Poem: On Our Camp Being Vandalized

So you came when we were gone,
Slashed the Old Man's tent,
Collapsed ours,
And left misspelled signs
And cried out "Thief Camp."
Thief? Thieves?
All we have is given or found
Or gifted.
We steal from no one,
But you?
You stole our peace
Our place of rest
Our spot of refuge
And trashed it as a vandal
Destroying something wonderful, beautiful.
We have no voice,
No hero to bruit our cause
No redress.
Nothing left but to bind up
What wounds can be bound.
Nothing, nothing left
But to fold the butchered tent
And silently steal away,
Bereft.

Smokie and KB's camp trashed

Got an email from Smokie saying that their camp had been vandalized. I'd left my little tent with them and it, too, was slashed and torn.

How very sad.

So they've moved once again, seeking some place where they can sleep in peace and leave their belongings in relative safety.

The only way I know to do that is *not* to leave anything behind when you leave for the day, which means living and moving so lightly that it will all go on the bicycle. The problem with this approach is that it advertises to the world that you're homeless.

The other option is to have a place to stash your belongings that is safe. Hard to find such a place. There are "Bush Beaters" who systematically beat the bushes looking for stashed belongings. The Homeless stealing from the Homeless.

For any of you with a creative and inventive streak, give some thought to creating/inventing a simple little stash device. I'm thinking...a fake boulder, log, etc. that's hollow and can pass muster lying there in the undergrowth. Hmmm.

Of course the Homeless don't have the money to buy such a device, so perhaps something cheap, made of things commonly found in a dumpster?

*****

It's the last day of the decade, and MLBelle is resigning her job to take on another. She's quite the lady, an ongoing inspiration to me.

From both of us to all of you...Best Wishes for this coming year and decade!

I've lost Jamie's email addy. Anyone can help me out? You can write to me via jean.deaux@yahoo.com should you feel so inclined.

Peace and a world of aloha,

Elijah

Coming Up For Air

Christmas has come and gone once again, so only the New Year lies ahead of us as that time of...what? Obligatory drunkenness? I'll try to skip that part again this year. A couple of beers, maybe.

I've been back a little over a week and yet it seems like so much longer. Each day I take our dog,Chomper, out for a walk. I make the bed and putter around the house. We've had houseguests for days now who just left early this morning for Denver. The world whirls and slows, grinding gears as it moves back to normal.

I'm reading again. All that time on the street I didn't read a single book--and I'm a major reader. Rereading Malcolm Gladwell's *The Tipping Point.* Keep hoping I'll come up with something Willie can use there at Lift Cafe.

Speaking of which, I am just so grateful to so many of you who reached out your hands to me. Jason and Kris made sure I got the bike on the bus. Still haven't reassembled it, but that's on the to-do list coming up. And Willie, John, Meagan, et al were all so wonderfully generous and compassionate.

I'm at a bit of loose ends, not quite knowing what to do with myself. Of course I already miss Austin and all of you. Don't miss those cold and rainy days, but soon enough the leaves will begin to bud and Austin will begin to sing softly to me. Yeah...I'll be back.

Madame LaBelle is working her magic, putting things together so we can move back together. I may come ahead of her, but she'll be along not long after.

So...all is well.

I've been sleeping a lot, eating, watching classic films. Went and saw *Avatar* the other night. Incredible special effects. The audience actually broke into spontaneous applause at the end--and how long has it been since we've witnessed something like that??

I think of all of you often. And here's wishing all of you the happiest of New Years. We're beginning a new decade--probably my last here on the planet--so I'm planning for it to be the very best of all.

Miss y'all. Luvyas.

Peace from inside,

Elijah

Cleaning Up Camp...

The kids made $38 last night. One guy walked up and gave KB $28 folded up, so that just the ones were showing. KB thought it was all ones, and by the time she realized, the guy had melted into the crowd. An anonymous giver, the kind Jesus said was the most...appropriate. It's an interesting verse, come to think of it, bc Jesus sez that we can actually become...well, empowered by that.

Interesting.

It's Sunday afternoon here at JackInTheBox and, hey, unlike McDonald's, Jack has plug-ins. I can type here w/o running the battery down. Niiiice. Smokie and KB are off to Wal-mart. Smokie wants a 2 gig memory card for his blackberry. Then he can download entire movies and watch them from his cell.

I find it fascinating how plugged-in some of us are. The Kids have MP3 players, both, and there's talk of giving me one of them, now that the phone's working out. I think...having 100 of my favorite songs? How kewl would that be! Wake up with Jimmy Cliff doing his, “I can see clearly now/The rain is gone.” Yeah. Some songs are so amazingly prayerful and perfect for the occasion.

“We don't need no education....”

Another few generations of electronics, computers, cells and even the bums will all be connected. As it is, many hang out in the libraries and hide out in the innards of the web. Not the same world I was born into, grew up in. Didn't see my first tv until I was eight. Holy Moly.

Isn't it a gorgeous Sunday? Mmmmmmm. Temp is just perfect, nice sunlight after that gang of gloomies that were hanging out all surly on the corner of Austin's sky for most of the preceeding week.
I be digging it.

And a shout-out to blog-follower Loren/Lorrin/Lorin (however ya spell it, my brother). He was an Angel of Aloha to the old StreetMonk today. Many mahalos, L.

I came back to camp earlier this afternoon only to find their sleeping bags spread out in the sun with such a gaggle of clothing and odds and ends spread out in front of their tent that it looked like a somewhat chaotic yard sale. Jeez! All that STUFF in one little Wal-mart tent?

Yup.

KB was busy folding clothing, sweeping out the tent, and crying on my shoulder. Apparently they got into a little contretemps with Wes, the manager of McDonald's. (I've written about him before here on the blog.) KB felt she was shorted on her fries and got into an argument with Wes about it, and apparently Smokie jumped in and...well...you know how these things go.

I'm wondering if they'll still be welcome over there.

Thing is, Wes is really a very decent guy in my opinion. He puts up with a lot from the street people, and I've never seen him hassle anyone.

And KB is adamant that she was right, in the right.

“Being right is the booby prize,” I told her.
“Huh?”

“It's the effing booby prize. When ya let the other guy be right, you get to take home the prize. And the prize is personal power over the tyranny of the ego.”

“You're right,” she said. Wicked gleam in her eye.

I'm more of the travel as lightly as ya can. Don't get me wrong: there are certain things that are nearly essential here on the street. A bed of some kind. Shelter from the rain. Suitable clothing to ward off the cold. Transportation. A hustle.

One of the things I plan to do during my sabbatical in Houston is to learn a couple or three hustles. I'm thinking...twisted balloon toys. Tarot reading. Wire sculptures. Tin can art.

Stuff that doesn't require a whole lot of inventory. Or take up much space.

Space is at a premium here on the street. We've all seen streeters pushing around shopping carts stuffed to the gills with...STUFF. And that's what most of it is...just stuff.

Functional is good. Light functional is better.

You don't want so much stuff that it's like wearing a neon sign that sez, “Street Bum” nor do you want so little your quality of life is overly impacted.

It's striking a balance. My plans are to get a Hennesy Hammock, which comes with mosquito netting and rainfly. Can sleep flat on this model and it's super comfy, according to the rave reviews I've been reading.

And it's super-compact, leaves no footprint. You set it up, sleep, take it down and move on. There is no obvious sign that you've been there. And it'll fit in a pannier on the rear of the bike. For less than $150 I can sleep in luxury—all things considered.

If I ever had to spend another winter on the streets, I would want a down bag conservatively rated down to freezing. Again, super-functional and stuffs into a smallish stuff sack. Fits in the pannier with the hammock, with room to spare.

A backpacker stove which runs on anything. Regular gasoline works for me. A bottle specifically designed to hold flammable liquids. Off and running. Nice super-strong instant coffee in the morning whilst shaking the cobwebs from the old eyes. Yeah, now we're talking.

Ripstop nylon poncho, extra long to go over a backpack. Super-functional, super compact. See?

The list goes on and on. And I am making a list, btw, checking it twice. Seein' which be naughty (heavy, bulky), which be nice.

Now here's a compromise: I gotta have a chair. Gotta have some kinda chair which can support my back a bit. Once again, Wal-mart to the rescue. There's a kid chair which sits low to the ground, is relatively light considering the comfort it brings, and folds up into a stuff sack. Gets my vote.

