of it too. we smoked it and went to a waffle house where we drank coffee for 3 hours. these places are all over. they look like a sleazy 70s burger joint with bland coffee though.
for 3 fucking days we were stuck here. no rides, grueling sun. travelers stuck here for far too long. some for 4 days, some more. after our first miserable night trying to sleep in a field and then getting rained on, we get across town and out into... nothingness. vast brown fields of nothing that go straight out into oblivion. completely flat. old rotting farm houses at the edge of the horizon and grey grain silos. withering trees. power lines that stretch to the ends of the earth. we camp out at an abandoned rest stop. and it smells bad. but we don�t notice until the morning. we look around the lawn we slept on, and it�s littered with bird carcasses. the place reeks of their death. we decide the place is really cursed. we keep seeing signs�the one person that pulled over that was going to dallas�the old ghostly man hitching at our rest stop and disappearing quickly. despair sets in-- we were going crazy.
the afternoon of the 3rd day, we smoked the last of the weed. we looked to the north and there was a sign. a train stopped on the train tracks. we grabbed our packs frantically, grabbed some food and ran and hopped that fucker east... to wichita falls, tx. took 9 hours for about 220 miles. what the fuck. hitched up into oklahoma then got kicked off the interstate by the cops. ended up having to hitch hike country roads and finally got back to i-40. then we land in oklahoma city. this place sucks. all of oklahoma sucks. and i�m never going back to texas. unless i�m taking a fucking greyhound.
our current plan is to get to my mom�s place for a night in nashville, tn, then catch up with D in north carolina. glad i�m not going to FL now, because shit hit the fan, so we heard.

15.
woke up this morning, in a park, in a weird mood. all throughout the night i had woken up confused, looking around. but the last wake up was different. there are some places in this country that are just ugly and depressing. i�m thinking oklahoma city, and the state, are just not good places to be. i don�t really know why, but its just my initial impression. last night while walking the streets, i started thinking about how nice it would be to be back in seattle... or any city for that matter. san francisco, maybe even new york but only for a few days. thinking about... looking out of windows at city night... beds and curtains... long curls of smoke, specters that dissolve...

ah, i don�t really know... we're getting out of OK city today and on to little rock, arkansas... oh so close to haven. the stress of continually moving and trying to get somewhere is probably what�s affecting my mood. i can�t wait to just sit at a place and rest.

i still need a fucking joint right now.

16.
well me and micah just finished one journey-- that of crossing this damn country. the midwest is like a barrier to the east coast of flatlands and people who don't quite like hitch hikers... we arrived in nashville last night, the air humid, the sun hot, the ground wet from a rain that had just passed... picked up by my mom. she bought us some wine which we drank most of last night. its weird how different my mom is now. hell its weird even seeing her after a year. weirdest thing though is she asked me if i had any pot. i asked why. she said she wanted some. turns out my mom is now a stoner after those few years when i lived with her when she got mad at me for smoking. i wanted to smoke a bowl with her but she said no, its only for her and her boyfriend, not with us kids. damn.
being able to relax after that test of courage is really nice. we're gonna chill in nashville for the next 2 days, leave on sunday for philly. was talking to some kids this morning and i hear james from texas is gonna be there! ahh i can't wait! it'll be a nice reunion... going to finally meet up with D and see Anna again! things will be getting better now. i look back upon crossing the country... damn, about 12 days to cross that thing! it was tough, stressful, but i'd say it was finally worth it. arkansas was treacherous... humid to the point where my shirt was wet with sweat the entire time. and the mosquitos... they were ruthless and practically devoured us! and i even pulled a tick out of my hair last night... those things are ugly.

a few days ago....
oklahoma, just east of the city, we arrived in the middle of nowhere by nightfall. walking back along the highway to a good spot, we see an abandoned house down by the railroad tracks. explore it we did. it was just a large stone building, parts of the walls knocked out, holes where windows used to be, foliage intruding all around, with smalltown graffiti all over it. we put the mark of the panda on the floor... the ceiling was black with holes punched in it so that it looked like there was a black starlit sky inside this forgotten place. on the way out, a train passed with boxcars. we waited to see if one was jammed open to see if anyone was inside. well one passed with the boxcar doors all the way open, and micah says he saw a cute hobo girl hiding in the darkened corner of the car. he yelled hey and she looked real quick before she passed... i wish i had seen her... that made me smile nevertheless.

17.
setting out for Delphia tomorrow morning. it looks pretty rainy outside from the hurricane down south, but i expect once we move north we'll get out of it. probably gonna be a 4 day trip, but it'll be nice getting there. finally gonna see D again... and Anna, and James... sweet...

18.
Leaving nashville was the beginning of good luck. I shit you not, we'd had nothing but good times since we rested at my mom�s place. The cross country journey was a test, and we're finally paying off. since me and D believe in the divine powers of the fairies and crows... well the fairies fucking handed it to us. First ride out of nashville after my mom dropped us off, 45 miles out by this Dell kid. got to the middle of nowhere. waited 2 hours at an on ramp. we thought it was hopeless until something crazy happened.
a girl pulls over with her kids in the back. when the fuck does that ever happen? girl gets out, but turns out shes this gothy-punk girl with 2 lip piercings who's going to fucking rainbow gathering! she divulged the real location of the place, something we've been dying to know. and in the end, she resolved to take us all the way to baltimore. she said she had time before rainbow anyways.
what made this girl unique is that she was homeless. her 5 year old had a mohawk. her husband hung himself in the kitchen a few weeks back, and both kids saw it. they�re not quite sure what�s going on yet. the mom became homeless, then ran away from a shelter after buying a car. she said she was gonna camp at rainbow for a month after she gets there. this girl was the shit. me and her chain smoked the entire one and a half days. and it was all from her, she let me smoke freely. total stoner girl... bought us food, bought us a fucking tent so we could camp out with her. got drunk with her and had smalltown adventures trying to find the liquor store. drove through virginia and W. virginia in nasty ass rain where people can't drive, so there�s an accident every 2 miles. in the last bit of traffic we saw kids besides us... fucking hippie kids! stoned as shit. i asked if they had any to spare; they motioned us over. closer now, the kid hands me a nug, and the amazingly hot hippie girl with a nostril piercing in the back waves at me. we rolled it, smoked it... god damn we ended up somewhere else after driving back country roads and getting lost, but eventually found our way... passed through baltimore and dropped us off on the other side. i was sad to leave this girl, but i told her we'd find her at rainbow gathering. we'll be there for 2 weeks... that�s a lot of days to trip...
woke up this morning, caught a ride on a back country road, and the final road we hitched were these two awesome ghetto black guys all drunk. they said they'd take us all the way to philly. we got drunk with them, stopped in their neighborhood for weed and coke (which i didn�t snort), "schooled us" on how to survive on the streets, showing techniques with my blade and how to fight. gestures and shit. cool ass guys all spun and shit, kinda funny. micah got trashed with them, they bought him two fifths, one he already drank with some beers, so currently at the library in philly he's passed out somewhere.... ah fuck. well we made it to fucking delphia in 2 days, in fucking credible. ri-goddamn-diculous. we paid off. good fortune is upon us and I�m feeling amazing....ly stoned.
and now it�s time to find D!