Truck Living

This month, as it nears an end, is my one year anniversary of living in a truck. This Dodge Ram 1500 with a slight lift, 33″ tires and a camper shell, named Beluga, with her whale-shaped contours has been the home of my dog and i for one year. We have lived in Boulder, Colorado; Moab, Utah; Fayetteville, West Virginia; on the Chesapeake Bay in Virginia and various other short-term places like Nashville, Tennessee; New York, New York; Chapel Hill, North Carolina, to name a few over the last year.

Most everything i own is carried in my truck and on a trailer that holds my raft, with the exception of some tools and collections of stamps and coins that i inherited from my father after his young, cancer-induced death several years ago. I would love to sell these items and have everything be contained in my vehicle, but i simply lack the desire to become an expert on stamps and coins. I also have some tools stashed away in storage that serve the purpose of facilitating a periodic remodel or improvement to make truck-life more comfortable.

I’m amazed. It is a peculiar life, filled with great learning. On this anniversary, a peculiar thing has been acknowledged… several things really. First, K2 and i would rather stay in our home than the most hospitable of friend’s guest spaces and the second being that any woman that i seriously date must be ok with my living situation.

K2 and i wish you a good night, from the depths of Beluga.

my fear

Someone asked me several days ago the same question that i had posed to them, “What is your greatest fear?” Her answer was simple and my answer was incomplete. Today the electrical pathways of countless memories, the action of multiple triggers, the convergence of thoughts, the chance of meetings, the interesting timing of conversations, the wafting of scents, the peculiarity of dreams…. well, they converged, and i realized my biggest fear.

A young creation bounds through the world, blessed with the genetic gifts and challenges that countless generations before bestowed upon her. She is free, the embodiment of beauty that humanity has the potential to exude.When the weather is hot she feels the sun kiss her skin and sweats without

well-being

“Well-being…hmmm….let me tell you a story. It’s a silly story. It’s a story you’ve often heard bits and pieces of but maybe you need to hear it again. It’s about a girl, who loves a boy….a kindred spirit, if you will….

The girl…she’s a silly dreamer. She dreams of the day she will find the boy that’s a butterfly just like she is. Neither caging the other. These 2 butterflies fly free, roaming and learning but still always near and dear to one another. And then!…she thought she found him! Oh wow! What a beautiful butterfly! She kept her cool as usual, butterflies don’t want to be caged, they don’t want pressure! But the boy saw signs that the girl was falling for him and he warned her, that he was not this particular butterfly that she sought…although he would enjoy flying around with her for a bit. She heard the warnings….but didn’t understand…they didn’t make sense….so she started to dream again. She dreamt that he would love her and let her fly when she wanted to and she would do the same for him….She dreamt that he would take her on adventures in the woods. He would teach her fun things that he knows…

embrace

The man feels the heavy sensation of a leaking lead car battery attached to his heart with barbed wire, charging with the movement of his mind. Rusted jumper cables are attached to the battery, spinning tumultuously in cadence with the gyration of his stomach. As the cables writhe in his thorax they arc, firing crippling shocks throughout the man’s body.

The man knows this sensation well. It is so familiar. He embraces it.

Seeing the pain of his friend, the boy glances at the man, with a shy expression, his head mildly tilted to the right, blue eyes meeting the man’s only briefly before looking at the ground. His arms are stiffened to his sides, with his fingers tensioned into awkward straight arcs. The boy knows the sensation the man feels. Tears well in the boy’s eyes. As gravity takes hold of the salty drops, wrenching them down the boy’s cheeks the little one takes a tremendous, reckless step closer as he opens his arms wide. The boy embraces the man’s wrist with all of his might, knowing that the shock he will experience will make him want to let go and run. He runs, holding tight.

The boy knows this sensation well. It is so familiar. He embraces it.

Lost n the blurriness of the moment, the man runs with the boy, uncertain, so uncertain. Why are these shocks pulsing? Why is my stomach floundering? Where  have i been? Where am i being led? Why? What?  Where is everyone else? He feels as though he has been rendered unconscious, in a deep sleep, being awoken by violent noise, stumbling for recollection and bartering with his body for coordination upon waking. The shocks continue. They stumble, hand-in-hand. The boy’s tears continue.