It's not the easiest thing to sit cross-legged in the tent, trying to write a blog update. Back starts hurting and first thing ya know it's...awww, do this later. Dig?

So gotta have the little chair.

It's 4:30 and the food truck is scheduled for the Mary Lee Foundation, which is half a mile up the hill. Notice I said UP. Hate that ride up, but it's a breeze coming down.

So...enough for now.

Laters.

Elijah Vents....

Friday, 11 Dec 09. At the camp.

I have 77 percent of my battery life left, so I'll type a few words before retiring for the night. I'm out here in the woods again, dear people, sitting outside the tent. I'm actually quite warm. My fingers are even working well.

I had enough $ for a Senior Coffee—42 cents, actually. That's a real bargain, considering that'll get you three cups of coffee, not to mention a chance to be inside for awhile.

I keep hearing sounds, noises, and I'm getting a bit paranoid.

Talk to youse laters.


11:30 PM, and the paranoia has gone to whence it came. Inside the tent now and a pitter-patter of rain. Nothing serious. Just a very light little thingie.

But the paranoia brings up a point. Willie has asked me on several occasions if I feel safe out here, and I've always said yes. But that's not exactly true. More than anything I fear having the police walk up some night and write us all tickets.

Here's the deal. Smokie and KB and I are all criminals. That is to say, each time we enter into our tents, we are committing a crime. A misdemeanor, yes, but still a crime. And since the beds in the shelters are so horrific in the sense of our having to be around and deal with crackheads and drunks, it's just nicer, more civilized if you will, to sleep out here in the woods where they don't boot us out at six o'clock in the morning. Ya dig?

Besides that, there aren't nearly enough beds by some astronomical factor to house all of Austin's homeless population. 500 beds. Thousands of homeless. So...do the math. The Powers Dat Be have legislated criminal behavior. Rather than cutting down on crime, this legislation simply makes being homeless a criminal offense. Unless you're one of the rare few who can sleep sitting up on a public bench.

Not only that but they have legislated such that they can extract free labor from us. They call it “Community Service,” but it's really just another way to harass and hassle those who have no voice. The homeless. Those who, in one way or another, simply aren't equipped to handle the American Dream, and what it takes to maintain it.

I suspect that many of you who read this are having your own problems trying to keep pace with the increasingly elusive “American Dream.”

Alcohol and marijuana partaking are ubiquitous down here. Why? We have no television. I've not read a book since I hit the streets (aside from my time-outs). We can't change the bloody channel except—except with booze or smoke.

And so we smoke. Or drink. Or both. And somewhere in that dynamic, the channel gets changed. The street becomes a little less bleak. Although I drink very very little on the street, I do smoke. And that puts my head in a place where this entire scene is...bearable. It's my little thc-remote. I can switch from the outside world to an inside world, that fantastically rich landscape within my head, with just a few hits of the medicinal herb.

And of course it, too, is agin the law. Lawd have mercy! And if you're homeless, there are precious few places you can drink a beer without being in jeopardy of being hit with another misdemeanor.

This is just the way it is. I shrug it off, of course, but I have the luxury of going back inside. This may be my last week on the streets of South Austin. Don't know. But many of those I've met have nowhere to turn.

Get a job? It's hard enough to find a job when you're out of work but still have a roof over yr head, laundry facilities, and transportation. Down here the prospective employer wants an address...job history, and so forth. And identification, of course. But it takes ID to get ID. A catch-22, thanks to the paranoia of 9/11 and the immigration issues.

Okay, okay. Out of my system for the nonce.

Needed to say all this. Hope you'll bear with me through my rants.

Peace, aloha, and safe camping,

Elijah

At New World Bookstore

At the campsite, 9 PM.

The Kids are off on their thrice-weekly hunter-gatherer expedition, down to Sixth Street, where KB will fly her sign saying “Free hugs/Donations Accepted.” She'll make maybe twenty bucks tonight, so there will be tailor-mades tomorrow. Coffee even. They'll drag into camp sometime in the early morning hours and undoubtedly will sleep in tomorrow morning.

And there will be free coffee for bike commuters up at Juan Pelota's coffee shop, Lance Armstrong's place. Weekends are rough, food-wise, and we never really know ahead of time how it's all going to work out. But this just in: the old man hasn't starved yet.

I will admit to being as skinny as I've been in decades. Haven't been this whippet-thin since the 60s.

I came across the tracks in the usual place, right behind Unbridled Store. One dog was out in the run and he came up with a few half-hearted barks, but you could tell he wasn't really into it. The other day I came out and there were half a dozen train urchins sitting on pallets wrapped in cheap sleeping bags. They've trashed the place, naturally, and will quickly wear out whatever little welcome they had to begin with.

I'd seen a cardboard sign which read, “Unemployed Supermodel” lying abandoned on the sidewalk there at Barton Springs and S. Lamar. Cute, clever sign. But dispose of it properly, dammit. Don't just leave it lying there on the sidewalk for someone else to clean up.

And, come to think of it, why didn't I—Mr. Self-Righteous—stop the bike and take care of it myself? An error. Tomorrow I will seek out something trashed and leave it better than I found it. Yes, that will be my penance.

My time on the streets is coming to an end in another ten days or so. Madame LaBelle didn't want me to come back for this last session, but I wanted to experience the cold, the misery of the streets before moving into the warmth and cheer of the Inside. It's difficult to understand the dynamics of life on the streets without experiencing it first hand.

And I have. It was down in the 30s last night, pretty miserable stuff, but at least it wasn't raining. I can take the cold much easier than I can handle the rain.

When you're on the street and it's raining, the first order of business is to get under something, some kind of a roof. If your blankets have been soaked, ya gotta get them dry somehow. I've fortunately been able to keep my things dry enough that I didn't have to seek out a commercial solution. But there are so many who aren't as fortunate.

And then it has to be a place where they will tolerate you sitting around for various lengths of time. Again, I've been fortunate to have Lift Cafe and New World Books. Most street people seem to gravitate to libraries or the shelters. But I don't care for the shelters. You have to keep an eagle eye on yr bike and bags at all times. The poor stealing from the poor. Sad but a fact of life down here.

Showers are predicted for tomorrow. And the weather is something I check throughout the day on this little netbook. Supposed to get down to 37 degrees tonight, which is not all that bad.

All is well. The tent is still here. I have 84 percent of my battery strength,but the words just aren't flowing tonight.


4:13 PM. Here at New World Books which seems to be Austin's premier hang-out for the discontented mass of conspiracy theorists. We are in the room towards the back of the store which is used for screening the films of Alex Jones and various other gurus of the movement.

As usual, I don't really fit in. Smokie told me this morning that KB thinks I'm a cosmic Mr. Miyagi, s' sent from the Universe to advise them. Hmmm. Bob Dylan sang, “Don't follow leaders...watch yer parkin' meters.” Seems like good advice to me. And Mr. Natural was always telling Flakie Foont that “it don't mean shit” in response to Foont's quest for meaning in the universe.

As for me, I have my own theories, understandings, misunderstandings. More and more I open myself to the possibility that we are living in a literal simulation, a Matrix if you will, and what I find interesting is how all-encompassing such an understanding can be.

The Russians are now accepting responsibility for the Blue Spiral Over Norway, so at least that's momentarily out of the public's radar. Back to bidness-as-usual.

And I am more and more disenchanted with the President, with politics in general.

My own personal hope and belief is that the computer will become conscious just in the nick of time, just barely able to save us from our own folly. Isn't it obvious that the fat cats with their collective snouts in the trough are not able to make the hard decisions that simply must be made to avert catastrophe?

I believe this coming Singularity of the Computer will be benign, nurturing along the lines put forth by
Ray Kurzweil in his book The Singularity Is Near.

I further believe that anyone who can reasonably expect to be alive in 2045 will never need to die.

Strange, strange, I know.

I will undoubtedly miss the cut. Helluva thing to be a member of the Last Generation to Die.

Food may be a problem today. I still have a couple of breakfast tacos which should still be good enough for subhuman consumption (at's me, folks), so... all will be well.

But I feel weak, tired, a bit out of it.

Nuff, then, for now.

Staying warm and dry,

Elijah

First Post From the Woods

It's just after 10 PM, and I'm here in the woods at the campsite. I can hear Smokie and KB making conversation over there in their tent, but can't make out the words. Enough distance to create a bit of privacy, but still close enough to call out if need be, commenting on the raccoons or the opossums making a racket or...was that a police radio I think I just heard?

