intuitive ink

Eureka -- More of a Place than a State of Mind The summer of 1997 was the one before my senior year of high school. Something got into my restless little head that I should take a far-off and solitary voyage to some place I'd never been. I visited a travel agency (keep in mind this was back when people needed travel agents to "navigate" the Internet and book things for travel-planning purposes) and purchased a round-trip train ticket with money I'd saved from my part-time waitressing shindig. Destination? Eureka, California. I had a friend there, who was staying with her sister for the summer, and she invited me to stay. The train was to leave at 1:05 a.m. on Sunday July 13 from Salt Lake City and arrive in Sacramento at 3:05 p.m. the next day. (indiejade references her scrapbook, which has the train ticket stub and precise times). From Sacramento to Martinez via train, and then from Martinez to Eureka on a bus (train service not available). I conked out sometime be...

To keep going. Noticing a hitch-hiker at a random point on the road: he is some middle-aged dark-skinned reservation native of the area. He's seemingly stranded at seven-something a.m. on a Friday morning. I feel bad for him and want to stop. I almost _do_ stop, but then remember the "all kinds of trouble" I tend to get into for doing so. . . it's nice to have protective younger (albeit bigger and stronger) male siblings who care, but at the same time, I have empathy. Just when I'm about to turn around do I notice that the white pick-up truck that had been driving behind me stops; I am relieved and gladdened. * * * Mid-morning on Friday lands me just outside Page. I park my vehicle at a gas station and pop the trunk. It's nice to have packed to be prepared for just about anything: gallons of bottled water and some food, de-icer for the windows and snow-cables for the tires, blankets and first-aid kit, flashlight and candles. Books, notebook, and writing utensi...

Journey begun and out, out the familiar door and past the familiar neighbors and buildings. Over the concrete, the thrum of tires and wayward potholes. Out, out the familiar streets and landmarks; the edge of town and gone. Hours pass. Gone, gone deep into the desert. . . a random dirt road taken, hellspent with momentum and to be out and away from the being of even a solitary being; dust kicks up behind my vehicle and rocks protrude sharp from the road but I do not care. Tumbleweeds fly by and wave as old familiar cronies might. Camping. At altitude - in a small tent, on a gentle and sandy rise with but a lantern and a couple of blankets. March has taunted daytime; night turns to chill. Cold, no fire; with the warmth of some brandy and an old loaf of slightly stale french bread, I am satiated and moved to write. Hand and wrist poised over a blank notebook page, the spiral is steely and cold. Words beckon elusively but will not come. My fingers are frozen; my mind electric. Easier does...

Today I had the least fortunate experience of delivering pizza to the most brainless teenager on the planet. Perhaps this is a bit of an exaggerated claim, but it's valid nonetheless. Point #1: She did not know her own address. I arrived at work about 15 minutes early (waiting to go to work is usually much less productive than actually *going* to work; but not today.) She had ordered three pizzas and wanted them delivered to her address. This is normal procedure for people who want food delivered: call-in an order for something to eat and just like magic, the food will be delivered to your door. One necessary element of this magic is that the people calling in orders know the specific address where they want the food delivered, not just the name and approximate number on the street where they live. 4581? There is no 4581 in this cul-de-sac! I verified after double, triple, and quadruple checking. Would my eyes deceive me so? Of course not. Delivering to imaginary hou...

Inches (or millimeters, if that matters) from death, I was not afraid. I *could* have been run over by the vehicle . . . squashed into some unrecognizable and bloody mess; and I would not have cared. But that I wasn't is a fact, and that I shall live for another day of pizza-delivering is as well. Backing out from the alley, obliviously and unaware, the vehicle was stealth in its maneuverment. As I crossed the street on foot, "fresh hot" pizzas in hands, the vehicle seemed to be on some rampant bee-line path with my body. Closer. . . closer still; I was aware of its presence, and naively assumed it was aware of mine. But not. The moment was not, but seemingly choreographed as a ballet would be. . . for my escape movements were indeed on tip-toe. And my tiny-person calves are to thank. The rush of hot air and heady exhaust, the gleaning of sun on metal and plastic. . . there was undefinable space between the undefinable, and I blinked not once. "This is Building # [ ]...

Writer's block is quite the interesting phenomena. If the state of my mind as it thinks and writes can be related to water, it would be such that it sometimes is a waterfall, cascading with a thundering intensity. Other times, it is a river, pulsing with a gentle current. Again can it be that the river moves voraciously as though after a summer monsoon that eventually settles to a mere trickle, hundreds of miles from its source. Still yet can it be as serene and unfazed as a lake over which no wind stirs and no pebbles ripple. Be it wind or pebble that are the catalyst, the result is the same. . . as a zephyr would gain just enough momentum to curl the placidity, as a smooth round pebble would break the surface . . . entropy ensues. Writer's block then, is perhaps fear of becoming unfazed. . . of losing that serene placidity. And I think this is why so many writers simply cannot give up. Because once in motion always in motion. The divisions and boundaries between the deepest a...