What is this thing that curses the minds of countless ones? The thing that stalks us and follows us wherever we may be? Closing our eyes and paralyzing our fingers. Preventing any form of creativity to be released from within. Holding it there. Almost like a prisoner within a cell... There he is inside, begging, screaming, going absolutely berserk at this thing. This entity-like nuisance smacks him in the face, breaking his teeth, pushing him down.
“Damnit, I told you Joe, I’m the captain! Your only job is to scrub the decks, make sure everything is clean and in order and make sure we don’t run into any pirates, sharks or whales. You’re in charge of lookout. That’s it! You got that?” he exclaimed sternly, with a fire red face. “I know, that’s what I've been doing, but I still want to learn the technical stuff and the tricks of the trade too!” I demanded.
“Hello my good sir,” I said to the dorky-looking clean-cut guy behind the desk. He didn’t look up. “Hello!” I said again. He was too busy staring at a computer screen. And my final attempt, “Uhuummmm, good day, good sir!” louder this time, with a slight cough and an attempt at a British accent. I know I looked like a bum, but I figured if I sounded British, he may give me better service or maybe I was wrong. I hadn’t been to many hotels before.
That name. His name. It echoed in my consciousness as we crashed through the American landscape. A juggernaut of metal and mysterious goods, which for the life of him, he would not reveal, “Come on, just tell me what we’re hauling back there!” And his response was always the same, “Shut up and keep your eyes peeled for the coppers!” “I am, and I’ve been operating this stupid radio like you asked me to but why can’t you tell me, huh?”
The other day I went out for a hike. Up towards a steep mountain edge. For some reason, I found myself in deep contemplation during the entire experience. Every step I took almost felt like I was walking through multiple layers of history. Maybe because I know that the trail I was on was traversed by countless peoples throughout the centuries. Going back past the Spanish conquest, with signs of indigenous markings all along the rocky path.
I recently watched the film BLACKFISH which is a 2013 documentary about killer whales (orcas) that are held in captivity within the amusement parks; SeaWorld and other similar parks. I’ve been wanting to watch this film for years because killer whales (to me) are the most beautiful, fascinating and majestic animals that live amongst us. They are the ultimate apex predators, much more impressive and intelligent than great white sharks. Weighing up to ten tons, with complex forms of communication
I grew up in a big city surrounded by millions of people so for me visiting the desert for the first time was like taking a trip to the moon. And for some strange reason, I have always been drawn to these vast, dry lands. I wanted to see huge cacti hovering over the line of the horizon, jagged rock formations, roadrunners, coyotes, tumbleweeds, dust clouds and rough looking desert dwellers. So, when I finally had some extra time and money, I went to the desert.
I hiked and hiked and hiked and hiked until my feet were swollen with pink blisters and felt more tender than a chunk of chopped up Italian liver, but I didn’t give a shit and I kept going anyways. At this point, I was out of the wilderness and back on the main road. I kept walking and eventually came upon a gas station late in the afternoon. I went inside, drank some water in the bathroom, and washed off my tired grimy face with my Hobo hands. I saw the attendant at the front of the store and asked him,,
"Hello," I said, "What is this place?” "This is Amish country my boy, are you looking for the trail?” "Yes. I´ve been hiking all day and the trail ended and now I’m here." "Ok well you have to continue a bit further, past those barn houses there, then the trail continues.” He said while pointing at some big wooden houses that had several men working on top with hand tools; saws, hammers, and chisels. They all seemed to be wearing the same type of dully colored clothing and had big beards and suspenders holding up there well-worn trousers.
I found broken up leaves and various bugs crawling all over my body as I opened my eyes and realized I was in the woods, safely resting in my hobo refuge. I slept well. Not like in my own bed, but I had an immense feeling of liberation and I thought that anything was possible. I was dry, I was alive, I was hungry. I dug into my pockets and found a little bit of leftover granola and started to have breakfast. Warm water, granola and a couple of insects,
Who is Hobo Joe? Hobo Joe is a fictional series that will be appearing periodically on Tripoart.com Joe is a young guy who recently got kicked out of his family’s house because his terribly chosen friends stole and destroyed many of his dad's favorite irreplaceable possessions during one of the most insane parties of Joe's young life. Now he has to learn to live and survive on his own. He's smart and resourceful but also likes to live life like a wild man.
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