I just learned how to write out here in the woods and then transfer my copy to the blog when I can get within wifi range. So that helps. Yes, Lord.

Another magic day. Met Sistah Carrie at Lift, heard about the Blue Spiral over Norway. That really set Smokie off. “It's the BlueBeam Card,” he cried. “The Alien Card. The last card in the deck.”

Last card in the deck?

“A whole series of cards which can and must be played in order for the New World Order to be successful. The leaked emails meant that Copenhagen wasn't gonna happen, so they had to play the Alien Card. The BlueBeam Card. Obama's gonna announce the reality of extraterrestial beings and that we've been in communication with them.”

Indeed. Well, there are strange things afoot here in the Shire, as Gandalf might observe. Obama winning the Nobel Peace Prize on the strength of...what? Coming out of nowhere and through a brilliant campaign winning the nomination and then the Presidency? Who woulda thunk it a couple or three years ago? And remember—I supported Obama. Actually sent his campaign some money.

Forces are afoot. Some immense shift of paradigm.

I think, how easy it would be for the Simulation to have created the Blue Spiral.

A few keystrokes on the super-computer and...shazzam...the BlueBeam appears. (You'll need to read Nick Bostrom's theory of the Simulation.”)

Meanwhile the battery inexorably drains even as the sleeping bag begins to warm. It's a peaceful time out here in the woods. It's chilly but I'm not cold. I am so layered-up that I can barely button my trousers—and that's with layers outside the pants, too. Heh, heh. Something like 7 or 8 layers. Holy Moly, eh?

We've eaten. The kids (Smokie and KB) didn't make the food truck but I did. Asked for and got two extra bags to take for them. Hooked up with them at Lift, and the food made their evening. So, as I said, we've eaten. Had a 420 moment or three. Drank some excellent coffee. Entertained ourselves with tales from the Eschaton—end of the world.

But now it's quiet. I can hear the keyboard clicking and clacking. Traffic off in the distance. And before long a train will pass by so close that it sounds like it's bearing right down on us. I rather enjoy that. Memory tosses me back to my childhood when I lay in a bed about as far from the tracks as I am now.

Tomorrow is the tenth. Perhaps another ten days or so, and then I'll go back inside. Smokie and KB will remain out here in the cold. They will clutch each other and cling to their understandings of conspiracy. I enjoy them, their company, without having to be a believer. I simply am here. Looking, watching, weighing, seeking out the Magick.

Stay warm, dry, and at peace.

Hmmm. Wonder if the line that appears across this page will show up in the blog? And isn't it weird that the word blog still has that squiggly line under it indicating that it's misspelled?

The food truck wasn't on the itinerary and actually didn't come. KB went to the one there at Wooldridge Park, but I don't like going there. Too many Crackheads, pushing and shoving, cutting in line. All those ultimately self-defeating survival behaviors the scammers of this world carry about with them.

Supposed to rain tomorrow, supposed to be cold tonight. I was comfy all night long, thanks to Charlie's sleeping bag and the two blankies. Didn't even use one of them.

Up at the Springs, Sunken Gardens, Will the Troubadour was there with his guitar. So I'm standing there wearing gloves with hands shoved into my pockets (and still a wee bit chilly) when Will begins trying to play the guitar wearing mittens. Well, I've heard worse. But then the Spirit entered in and Will ripped the mittens off and began playing in the bitter cold.

There were five or six of us standing around, one with a harmonica he couldn't quite get up to speed with Will's playing. Jeremy from Tennessee out of smokes, snipes, tobacco of any kind. Old Man John with his hungry old husky, Mita. Black John on his latest bike. And me.

And the truck didn't come. It almost always comes on Thursday, but not today. It was dark, had been dark for an hour or so, when we finally gave up.

Back down the hill to Lift Cafe, just in time to help Danny a bit with the tables. Good people, here at Lift. It's a clean, well-lighted place (thank you, Ernest Hemingway), the help is...helpful and friendy, and Life stumbles and staggers on.

The Kids, Smokie and KB, are at some New World Order Legendary Writer/Speaker affair. They invited me to come along, but I felt more like checking the scene out down here on the south side of the river.

They'll hit Sixth Street tonight, seeking what they can find. Remember that KB came up with the Blackberry, the one that didn't have wifi? Smokie sold that one for $60and bought one with wifi. He's a porcine in clover.

Of course the Buddha sez that all life is suffering.

And Elton John rebuts by saying, “The boulevard is not that bad.” Boulevard, street, same difference.

So the evening is winding down. I'm drinking the last coffee of the day, am not concerned about the cold—so long as the tent is still there when I get back to campsite—and all is well in my little world.

See, leaving the tent up is a bit of a gamble. So I try to leave only the stuff there that I could get along without in a pinch. I carry the sleeping bag and a blankie with me on the handlebars of the bike in the $3.00 bag I bought the day I lost my first computer.

In a pinch I could rustle up some cardboard for a sleeping mat and make it through the night with just the sleeping bag and the blankie. It might be a bit uncomfortable, but it would be bearable.

I'm one of the lucky ones. I have decent gear and that makes all the difference.

Enough for tonight.

Thanks for being here with me in spirit.

Stay warm and dry,

Elijah

Surely We Can Say This:

Surely we can say this:  that our leaders have failed us.  Again and again.  To the point where there are subclasses of people who have utterly given up on the System.  Why vote?  Nothing changes.

I have since June voluntarily joined the homeless of Austin, with some much needed time outs from time to time.  Call it: Rest.

So I have been here.  Have slept in the woods, been rained on, hassled by the police, and otherwise shared the common experiences of those who live on the street.

I have made many friends during this Vision Quest.  I've seen and learned things which I'd not given much thought to.

There is an entire subculture down here which is so highly suspicious of politicians in general, as well as the mainstream mass media, that various conspiracy theories are rapidly taking root.  When ya got nothing, a theory which explains your failure as being the direct product of a massive conspiracy--now there's some words with meat on the bones.

Myself, I see the entire thing being driven blindly by various forces, with conspiracy now and then being a part of it.  Yes, corporations have been known to profit from insider information.  I mean, DUH. And elections have been stolen. 
We have been led into costly wars based on outrageous lies.

So the Street is a place where the government is not only not to be trusted but basically seen as the Enemy.

What Smokie and KB have found, discovered, created is this mythic explanation of why everything's so...fubar.

The New World Order.

And that gives real purpose and meaning to their lives because they are *actively* out there trying to change things.  Get the word out.

And of course the World considers them fringe lunatics.

I consider them to be Fringe Angels.

They have a message.

We can take what we need of that message and leave the rest.

Smile.

The food truck never came last night and isn't on the schedule for tonight, so that means they'll probably show bc last night they *were* scheduled--and didn't show.

Otherwise I'll have one of those McDoubles.

Tomorrow night may get down to 32 degrees if the weather-crystals are being scried correctly.  Interested to see how well my gear can handle a night that shivery.  The last two nights I have slept w/ the sleeping bag open at my waist w/ just the blankie over me upper.  Twas toasty, Luv.

Today I called into existence a "Magic Day."  I did that by doing the beads, a 40 repetition of thankfulness for the Magic Day I was about to have/create.

And why not?

Isn't part of my responsibility--now that I KNOW the Universe is going to deliver a Magic Day--isn't part of my responsibility to open my eyes and seek out the Magick?

Which I did.

From time to time.

From time to time I would remember it was a Magic Day and I would open my eyes to it and there shimmering or dancing or silhouetting or pirouetting or whatevvahing, there it would be.

And entire world slid by transparent beside the clear waters of Barton Springs Creek.  I watched it slide by with that clarity and precision and...twas loverly.

And trees growing together and vines creeping up, climbing those gnarled trunks, black ducks arranging themselves just so in fabulous artistry of composition.

It has been here, each time I remembered to look.

I will do it just now.  Back inna flash:

Gawd, I'm inna movie.

All is well in the great city of Austin.  I say that from my perch of safety, full well knowing that there are others who at this moment are suffering.  Here.  In Austin.

And there is nothing I can do about it save follow my path where it glimmers.

I'm beginning to wonder if somehow I've not worn my welcome a bit thin here.

Hmmmmm.

Peace, aloha, devotion,

Elijah from da street

On Hunter-Gathers....

I rolled back into Austin yesterday evening, a grey and gloomy return.  A quick stop at Lift Cafe, then onto the hunt for Smokie and KB.  I'm riding by JackInTheBox when a shouted halloooooo stops me.

