The Walking Root

Blame it on the Tea. 

So my Tea called Life is starting to take hold. Where it will bring me I have no idea, it's almost like i just hoped on this train with no clue of its destination. Letting the wind blow me where it needs to as i sit back and fish off the stern. I started a business! Yup. Beach bum, van living, wander lust vagabond Walker started a business. Well in the eyes of Uncle Sam I started a business; I've actually got nothing to show for it besides a handful of cute little business cards. But everyone starts their journey with one little step right? So the pot is starting to boil, preferably a slow simmer for the next few stages, until I get my entrepreneurial / spiritual bearings in order, or the End of the World scare comes and goes...which ever comes first. Tea has been my entrance ticket, my magic carpet, my chariot of sorts for the last several years, slowing me down and bringing me face to face with the Other. It's just a passion to share with people, something to do with others, a time to listen, a time to speak, a time of solo contemplation, an excuse to connect all our little eager souls bouncing around inside our clumsy bodies. The conduit of connection. Yah, Facebook, and e-mail, and cell phones, and messenger pigeons connect humanity.......but so does a delicious healthy ancient beverage called Camellia sinensis, if you're latin (or Cha if you're Chinese, or Itiye if you're Zulu, or Tea if you're English).



"The Walking Root" it's called. At first, ideally, I would like it to be an in-house full tea service (Chinese style), giving the costumer some basic knowledge of the tea plant and production, and then taste and enjoy the 5 main types of tea: White, Green, Oolong, Black and Pu-er. Most people don't even know they are all from the same damn plant (camellia sinensis). It would be sort of like a private chef coming into your house to make you dinner, but it would be a 2 hour authentic tea ceremony instead.   If they can walk away with learning something new, expanding their tea taste, connecting with other humanoids, or a smile, then all will be just fine. Eventually a relaxing, garden style Tea house where people can come to connect and gather (i.e. for revolutionary meetings or whatever) over quality tea is what it will evolve into. The Walking Root: a balance of opposites, a wandering grounding per se. What holds you steady in the midst of chaos? What is your center in this frantic "efficient" society? That is your path, your "route"? What roots your soul as you walk through this hustled world? It could be yoga, could be meditation, could be surfing, could be tea or even antique stamp collecting for all its worth; but we need that one thing that really gets Us reconnected with where we are and who we are. For me its tea. As my good buddy Mason London says "Walker, it all comes back to the tea.  We have our dramas and excitement, our sadness and joys, but it all comes back to the tea."  He also said "hell, I'll try anything twice";  but that's another story. So as I sit here at the starting line of the sticky road of commerce, the capitalistic slimy hot tub, the money lust lounge on the Devil's back porch; I stick the tip of my toe in that huge pool, just to test the waters, knowing damn well its full of old urine and China made plastic duckies. But that's what this modern world is made of and as long as I keep one foot in the soulful soil to satiate my real existence then I'll be as happy as a clam at high tide, as they say in Maine.

Vegas Baby? It's not mine!

For miles and miles just desert.  Just barren land that nobody could ever inhabit (well maybe the South West Native Americans of course) and then there it is.....looming unexpectedly out in the distance like a gigantic mechanical monster took a huge shit and just kept on going: Las Vegas!  Pretty sure the name translates to "Lost and vague I guess", if you say it three times real fast it starts to make sense.  The city of (fallen) angles, evil red headed step sister to Los Angeles.

So there I am hiding in my 9th floor room in the Riveria, scared to venture out into the carnivorous city.  I was lucky I got to my room after sprinting from the airport to the shuttle bus through blistering 90 degree heat, getting the full stupid tourist treatment along the way, flung myself out of the shuttle and into the ice cold lobby, traded the receptionist an awful "I'm new to this crap" look for a room key, bright red backpack half falling off, my alpaca Bolivian satchel (or purse if you're just itching to say it) draped over my neck, scampering through the maze of bright flashing slot machines all blinking and screaming robotic seductions.  Lost.  I turned around almost knocking out a butler looking dude with a tray of drinks, the haggard man sitting at a slot near by looked up from  his zombie-like trance beer in one hand and the lever to his sad existence in the other, the cigarette dangling from his mouth wiggled its long ash off onto his lap, I darted past the 7 old ladies with perfect permed hair lined up one after another at the penny slots, they appeared to be asleep but who knows, then i came around an island of machines to find a field of card tables with either angry looking chinese dudes or big breasted  vixens running the dealer seats.  The over used A/C, cigarette smoke and extra oxygen (they actually pump it inside the casino to make you feel calm and comfortable) were just about to make me lay down on the middle of the roulette table just as the last chorus of The Police's Roxanne sang out as I just made it into the glitter encrusted elevator, and barged into my room. Peering out the window on the mess of fake lights I tried to gather up the courage and brave the streets. Out I went.  Full bore down the strip!  Drunk on the electricity, dusk cast its orange glow upon the mammoth buildings, techno infused pop songs boomed like God's speakers over the whole Strip.  I was instantly in a sea of strange people, shoulder to shoulder, most had farmer tans and American flag tanktops.  Make-up laden wannabe women in pink pushup bras and rickety highheels awkwardly danced to the ever present music, asian families covered in whitening cream confused, capturing everything on film; Disney characters drunk in street corners mumbling shakespeare with bottles of rum rolling away, the children gripped their mothers at such a sight.  The spiked hair frat boys gang down the street, tall bright colored margaritas leading their dreams away while the lights still twisted and the smoked still rolled on, and the cars beeped by, and the money still dripped on walls like bad acid trips from Uncle Sam's nightmares.  We're all caught in this cancerous crab trap, thinking we're heros sucking down sugar lies and nobody hears the Mother crying in the cocaine penthouse locked away forever.