As the viscosity of the cloud becomes more translucent

attachment

I have material possessions that often offer me freedom and other times afford me a sensation of captivity. As an example my truck takes friends and i to vibrant places, yet hinders me from exploring others. I also have relationships that free me and relationships that bind me. They are often the same person. Tonight i feel profound loss and magical freedom. I am grateful for both.

Dear Me,

My face flushed, my heart sank and i refuted my internal thoughts about what the attachment to your email contained. As I read the attachment my face alit with sensation, tears built and my internal world began to spin. By the time i had finished the letter i was angry with frustration. As i sat to absorb, i began to type out a line to let you know i had received it and needed to absorb. Now, tears are still tempted to fall down my cheeks and my heart and stomach are low, but i feel a degree of peace.

I’m afraid to talk on the phone right now, but feel okay writing words, so i’m going to walk through some things here. I may delete this whole letter, choose to wait to send it, edit it a million times…. who knows. I do know that tomorrow i will be at work all day, then traveling to DC after work.

And….. the rest of the hour of typing while processing was all too complex. I’ve deleted it.

In short, i’m frustrated that i sensed and inquired about components of this potential, and the whole picture, but don’t feel like i ever received the true answer, until now. This is ok. It came to happen on this timeline for a reason. I know that I’m deeply saddened by our circumstances, but am also profoundly enriched by our circumstances. I’ve learned much, and relearned much during our short time together.  I know that i admire you for a million reasons, and love you for a million more. You are a captivating person to me. I know our lives will take us….. well, i really have no idea, but i do have faith.

With the utmost love, sincerity and honesty,

oneopenbook

Dear Oneopenbook

November 9, 2010

Dear oneopenbook,

I went for a long walk today to take some time to think about things. I’ve been struggling with our dynamic, which is so irregular. Sometimes we have great conversations, but mostly we don’t talk about much, or we get into fights over things that were miscommunications in the first place and neither of us wants to be in fights over.

It isn’t working for me. Some part of me is always detached from the present and worrying about whether or not we are going to connect that day or not. It was that way before we were monogamous, and I thought that it would be better if I wasn’t waiting to hear about your latest conquest. But it hasn’t really changed.

I want to be totally clear, because I am guessing this letter will be a shock.

I feel so much love for you, affection, warmth, desire. You have my deep respect for who you are and what you’ve done in your life. I want to be with you, to dive in with you, to go adventuring with you. My problem is not with you, just with the pattern that we’re in.

The pattern, as I see it developing, is this: talk on the phone, text, visit briefly once a month—in those visits, it takes one or two days to get adjusted to each other and then life being what it is if either you or I has a depressed or stressed or off day, the visit is pretty much toast because it is only four days anyway. Then back to long distance.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that I don’t feel like the way we are in contact is emotionally supportive. Sometimes it is, but it’s stressful enough of the time that I’m starting to not look forward to talking to you as much. And I hate that! Again, I thought it would change if we stopped whatever open relationship thing we were doing, but it hasn’t really.

Bear, I don’t want to think less of you because we’re trying to do long distance without the emotional foundation that long distance usually requires. We’ve done an amazing job considering that we know each other so little, and can so little guess at each other’s patterns. Its been a bit of a struggle for me, because everything you do I have to try to figure out whether it’s a normal thing, a pattern, or a unique event that I have triggered by doing something wrong. I think it’s been the same for you, that’s what I was hearing earlier.

But don’t want to do it anymore. I feel like I need to be fully present here, for my last year, because this is my last chance to cement my closeness with the friends I will take away from here. And I feel like I will start staying frustrated with you in a way that wouldn’t happen if we were physically together.

 

Can we switch to the December plan? Or the June plan, really.

I want to be with you when I can BE with you. Right now I feel like I get punished, albeit unintentionally, when I am tired or preoccupied. And I get frustrated with the fact that we’re in such different environments and that you can’t really relate to my environment nor I to yours. Can we try again when we are in the same place, having a common experience, more able to enjoy each other? No pressure to be around in June, of course. But this… is going to ruin it for me, what we are doing now. And that kills me.