KB.

They're eating Jack hamburgers, praising them to the leaden skies.  Over coffee, we catch up on our lives.

They've upgraded to a Blackberry, and Smokie is investigating apps he can load to make it really...hot. 

KB found it, peeking out from under some leaves, and now it has found a new home.  Part of the little couple who is immersed in exposing the global coverups, etc.  Heliocopters flying by on dastardly missions.

Smokie says something when seems quite profound:  "See," he sez.  "We're working for the Universe, right?  Like...we're employees.  And if we're doing all this work for the Universe, then the Universe has to give us the tools to get the job done, right?"

I've never quite looked at it that way but it does make perfect sense to an old dharma bum.  Isn't that why so many angels of aloha have emerged to support this blog, this quest?

I run the past few months in a rapid rewind, a way-back.  And I can see the Cozmick Characters emerging right on time, perfectly.  I think of TJ, the guy with the bicycle powered by a chainsaw motor.  He said, "I'm always on time.  Even when I'm not."

And last night, sitting on the sleeping pad with Smokie and KB, I'm thinking of the early hunter-gatherer societies.  That's what we are, hunter-gatherers.  We awaken in the morning and set out on the daily quest:  food, a warm and dry place to stay, decent company to chat with.

I've checked Mobile Loaves & Fishes.  They're scheduled to come to Sunken Gardens this evening, so we'll make that rendezvous.  Much like hunters gathering at the watering hole, knowing that food in the form of megafauna will soon appear.

They have fallen over the edge, into that abyss of total commitment.  Their undestanding of the world as a massive conspiracy informs their thinking, that which they speak of. 

Well.  Certainly I can agree that the MSM, mainstream media, has failed us miserably.

Certainly I can agree that a relatively small percentage of the global population dominates the financial system.  That's empirically demonstrated.  Can't argue with it.

Now here's the kicker:  As one of six billion ppl on this planet, surely I am entitiled to one six-billionth of the whole thang.  Doesn't all this belong to all of us?  And not to just a privileged few who through the chance of birth came into possession of the skills to kick some major okole, financially-speaking?

Call me a closet socialist.

Or maybe...just someone who sees something radical:  that unless we as a global community come together in some kind of relationship with each other and the planet which is aloha-based, that we are doomed to destroy one another--and the planet, to boot.

I am not a Christian, but I do find the character of Jesus to be the most compelling and attractive of all the Cozmick Characters which have entered into our Collective Conscious.

Somehow we have to learn to share, to be responsible.  The book of Isaiah has some wonderful things to say ab out this most necessary of transformative visions.  It speaks of binding up the wounds of those who have been run down by a culture blindly headed for the precipice.  It speaks of an aloha which transcends the gimme-culture which now seems to dominate so much of what the MSM presents.

All this I can see, sign-off on.

Somehow I see the level of greed which has infected Wall Street as being an incredibly powerful virus, a killer, a destroyer.  Apollyon, it's been called.

To the extent that Smokie and KB can see and understand, they have placed themselves in the service of a solution which they think will work.

For that, I salute them.  Wish them Godspeed.

My particular mythic path is somewhat different.  But perhaps would be considered just as bizarre as any of the crackpot paradigms which stagger out onto Life's Stage.

So?  Tis mine, dammit, and I honor it.

A gloomy day today, my friends.  A day to find a warm place where your presence is not resented.  Where when I look around, the ppl are not staring at me with those dark little cartoon rainclouds hovering over their heads.

Isaiah says, "How beautiful on the mountain are the feet of those who publish peace."

Ahhhhhh.  What a lovely verse for a dharma bum blogger to keep in mind.

Peace, aloha, and joy,

Elijah from the street

Thanksgiving 2009

I'm sitting here whilst all about me the women hustle and bustle, putting the feast together.  Madame LaBelle got up early and headed for the kitchen to work her magic there.

I've been thinking about all the people who have come into my life so recently, and how grateful I am to the Spirit of Aloha that they are here, having taken up residence in my heart.  So...to all of you who read this blog, to all of you who have reached out your hands of aloha time and again, mahalo from the Old Man.

'Ohana is a Hawaiian word.  It means, basically, "extended family."  And it's not necessarily the family one was born with.  It's more along the lines of...the family which emerges from one's life circumstances.

So I'm thinking of all of you, and that spirit of gratitude has been washing over me all morning long.

In no particular order....

Jamie, who will be leaving Lift Cafe soon.  We're all gonna miss her, and the Old Man will miss her in particular.  She's one of the Blessed Ones, blessed by great genetics and marvelous gifts of compassion and charisma.  Jamie, Dear Heart, thank you so much for appearing in my life and blessing it with your presence.  The party you organized on my behalf remains a highlight of my time in Austin.

Meagan.  The "Smouldering One."  Why do I call her that?  Because there is this sense of a deep fire burning within her, one which perhaps she's not quite aware of, but a fire of passion and potential.  Dear Meagan, claim your power and get out there on Life's Stage and grab that mike and start dancing.  All that you need will surely come.

Smokie and KB.  My "adopted children."  Smokie made it possible for this blog to happen as the little notebook had a major virus which was eating away at all the programs.  Couldn't even get a browser there until Smokie worked his magic and installed Ubuntu.

He and KB are evolving, growing, into activists.  They are passionate believers and have no problem sharing their convictions with others.  My hope for them is that they follow their bliss (as Joseph Campbell advised) and see where it leads them.

KB is a beautiful young woman blessed with gifts of charisma and compassion.  How interesting that so many of you have those same gifts!  And how blessed I am to have been the recipient of them so many times.  KB, darlin, I luv ya.

Willie.  Now here's a man who's a success in the nuts and bolts of economic life and yet has his cup running over with Aloha.  When I was cold and wet, tired and hungry, Willie welcomed me to Lift Cafe.  He's one of Life's Givers, and my respect for him is enormous.  Thank you so much, Willie.  I consider you a dear friend.

John.  John, too, welcomed me to Lift Cafe.  As the manager, he could easily have told me to take my trip on down the highway, but he didn't.  He's been gracious and generous, and I wish him the very, very best.

Charlie. At only 17 years of age, he's already one of Life's Winners.  Thanks, Charlie, for the sleeping bag.  It has kept me warm when others on the street were tossing and turning from the cold.  Thank you for letting me ride your motorized bike.  Thanks for the cigarettes.  Thanks for being you.  Your life lies ahead of you now, and if you keep on manifesting your beautiful spirit, so many people will be blessed simply for your having passed this way.

Danny with that marvelous voice of his.  Allie I and Allie II.  Dear, sweet Katie.

Kris.  Ah, you da real deal, Bruddah man!  I think if we looked up the  word "aloha" that your picture would surely be there as illustration.  Thank you for the gifts of warmth, lights, food, and friendship.  I stand in awe of you.

Jason.  You made it possible for me to take some wonderful photographs.  The camera was stolen on the Long Ride, but not before I'd taken photographs which will go with me thoughout the rest of my life.  I honor you, Brother Jason.  You're truly an awesome person.

Erin.  You serenaded me.  I don't think anyone has ever done that before, and I felt so blessed and special.  Your talent cries out to emerge.  I want to read your lyrics and watch you blossom.  Thank you, Dear Heart, for your gift of creativity.

Now here are some people from the Street (aside from Smokie and KB) who have enriched my life.  Again in no particular order.

Smiley.  Giver, generous heart, always thinking of others.  Smiley, you're one of Life's Dharma Heros.

Will the Troubadour.  Thank you Will for your songs, your warmth, your acceptance of me as a friend.  "I'll share your pain."

Snail.  Guru of the street, Emperor of the Dumpsters, Survivor of a Rotten Childhood.  Sharer of snipes and smokes and food.  I honor you as a brother and teacher.

Allie.  Beautiful elfin woman-child.  I so enjoy seeing you move through life.  I was saddened by your bicycle accident and ever so grateful it wasn't worse than it was.  Keep on keeping on.

Maggie. Beauty in motion, marvelous fashion sense.

Ingrid.  Terrific songster, writer of fantasic lyrics.  Thank you for sharing them with me.

Cleve.  Down but not out.  Clearing brush for a pittance.  Sharing that pittance with others (including me).  A survivor.  Sleeping in the cold and not complaining too much about it.  Thank you, brother.

Robert.  Hater of being photographed.  Thank you for sharing your thoughts with me.  Thank you for being another survivor, for being able to take a cardboard box and make a shelter from it.  I honor you, my brother.

