Poetry. While to some an idle distraction, others a heart rending medium for the most intimate of introspection, and others yet a mere antiquity of language, it has been more than the sum of these parts for me. You see, I have survived, be it by that great old artist's cliche' of starve or thrive, through poetry for years. It has carried me through the gorgeous panoramas which are settled in America, through the hideous dens and dilapidations of modern urban jungles, through anguish, rapture, and the melancholy despair of our modern conditions and afflictions. One could say poetry is the lifeline I cling to in a maelstrom of sheer Americana madness.
The first poetry I recall reading was of the quasi-obscure beat poet, Richard Brautigan, who's book "Loading Mercury with a Pitchfork" was like liquid lightning to my young and tender shoot of a mind. I distinctly recall thinking "This is a poet, I want to be a poet!" God, to live like that, rambling on a wing and without a prayer, uninhibited by anything except the compulsion of ones personal genius; it had to be the most liberating of all things. It was formative to me in a time when much of what I would listen to was the likes of Georgia Satellite, Bob Dylan, Joni Mitchell, and George Thorogood.
Yet, despite the compelling thirst for travel, I was at odds with youth. My imposed prison of words, numbers and figures kept me at bay in the quaint, albeit frigid, city of Fargo, North Dakota. In essence, I was a slave to the school, with it's rigidity of disciplined education, it's shackles of law and the cruelest order. How ironic it was that the system which was established for the well being of my intellect should hinder the grander progress of education. I yearned so to see the universities of America, from Boston to San Diego, Yale to Berkeley. I wanted to live outside the libraries of the land, soaking in the insurmountable stacks of books even in slumber. Finally, upon the sweet year which is sixteen, I found the liberation which would be my making.
It was a chill afternoon my first score, with the frost compounding to snow along the desolate expanse of I-29. Having finally found both the freedom and motivation to depart my hometown of Fargo, North Dakota, I set forth with little more than the clothes on my back and a can of beans wrapped in a bag of bread. The purpose of this was less for food than protection, offering a suitable clout were any michievious souls to attempt a violation upon my person.
I had heard the stories, and bearing the apprehensions of those whom I had confided in with regard to my excursion, carried this makeshift method of protection. Nonetheless, I knew full well that it would be my wits that would be the end all to any danger I was to be affronted with. Despite all the terrible stories, I went forth with the lightest of hearts, knowing that I was to begin an adventure straight out of Americana fable. Hitchhiking to California was something written about so prolifically and profusely I could not resist the beckon of the road.
So it was that I found my first ride out of what would number thousands, and a fine ride it was. I walked with the frigid gust of passerby offering only a marrow chill when quite abruptly, a gentleman pulled to the roadside and offered the first lesson of hitchhiking; 2 or more miles out of a city offered a far grander certainty for riding than ever an urban populous would give. I quickly ran to his Blazer, greatful that it was a new car and therefore a safer ride. Quickly hopping in and giving thanks, I offered my name and discovered his was John. We pulled back out into the relatively empty highway and began to converse.
He was on his way down to Iowa for a business meeting, he said, and I retorted that I was on my way to sunny California. We spoke for hours after about the state of government, his job and my hopes, and generally any other subject we could cram into the ride until finally, during a silent lull, I faded to slumber.
This is where I learned the second rule of hitchhiking, it is not only a professional obligation to keep wakeful for the driver, but a matter of personal safety. You see, I woke quite suddenly around 11 in the evening, a split second before he trundled in to the ditch. Fortunately, it was the most minor of occurences, and we moved out of the ditch quickly with no respective damage, but I kept vigil thereafter, speaking whatever whim if only to keep him awake.
So I did for the next four hours, until finally he bid me farewell in Iowa, and I gathered my wits. Looking about, I saw the endless expanses of corn, and distinctly though....Wow...I'm in Iowa!
It rambled through my mind about five times, sheer shock amazement. I'm in Iowa! I laughed and began walking down the highway again, savoring the warmer climate and free airs of my future.
Interesting, Tyler, I went through Fargo on my youthful journey to pick cherries in Washington, and ended up in the streets of Seattle, though certainly not with the passion of the artisitic soul such as yourself, more of an escape. You may need to number these to keep the reader following you with ease. :)
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An account of adventures in Scandinavia that involved flying dragons, Russian and German submarines, old WW2 era battlefields, Finnish foxes (female kind), Finnish-Mexican cuisine and much more. Written for the most part with a light touch, it ends o