But even amongst all this fuckery and lost souls there is still hope for human kind.  I saw it on the shuttle ride into the city.  The neon buildings flashed excitiment into the van, the huge metal monsters colorful like insane legos surrounded the Strip, enclosing its blinking huge everything on anything below.  Everyone was in awe, jaw dropped at the magnitude of our modern absurdity, and then in the back of the van a little boy excitedly said "mommy mommy, look......the moon"

Dawn Bird's World

Dawn birds debate

on courtships

and nest spots

before sun intrudes its

numbing heat,

while business men in

stiff suits scramble their

polished shoes on

blood diamond steps of the city

I hear this subtle world

calling like pollen to bees

on honey suckle bed sheets

I see more truth upon

the rounded shells jostling

between the energies of sea and sand,

than the hand shakes of kings and 

blood signed papers of treaties 

Sweet nightly chirps

of spring-fancied crickets

swivel into the darkness while we sleep,

overriding waves of cars, mad on fast streets

My heart aches to be cradled

in that simple world

where tea steam evades the cup

where owls wait with mice-breath intent

and turtles trust currents of travel

....except i can't speak that language

and dying are the ones that do.

End of an era

I'm pretty sure some old-fart folk singer once said "and the times they are a-changing".  Gawd, so true; then and now, and forever actually.  Everything is always moving, always changing, and the feeble minded stay helplessly hoping that things won't.  As I'm bellying up against the bar of my 28th birthing day I've noticed that some rare reclusive corner of my psyche is trying to shed off some layers; maybe just for Change Practice Training, or as I call it CPT for short.   Well I actually just came up with that to be honest.  Maybe the Saturn returning journey might be a heavy long trail through the fire swamp and the bog of eternal stench and I'll need a fresh pair of boxers and some fine smelling oils to protect me from the demons of evil; well the fresh boxers are in case I get scared and piss my pants.

And the world is changing pretty ferociously right now too, don't ya think!  Earth quakes and tsunamies, global Occupies and local breakdowns, the birds sing death metal and the monk seals sip mai tais in the ozoneless sun.  The egyptian goddess of this world purrs like a kitten on the tops of live wire.  How can any normal thinking person contest the facts of these?  Another old washed up soul singer once truthfully belted out "its been a long time coming but I know a change gonna come, oh yes it will".

So with all that:  the Vanagon is goneagon!  The end of an era.  She was my home, my kitchen, my studio, my love palace, my tea house, my storage shed, and sometimes my vehicle.  For a year I lived a dream that most people either fantasize about in their cold blankets of Canada or scornfully disapprove from a deep envy atop sky rises on Wall Street.  To be able to lift my head from my dream drooled pillow and look out the windshield to check the surf is beyond the words of satisfaction and joy, such freedom and serenity.......until a loud banging on the door fractures your morning mellow enlightenment with the square stern voice "excuse me excuse me, YOU CAN'T SLEEP IN YOUR VAN HERE and you have no permit sir!"  So anyway, the Westfalia is in the hands of a young beautiful girl making her dream come true..... somewhere on the east side.  The first thing people say to me when  I tell them I sold the van is "oh my god, noooo, well where are you going to live?"  Amongst the pedestrians of "normal" society in square angular things called "houses".  The van was a huge check off on the bucket list, and my bucket has a hole in it.......I think that's a song isn't it?  And now Mr. Miyagi (my new 1986 toyota truck) gets me from here to there, and besides I think the van was starting to exceed my reputation.

Simple Truth

Another early morning

same wind blows

through the same window

on the same bed,

except i'm older

and her name has changed

Normal on island

Everything becomes relative. Where ever one resides they become accustomed to the everyday happenings of that place and lifestyle. "Normal" evolves beyond the fringes of its meaning; past the mullet haired fixed gear hipsters of the North West, past the scruff faced booted fishermen of the East, and miles away from the single toothed swamp donkeys of the South. Hawaii has its own normalcy. A beautiful everyday style that takes the breath away. But one needs to stay aware of this wonderful normal phenomenon in order to live the path of happiness, because on island the energy never leaves. And if ones guard is down and your awareness and attention of the Now meanders off course, than the Negs (negativities of life) move in and demand control. Energy will just keep bouncing from one drama stained floozy to the next, until it settles on the lap of the wise. Which reminds me of a sticker that said: gossip ends at a wise man's ears. People find more gratitude in swirling negative drama shit sticks then they do satisfying their own souls with loving nourishment. So "normal" comes in all shapes and sizes, smells and sensations. Island normal could be magically entwined with a powerful cosmic lover, lustfully dancing for hours, watching the orange glow of the sun settle on the horizon while you share perfect warm waves with your best friend, scamper through lush coastal cliffs picking exotic fruit and drinking from natural springs trickling out of misty mountains, and drinking tea early morning with only laughing birds and swaying bamboo in the soft morning light; or your island normal could be coming home from your laborious job to your drunk husband waiting to beat you again, and you being ok with that..........because that is the only Normal you know. So observe your normal, analyze your normal, ponder your normal, adjust your normal and then love your normal. A good friend who just left island brought this question into my psychic view: What do you practice?