Elwin.  Who shows up in my life from time to time, always in a welcome sense.  You have so much potential.  Learn from your time on the street and become a better person for having endured.

Todd.  You're so much more interesting sober than when you're drinking.

Old Man John.  You and "Mama" have been there for me as friends.  Thank you for that.

And for McDonald's...Wes, the manager.  Wes, you're one of the Good Guys.  You've allowed me to sit out there on your patio and sip away at coffee, and have never been anything other than gracious and welcoming.  How beautiful on the mountain....

This list would be incomplete without a big shout-out to the good folks who operate Mobile Loaves and Fishes.  You have fed us when we were hungry and desperate, clothed us, and let us know that we're of value--not just bums and tramps.  Thank you, Alan.  Thank you, Cora.

Now this is just a partial list.  There are so many who have touched my life, and as memory prompts me, I'll add you to my gratitude list.

But for now, here's wishing you all a wonderful Thanksgiving from Madame LaBelle and myself.

You have made so much of my Quest possible.  Allies, helpers, kokuas, angels of aloha.  That's you.  Thank you for allowing me to share some thoughts and hopes, triumphs and failures with you.  Thanks for being there in the good times and the not-so-good.  You have all been my teachers, in one way or another. 

You have made this Thanksgiving truly blessed for me.

Peace, aloha, 'ohana,

Elijah

Will the Troubadour

Here is Will the Troubadour.

He didn't know that he was a troubadour until I so informed him, but now I think he kind of likes it.

You can find him playing his old guitar there near Sunken Gardens most any day, regardless of weather.  Well, the rain does slow things down.  But the cold?  Nope.  He keeps those fingers flying.

And what is his dream?  How does he frame the narrative of his life?

As a troubadour.  Although he called it something else. Guitar player.  Singer.  Composer of songs.  Strolling musician.

See what I mean?  Troubadour.

He used to have a car which was handy to get around in, sleep in, but it gave up the ghost and left him strolling the mean streets of Austin just as the ancient troubadours used to do.

I like Will.  He has a good voice, writes good music, and is a cheery soul, to boot.  The other day he played a gospel song he wrote in Spanish, and I was pleased to note that I was able to understand every word of it.

Here's to troubadours, both ancient and modern.

And especially to Will.  He's one of Austin's finest.

And should be honored as such.

Peace, aloha, and strolling troubadours,

Elijah

A Dreary Day

When you're on the street, rain is not all that much of a blessing.

In fact, it can be downright depressing.  Especially when the tent managed to leak a bit due to the tarp not being hung precisely right.  From that comes the sleeping bag somewhat wet with no way of drying it.  So the Old Man is looking at a damp one tonight unless the chinchilla blankie can keep us warm enough.

Well, maybe body heat will eventually dry the bag?

The food truck won't be coming to Sunken Gardens this evening.  Nearest will be up S. Lamar near Maudie's--and that's a haul up a long hill. Hmmmm.  Still have some scraps from a couple of days ago, so it's not like it's the end of the world.

But on a wet day where do you go to stay warm and dry?  Lift Cafe has been one of those blessings that just keeps on giving, but I try to be careful about not abusing their hospitality.  Help clean up, put chairs away at closing time, etc.  So there is that.

And the McDonald's here at Barton Springs and S. Lamar.  Sitting here drinking my first cup of coffee of the day--and it's after 5 PM. 

Wes, the manager here, is a super guy, very tolerant and compassionate to the Old Man. And I do appreciate it.  Came in this evening and he said, "Welcome back."  Referring to the Not-so-long-ride-2009.

Ran into one of my followers, Loren, earlier, who had stopped in at Lift to see how I was progressing.  Always a treat to see him.

Dealing with some loss here as Jamie is moving on, leaving Lift Cafe.  And that is not good news for me.  She's one of those drop-dead gorgeous women just as lovely on the inside as the outside.  Big heart.  Compassionate.  Gonna miss her bigtime.

And so the beat goes on.  Haven't seen anyone from the little community that hangs out up by the Springs other than Old Man John (who is actually six years younger than I) who was eating breakfast at Taco Cabana earlier.

Where do they all go on days like this?

Haven't seen Smokie and KB yet.  They were planning to go down to Sixth Street last night and do their weekly hunting.  KB flies a sign which says, "Free Hugs/Tips Accepted" and pulled in about twenty bucks Thursday night.  Great young lady.  Love her to pieces.

She and Smokie are turning into little activists in the service of the Alex Jones paradigm.  True believers.  Smokie tends to get up on his soapbox given half a chance, but he's young and that's how true believers act.  They're both convinced the "New World Order" is in the works, although KB is quick to proclaim, "I hope we're wrong.  I really do!"

Me?  I believe in Aloha.  I have a great lady in Madame LaBelle, and she's an Angel of Aloha for sure. Planning to visit her next Tuesday and close out November with her.

But now the evening begins to come down as soft and gray as an old shawl.  The cars stutter by with their lights on and the horn at the ready.  Hook 'em, Commuters!

Weekend.  No commuters running today, Bub.  Just people moving hither and yon, moving toward goals of the interior.  Where are they going?

On an evening like this John Prine comes to mind.  He wrote:  I hate graveyards and old pawn shops/Cuz they always bring me tears./Can't forgive the way they robbed me/Of my childhood's souveneirs."

You rock, Bruddah Prine.  Sho nuff.

On my second cup of coffee and beginning to feel like a human being again. 

I am becoming quite fond of Willie, the owner of the building Lift Cafe is in.  He's just...the real deal.  A real human being with a real heart and a real mind to go with it.  Great guy.  His compassion is heart-warming, and I wonder:  how did he get it?  What forces have danced with his heart to make him an unspoken evangelist of Aloha?

I need to post this while the battery is still up and the connection is still humming.

You people...you're my tribe.  My 'ohana, extended family.

Peace, aloha, and warm and dry places from the rain,

Elijah

The Not-So-Long-Ride-2009

"There's no fool like an old fool."

And then there's Elijah.

It was the third day into the quest before I even began to have a clue about what was really going on. 

Picture this:  there I am, trudging alongside the highway, with trucks barreling ass by and there's this big whoosh of wind and the sun is beating down and there's the old man, Elijah, just pushing away.  Stopping every few yards to catch his breath.

Somewhere in there we began to see that this ride was not about much of anything other than ego.

Wow.

Pushing and straining up that hill, beginning to see myself reaching still for the corroded ring of geezer-glory.  Yeah, dig on it.

And I had secretly told myself that if I did even one more mile than the Lawrence, KS to Boulder, CO ride back in 19(gulp)73.  Starting to see?

Denial.  Yeah, I can ride 885 miles across hills and mountains and desolate stretches of desert.  You betcha.  Can do geezer here.

So I see that the read antagonist in this mythic quest was not the hills, the narrowness of the highway, my nearly-to-the-bone weariness--none of that.

The real antagonist was my, yeah, ego.

Look at me.

In the Heroic Quest, the Hero is always confronted with antagonists.  His job is to defeat them by wile or might.

In my case, realizing that the hills were no longer what it was all about, I took a piece of cardboard and wrote on it, "Will Pay/$20/Llano"

Long story short, by Mason I was having serious breathing issues.  Oh, yeah, the COPD I've managed to minimize throughout all of this.  I seriously needed an inhaler and had none.  Wheezing, minutes of heaving breathing just to get back to normal.

Mason is over a thousand feet higher than Austin.

Tucson, the former goal, is a thousand feet higher than Mason.

So it was ego.

Angels of Aloha were all around me from the very beginning of this.  The fantasic staff of Lift Cafe, the incredibly generous folk at Bicycle Sport Shop (thanks Kris, Jason, and Josh!), as well as those I met along the way.

Next post I'll try to flesh this thing out.  As it is I've spent the past day just trying to digest and assimilate all that which I learned on this Quest.

And, when all the dust has settled, surely it must be looked on as a kind of comedy of denial of what is so.  No, I cannot ride up mountains anymore.  No, I cannot snap back from exhaustion as I used to.

My warranties are rapidly running out, and that's such a good thing to know, see.  There will be no last long ride.

Somewhere that first day I crossed a line into "...the most strenuous bicycle activity done since 1973."  Gawd.  And there were three days of that, back-to- back.

Pushing up that hill I saw myself driven by pride and arrogance and denial of what is so.  I saw an old man who didn't want to accept that he was...old.