Here’s the hardest part. Even though I’m dying to see you, I think it would be better for me if you didn’t come for thanksgiving. I might go see my grandparents; it’s my last thanksgiving on the East Coast for a while. But either way, I think I need to step back and be more present in my life here, and see you when we can be doing something shared. The last time you were here was stressful for me, and I notice that I’m feeling worried about your next visit and guilty for not seeing relatives. But mostly, I need a clean break from the pattern we’re in now. The reason I want to be with you is because of who you are and how amazing our dynamic was in August, and also in West Virginia. I hope you understand, maybe you won’t. And I feel like you’ll think I’m fickle or going hot-and-cold. I’m not trying to be, that’s not what it feels like inside. I want to share things with you, and this is not working for that.

Will you call me when you’re ready to talk about it?

 

Love,

Me

 

chatter

My teeth chatter and grind. I’ve lost my ground. I observe. I question. Grrr. No, not “Grrr.” this is our life; thus is our chaos. Perfection!

the hunter

The hunter breathes steadily through his nares, allowing the fall air to pass in a swirling motion, heating before pulling through his trachea to the darkest depths of his alveoli. As the richness of the sensuous air permeates into his blood the earth and sky become a part of him. Upon his exhalation the fauna inhales his breath, further strengthening strands of the web that bond him to this forest, the same way he bonds with a lover by inhaling her scents, exhalations and vibrations. She exists not only outside and around him, but cycles and flows within every cell.

He treads slowly downhill into the drainage, a breeze at his face, thanks to the work of mountain’s and sun’s playful interaction. His face is turned slightly cross-breeze to minimze the impact the wind noise has on his hearing. Close to his mid-stride foot a rustling of leaves propagates a pause in his movements; a mouse curiously clambering upon leaves near it’s tree-root-structured home facilitates a smile on the hunter’s face. Simultaneously, individual leaves depart their parents bending hold and drift to the ground, dryly scraping off branches as they dance. He moves. The hunter’s soft-soled shoes afford balance of warmth, protection and sensation of the land.  Moist leaves, rocks, moss, grass and trails are the preferred landing zones for the space under his footwear, but when given no option but dry leaves the hunter’s rhythm-free, haphazard gait mimics a frollicking squirrel more than a man walking.

The sun setting in the West paints long shadows on the lush terra canvas of the drainage, laying a silhouette of the hunter carrying his rifle on the mossy surface. The Remington 710 is chambered with one round; the safety is not engaged. His finger rests over the trigger guard and the muzzle is directed at the soft ground, aiming around rocky segments as he moves. He knows he will be within fifty meters of the whitetail, with a broadside approach before his finger slides to the trigger. The sensation of the trigger on his pad will be caressingly familiar and the crosshairs easily aligned when the time arrives. He will breathe steadily; he will be certain of the shot.

Truck Life

I began living in my truck seven months ago, at first spending the majority of the time in an urban environment while maintaining employment as a Paramedic. I then resigned and moved to Moab, UT, where I returned to raft-guiding. As the commercial rafting season came to a close there, an interesting girl came to visit. We canyoneered, hiked, rafted and explored for nine days before I drove her home to Boulder, CO and spent four days with her and her family. This was the end of our first date, and the last time I slept in a house.

As I laid in her bed one morning I was in the process of cultivating receptivenes, with the intent to discover what to do with my day. What bled it’s way into my heart and mind was to go East to the Gauley River. After a phone call to a friend and several days fo preparation I was driving East to guide on a world-class stretch of whitewater. That season came to a close, and as I write this evening I am in New Jersey in an Appalachian Mountain Club lodge amongst through-hikers of the Appalachian Trail, musicians, and a lovely girl. She sits at my side and is the first of many women that have been in my life since the divorce that I’m willing to call “my girlfriend.”

“Why now. Why her?” many would ask.

I can and do ask these exact questions. My response, “Here I am, where I should be. “

Perhaps my entire life has been perfectly placed. Perhaps it has not. Regardless, here I am.