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