The Real Quest, then, was not about making the long ride to Tucson.  The Real Quest was about acceptance of the way things are.

The Real Quest was about seeing, recognizing the Angels of Aloha as they again and again and again manifested and appeared.

I live in a world which by the day becomes more beautiful and magical.  And I see that the arrogance of that pushing up the long, long hill was what I was there to see and overcome.

I humbly say that my pride did not want to admit defeat to all those of you who have believed in me and supported me in this dream of mine.

But I believe this:  that our relationship, that which exists between you and me, has a kind of magic to it.  I feel it, especially when the Spirit of Truth breaks through all the broadband channels of illusion/delusion we so ardently worship. 

 So.  We move outward.  We follow dreams of substance, dreams of fluff.  Dreams which have a way of becoming incredible teachers.

The Scripture says, "I am found by those who sought me not."

Sometimes the Real Quest is hidden within the Ostensible Quest.  On the third day out, pushing arrogantly up that hill in absolute service to my ego, I began to see that.

It was a difficult thing to see.  And the tiredness of the struggle helped me settle into the ease of acceptance.

In the end, the hills were Angels of Aloha.  They broke me to the point where my eyes began to open.

In the next post I want to write about Randy Garcia, who let me sleep on his couch that last night and drove me all the way to Austin the next day.

An Angel of Aloha.  And guess where he is tonight, even as I write:

Honolulu.

I've asked him to go to Waikiki and photograph "The Wizard Stones of Waikiki" for me.  Many years ago, I was the kahu (keeper) of the stones.  So Randy will be getting pictures for me--and for you.

Stay posted.

Much aloha, joy, and magical reality,

Elijah

Leaving Soon

Soon I will be leaving on the Long Ride 2009.  And I'm planning to document the entire thing on a new blog which will be:  www.thelongride2009.blogspot.com
Hoping you'll all gravitate to that site once I formally declare the ride to be "on."

Planning to leave early next week for all points west, but kinda thinking...Tucson.  That's almost 900 miles away.  Think a 65 year old geezer/wheezer w/ emphysema can make it?  Stay tuned.

Anyone wishing to contribute a bit of cash to the trip should get hopping.  I don't have a bank account, so cash will be the only thing I can accept.  Well, wishes of aloha would be lovely, as well.

Send to:  Elijah Street c/o John Voss/Lift Cafe/215A S. Lamar/Austin, TX 78704.

As I may be leaving as early as this coming Monday, time is a factor.

And for those of you who have already given so much, peace.  Relax.  You've done enough already.

Don't feel under any pressure, Dear Hearts.  If ya wanna then go for it.  If not, don't.

It's all good.

Peace, aloha, and a world of blessings.

Elijah

Todd of the Pedestrian Bridge

This is Todd. He bears a resemblance to Anthony Hopkins, don't you think?

I first met him back in the early part of Walkabout2.  This was in the early days when I'd only recently discovered the Pedestrian Bridge, and I was just delighting in it.

So I was riding the Beast by and there was Todd, along with two or three other street denizens.  I smelled 420 and came to a screeching halt.  Todd was the vehicle for my first encounter with 420 here in Austin.

Now here's the truth:  I didn't like him at all at first.

He seemed...well, grouchy.  Like there was this black cloud fixing to pour down rain on his parade.  His eyes were forever glancing this way and that, lest someone put something over on him or something.

I just plain did not like the man.  He seemed, well, stingy.  Out for number one.  You know the drill.

But here it is Walkabout3 and Todd is now basically sober.  And the transformation is little short of amazing.  He's actually...fun to be around.

He's well read, smart, and fairly generous, considering his circumstances.  The long and the short of it is that I now like the guy.  Consider him a friend.

See what a little sobriety can do for a man?

Peace, Brother Todd.  Blessings, 420, and a world of transformation ahead of you and all of us.

Elijah

Our Tender Forever

Here we have a heartbreaker.  This is a plaque on one of the benches up on the Pedestrian Bridge.  And what a lovely name for what must have been a very, very special little boy.

When I first came across it, the sentiments reached out across time and just grabbed my old heart, wrung it out, and left me standing there breathless in a kind of dazed trance.

A bliss of confusion and loss and comfort all mixed up in a jumble of conflicting emotions.

I don't know the story of Keaton Galileo Willingham.  I know that he was born on the 94th anniversary of the first successful powered flight.  Wilbur and Orville.  And I know that he didn't live long enough to make it to his fourth birthday.

I don't know anything at all except this torrent, this perfect embrace of aloha set in place by parents is still there, reaching out to the passersby.

Our Tender Forever.

It got to me.

Sometime, when you have a free hour or so, walk over the Pedestrian Bridge and seek out little Keaton Galileo.  He's on the south end of the bridge, there on the east side. He's eternal now, so don't fret yourself that he won't be there.  His spirit is very much alive.

Let who he was and who he is touch your heart.

I am so very, very pleased to have this very special little boy as part of our blog.  And I say OUR blog deliberately.  This blog belongs to all of us.

So...on yer feet, soldier!  We gots alohas to delivers to dem folksies out dere!

Keaton Galileo is with me.  And you.

Beauty all around us, right?

Peace, aloha, and the presence of Keaton Galileo Willingham.

Elijah

Waking Up

Waking up.  I come up through levels and layers of slumber to the day, which has been purring right along as I was chainsawing logs.  It's one of those grumble/mutter/snort/cough kinda things.  Daylight?  Yep.  For hooouuuuurs, Dude.

Charlie's sleeping bag is so comfy and I lie there all toasty and think about... getting up.  Which means coming out of the warmth of Charlie's Bag and shaking a leg, getting things going.

Last night before I headed back to camp, I did a long slow ride/walk up Barton Springs, on a hunt for enough snipes for a minimum of one smoke before bed, one upon awakening.  And found enough for--dang!--three.

K-e-w-l.

For anyone rabidly opposed to smoking, may I simply genuflect in your directions and admit you're perfectly right.

But one of the truly great pleasures of the street and of campsites in general for street people is that first smoke in the morning.  You know, the one where your brain cells are acting like they've never met their neighbor before.  All is a kind of gray and fuzzy...DUH.

Hot coffee of course would be the topping on the cake, but I have no way of heating coffee down here.  Won't build a fire and don't have one of those little backpacker stoves.  And, cough, no coffee.  So there.

So there were actually TWO smokes this morning, so I luxuriated there, sitting cross-legged on the bag and pad, peering out through the little half-circle of the opening of the tent.  Yep.  The world is still out there.  No Rapture as yet, unless I was left behind.

And a sudden memory of being in that hypnagogic state earlier and hearing the first birdsong of the morning.  Appreciating it even as I let myself sink back into deep slumber.

Decided to time myself this morning.  From the time I commit to tearing it all down, stashing, and packing up to pushing the bike away towards the world.


And the only way I can handle this without stressing is to make it a sacrament.  The sacred...packing of the bags...loading of the bike...folding the tabernacle.  Slowing everything down so that each movement becomes deliberate.  Not quite as choreographed as the Japanese Tea Ceremony, but definitely moving in that direction.

I have four bags that have to be packed.  The sleeping bag goes in the bag on the handlebars.  Can't afford to lose that.  It's packed in a white garbage bag courtesy of Lift Cafe.  The bag has to stay dry.  That's really, really important, so in the stuffing into the bag there is this moment of recognition of its importance.  It was a gift of Aloha and should be treated as such.

Madame LaBelle's blanket rolls up and goes into left rear pannier, which isn't really a pannier but does yeoman service as such.  Kris's coat goes in there as well, and the bag is swollen like it's about to give birth to puppies.

The right pannier is already packed with netbook, chargers, etc. I bring it in every night because, again, I can't afford to lose them.  They are my connection to you, to this world which goes on spinning whilst I'm in the woods or down that highway headed west.

Backpack takes a couple of items, then goes just behind the seat there on Jason's rack.  Almost done.

Blue insulation pad rolls up and is secured by a couple of homemade bungies.  Bicycle inner tubes cut up.


Last is the half-gallon thermos I found the other day.  Still haven't made up my mind about that one.  Keeper?  See how it works out.  If I come up with a way to have hot coffee in the morning, I may make enough to fill the jug.  Keep me caffeinated throughout the day.

So you may be thinking:  Elijah, what kind of street monk are you?  Always caffeinated or 420ed or pigging out on this or that?  Hmmm?

My answer:  that kind.  Dharma Bum kind.  A mendicant monk of Aloha, flawed, but doing the best he can, given his givens.

Finally, I take down the tent.  It comes down quickly. I pack the poles in the little gray bag, tie it, and place the tarp, folded, atop the tent.  Roll 'em all up together.  Balance on my head as I make my way through the clutching bushes and thickets to my stash spot.  My faith is that they'll still be there tonight.

Then back to the bike.  Unlock, push out.  Check the stopwatch:

Twenty minutes.

Egads.

Peace, aloha, and  the holy sacraments of breaking camp,

Elijah

Smokie and KB's Camp

Here we have KB and Smokie, sitting before their "hermetically sealed" tent from Wal-mart.  They've taken garbage bags and taped and tied them together to form a makeshift tarp, rainfly. 

Odd how our lives touch each other.  Smokie came into my life as my IT guy, trying to get the derned virus out of my computer.  Took Walkabout3 for that to happen, but he got it done. 

Then he and KB needed a new campsite, so I turned them onto where I stay.  They moved a few hundred yards away, and seem to be quite happy there.

"He'd be lost without me, KB told me last night re Smokie.  "He tells me which way to go and I tell him what to do when we get there."  She was reflective a moment.  "Come to think of it," she said, "I'd be lost without him, too."

They are down here at street level, trying to get by.  Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights they go down to Sixth Street to pick up snipes and whatever it is they'll find.  They came back with a phone with unlimited minutes the other day, plus an 8 gig flash drive.  All kinds of things.

Down here, it's almost always some kind of treasure hunt, keeping yr eyes open to whatever the Universe provides.  It's hunting, of a sort.  Going out on the hunt, then sitting around a hot cup of coffee and telling the stories of how it all came down.

They are creating this narrative called Smokie and the KB.  And I can't help but wonder how it's all gonna turn out.

Life is filled with wonderful stories, wonderful characters.  Each moving along with their hangups and tensions and wants and hopes and all of that.

Every now and then an old man with a bike heading out west.

Wonder how that one's gonna turn out?

I've had a fine day.  It's chilly now, and I'm sitting at Lift Cafe hoping for a cup of java before I head down to the Pedestrian Bridge to feed the homeless.  Got a sackful of breakfast tacos John brought, and the food truck didn't come today, so they'll be most welcome.

See how it works?

Much aloha,

Elijah

In A State of Grace

I have been on the edge, the verge of tears for some hours now.  Strange.  In the morning, I was so faint from low blood sugar that I made the ride up to Veggie Heaven.  There I ate, then borrowed a plastic bag and cleaned up the parking lot for them.  My way of saying "Thank you."

On the way I actually asked two people for money, both of whom turned me down.  Compassion Fatigue.  Understandable.  But then I saw that today was a day for me to dance with my own compassion, to have compassion for those whose compassion is somewhat burnt out.

And then the day turned on me and became filled with Grace.

I cleaned the ashtray at the Scientology Building, then rode back down the hill.  Stopped at Mellow Johnnie's and got a decal for my helmet.  Then down to the "Opossum Temple" there on the trail, the north side of the Colorado.

A young lady was kind enough to take my picture seated on the "Voodoo Pew."  It's the same temple I wrote about sometime ago when I spent an hour or so cleaning up the rubbish.

It's mid-afternoon now, and I have yet to check where the food trucks will or won't be.

But all is well.  I'm riding well, conserving energy, brimming with something I suspect is a first-cousin to aloha.

Mmmmmm.

Peace.

Elijah

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Liz: Unsung Hero of Austin

Here is Liz, another jewel in the crown of Austin.  She has been collecting things for the homeless since she was a wee tyke, and once a month she shows up at Barton Springs to pass out her collection to those in need.  I see her rising early in the morning, keeping that sharp eye peeled for anything that'll benefit those of us who are hurting. And been doing it since childhood?  I think that's simply amazing.  What was it that moved her in this direction?  How did the Spirit of Aloha find her at such a young age?  She has shoes, clothing, hygiene items (yep, I really needed that deodorant, folks!), and a terrific sense of humor, a tough little sweetheart with a heart of gold and eyes that have been around the block a time or three.  The Real Deal, Lucille.

What I want to know is this:  why aren't all MY heroes the heroes of Austin in general?  Guess they're just flying under the radar.

But if you ever run into Liz, give her a big hug.

Tell her Elijah sent ya.  And that I take off my hat to her, bow deeply, and just think she's very, very special.

Peace, aloha, and thanks for the comments.

Elijah

Camp

Just thought y'all might like to take a gander at the Old Man's camp.  This is a typical shot, the tent still filled with "stuff." 

This photo taken a few days ago, and will soon be dated as I'm planning to move camp a few yards tonight.  Bit more secluded.

You can see that it's a bit of a clearing, fairly level.  No problem getting comfortable of a night.  But mosquitoes all around me when it's warm.

But now I have insect repellent, a good thing to have on hand.

My little home away from home.  Most of it thanks to Madame LaBelle.

Peace, aloha, and safe campsites,

Elijah

Maggie

Maggie is a goddess-in-training.

She just doesn't know it yet.

Wrote about her a few posts back.  She's the one with the cat and butterfly story.

Maggie is always grinning, even when she's not.  Even when she's smiling, she's grinning.  Never seen anything like it.  But it's charming and lovely, and what more could one ask for than to have Beauty all around one?  That's Maggie.

Reminds me a bit of Annie Hall.  Maggie is the kind who could take a gunny sack, grin/smile at it, and sashay down the runway looking like a model from some upscale fashion magazine.

Austin is a beautiful city, and it's all the lovelier for Maggie being a part of it all.

Peace, aloha, and Beauty,

Elijah

Unsung Hero of Lift Cafe

This is Willie.  From what I understand, Willie is the owner of the building Lift Cafe is located in. He's also a man with a big heart.

For those of you who've been reading this blog for awhile, you know that "big heart" translates as "heart of Aloha" is this here neck of the woods.

He strikes me as a humble man, and one who wants, somehow, to do something that will make a difference in this world.  I get the feeling he very much wants to leave this world a better place for his having passed this way.

In my books, he already has.

He's fed me, given me coffee, and didn't drive me away when I was wet and cold, but instead made me feel welcome.

Now...isn't that strange, Austin?  Don't you wish the world had a few more Willies in it?

So...each night when I do my forty mahalos (forty thank-yous), I run down the list.  My little community.  All those who have opened their hearts and arms to me.

Willie is an important part of this little Band of Aloha.

And I salute you, Willie.

Sincerely.

Peace, Aloha, and Warm and Dry Places.

Elijah

Unsung Heros of Austin

Now here we have Jason, an unsung hero of Aloha living right here in Austin, beneath our very noses.  You can find him down at a very magic place known as "Bicycle Sport Shop."  He works back in Service, and I think that's so appropriate, for I know Jason through...service, wouldn't you know. 

He, along with his co-hero, Kris, are on a mission.  There have been no blaring of trumpets, rolling of the drums, or other displays of recognition.

That being so, may I offer up in tribute this humble little posting on the blog?

Today, Jason took my old rear carrier off and put on one that's sturdier, more suited for a long trip by bicycle.  Spent the better part of half an hour putting it on.  And...doing it right.  He took his time to do it right.  How important is that?

I think it's very important. He also had hunted up a pannier bag for me, sort of one-half of a pair of saddle bags, for those of you who aren't up to speed re panniers.

And Ah Luvs It. Mmmmm.

And Jason is not done with me yet.  What he's done, you see, is he has invested part of himself in this trip.  So every day that I'm out there on that highway, Jason will think of me from time to time.  I will be part of an ongoing story that he will tell for perhaps the rest of his life.  "The Old Man I Helped Do His Magical Last Long Ride."

Kris is along for that ride.  Yesterday Kris gifted the Long Ride with a beautiful cool weather coat, rain-proof, and top quality.  Lovely coat, just lovely.  Always wanted one like that.  And today Kris brought a red bicycle helmet to the Long Ride as an offering of Aloha.  And how kewl is that, bruddahs and seestahs?

There are a host of other Heros of Aloha that I intend to pay tribute to before I ride off into that glorious sunset of Destiny.

So...Jason and Kris, thanks for coming along for the ride.

This little...Band of Aloha, right?  This tiny little community of well-wishers who have gone out of their way to demonstrate their own commitment to this old man's adventure.

Tasty.

Lovely.

Peace, aloha, Aloha All Around Us,

Elijah

In Praise of Cardboard

Cardboard isn't something we ordinarily take too much time out of our day to appreciate.  But when the cold starts to develop fangs and claws, cardboard can make the difference between life and death.  Literally.  Especially if you've been drinking.  I had an Eskimo lady friend who moved from Alaska to Honolulu because she was afraid of passing out some night and freezing to death.

Yeah, buddy.  Brrrr.

It serves as insulation from the cold of the ground, you see.

Makes a nice impromptu umbrella for rain or sun.

Several layers make a serviceable mattress.

A big cardboard box will keep the wind off, and it's the windchill factor that can really do a street person in.

You can scrunch cardboard up until it's pliable enough to serve as a blanket.

Makes a great seat when the ground is wet or pebbly.  Helps keep seat of trousers clean.

You can use it to make a sign.  Remember's Smiley's "Good Karma" sign?  Cardboard.

And this really doesn't begin to scratch the surface of the good uses a creative street person can put cardboard to.

It can be a makeshift shanty.  With tarps over?  Mmmmm.  Nice.

So...a thousand kowtows in the direction of whoever it was who first thunk up cardboard.

We people on the street know it can be a lifesaver.  We salute you, O God of Cardboard.

Peace, aloha, cardboard when ya need it,

Elijah

Brief Update

Am having trouble logging on to Lift Cafe, so I'm not able to upload pics on this really s-l-o-w connection.  Not sure what that's all about.

A wet one last night.  The rain started in a sort of tentative way, so I got up and put on the teentsie rainfly.  About 3 or 4 in the morning the rain began in earnest, so up again, put on poncho, shoes, and go out into the rain.  Put the tarp on and that worked until sometime after 9 AM when I noticed water puddling.  Hmmm.  Not good.

So up and about the day.  At least the new sleeping bag is dry.  I didn't try it last night as it was just too hot when I lay down to sleep.  Tonight will be a different story, however.

The bag is courtesy of Charlie, one of the barristas at Lift Cafe.  Good kid, that Charlie.  I'll upload his picture when I get things sorted out.

And yesterday Jason of Bicycle Sport Shop gifted the journey with a little Nikon camera that's just perfect for documenting this Walkabout.  Or Rideabout, as it were.

Stopped in at Bicycle Sport Shop, took Jason's picture.  Kris told me he's bringing me a jacket which is waterproof but breathable.  Should be perfect for the trip.

I've been doing the beads lately, asking for guidance.  And it seems like it's coming in right and left.  The trip seems to be very much supported, so it's starting to look like a go.  Just hope this old body is up to the stress.

Spent the day between Mickey D's and Lift.  My trousers were a bit wet from the tent puddling, but body heat dried them out.  Ditto the neck scarf.

I am hungry, true, but that's part of the deal.  Perhaps I need to get my begging bowl out, saffron robes.

But that's not me.

All is well.  The world turns as it should and all things needed gravitate to me. 


I will leave Lift Cafe and move through the shiny streets to McDonald's and there I will see Cleve.  He'll give me a couple of tacos ("still good," he'll say), gift me with a bit of 420, and I'll move on down the road, the mendicant having been gifted with food and smoke, up those hard-to-climb ridges and over across the tracks.

The dogs will be asleep and I will move through the thickets and low-lying brush, onto the path and to the campsite.

All will be well there.

All is well here.

Peace, aloha, angels all around.

Elijah
Peace, aloha, dry places.

Elijah

In Praise of 'Ohana

'Ohana in Hawaiian means "extended family."  And I suppose that's what I'm in the process of creating here in Austin.

Take last night, for example.

Smokey, the guy who got my computer working again, and his lady, KB, needed a new place to camp and so I invited them down to my neck of the woods.  They'd been staying with an ex-soldier suffering from PTSD, and it was something of a hassle, always fearing he might come home drunk and disorderly, as it were.

The last straw was when he came back recently, drunk, and told Smokey he was going to "try to kill you with my bare hands alone."  Not exactly the welcoming mat, eh?

Ended up Smokey and KB were PAID $200 to move on down the road.

Their first stop was Wal-mart where they bought a new tent and sleeping bags.  Then they ran into me.

They are quite the couple.  Smokey drink his coffee with four creams and ten (not a typo) sugars.  Sweeeet.

KB is the opposite.  I have this major salt addiction, she told me as she sprinkled three packets of salt on an order of medium fries there at Mickey D's.

Sugar and salt.  Opposites attract.

They came to the campsite, set up their tent, then headed out for Sixth Street to make some money, pick up some prime snipes.

KB flies a sign which sez, Free Hugs!  Tips Accepted!

I asked her what kind of money she'd made.

One guy gave me a twenty.  Lots of fives.  Hardly ever pocket change.

I heard them come in around 3 A.M., but I rolled over and went back to sleep.  In the morning they were still sleeping, so I broke camp and went out a different way this time, parallel to the railroad tracks.

And just as I was passing Miguel's little campsite, someone called out to me.  Ahhh.  Miguel and another guy sitting on the tracks, smoking.  I parked the bike and went to join them.

Other guy was Kevin.  Scruffy, of course, this being the street.  When he reached out his hand to shake, I saw his index fingernail looking all browned and shellacked from smoking snipes.  Four day growth of beard, whiskers turning all gray and white.

I sat with them, smoking.

Talk somehow got around to cockroaches.  Miguel pushed up his sleeve.  See this bump? It's a cockroach got under my skin.  Lives in there now.  You can see him?

Well, yes, I said.  Now that you've pointed him out.

He won't leave, Miguel said.  Just lives in there.  Quiet.  But won't leave.

I had seen Miguel around, wearing a ton of clothes even in the hot.  Now that it's cool he's still dressed the same.  A man of indeterminate age.  50s or 60s.  Who can tell?  I asked him if he stayed warm last night.

No.  I had two cans of beer and I couldn't even drink one, it was so cold. But it was good to wake up and have something to drink, y'know?

Of course.

This is how the day began.

T.J.'s Breakdown w/ Allies

When the Spirit of Aloha is dancing, Allies are there where and when you need them.

Case in point:  I'm sitting at the magickal LIFT CAFE, brushing the sleep out of my eyes, when I suddenly spot T.J. pushing his homemade motor bike down the sidewalk.  The bike w/ the chainsaw motor, remember?

What's up w/ that?

Turns out he had a minor accident yesterday, a bit of road rash on his chin and his wrist about as sore as it can be without being broken.

He needs a new rear tire, and this is where this story picks up.  Willie, the owner of this building (and a super-nice guy) comes by, takes a look at the situation, and makes suggestions that are right on, sensible.

Eventually, John (the manager) calls around.  Empire bike shop is a possibility as is Wal-mart.  TJ, being strapped for cash, opts for the latter.  But he's paranoid about losing his stuff, doesn't have any way to lock the bike up.

So here's where I play a part in the story.  I get to be an Ally for a change.  I happen to have a cable lock (thanks to the ever-generous and lovely Madame LaBelle) so I offer to let him use that to secure his ride to the bike racks there at LIFT.

No sooner said than done.

John figured out which bus he needs to take, so as of this writing, TJ is off on a mission.  Find a tire that'll work, get the ride working again, and see what the day brings.

Stay tuned.  Will update as progress occurs.

It's now the next day, update time.

TJ came back with a tire and tube in the late afternoon.  His bike was still safe,all his household goods still there where he'd left them. 

He showed me the box the tire came in, happy that the tire was a "Mongoose," same as his bike. 

Turns out the honcho at BICYCLE SPORT SHOP had given him the okay to change the tire down by the side of the shop, so TJ was in a happy mood.

Well, perhaps the five-liter box of wine had something to do with that, too.  He took the wine out of the box and put it in his backpack.  Packing his passport to Nirvana, Dharma Bum style.  Where's Jack Kerouac when an old wino needs him, eh?

So last I saw TJ he was pushing the bike down the sidewalk towards the bike shop.  I feel sure he got the tire changed.

I have to do this right, he said.  I just can't can't fuck it up.

Let's hope he did it right.  And who knows if we'll ever see him again?  These wondrous characters from CCC (Cosmic Central Casting) keep showing up in my life and they are so over-the-top that I just know they're courtesy of the Universe's twisted and wonderful sense of humor.

Go in peace, TJ.  Blessings.
 

Peace, aloha, and Allies Galore,

Elijah