Wednesday, August 31, 2011

Summing up

I didn't find work in St. Anthony and September 1st was the day I planned on leaving for Gros Morne. So, here are some parting shots with which I display my sentimental bent. In Mexico, I was a broken man sitting, sweating, on the concrete steps of a baseball stadium somewhere north of Gurerro Negro, maybe in Rosarito, watching ball players who were 7 years past their prime struggle around the bases and overthrow the cutoff man. A grandfather, probably 50 years old walked off with his daughter and the moment she reached for his hand, unseen and without turning his head he reached for hers and together they trusted one another without words and I wept into my 10 peso beer and thought, 'Ah, Oggy, you may climb the highest peaks in the world but there is one happiness you will never know.' I did not take a picture of that moment but if you wait long enough your enemies with pass you in the river and lost memories will return on the wings of sinister storm clouds and here in St. Anthony I saw a boy and his grandfather walk toward the wharf and I grabbed that moment for my treasure chest of dreams...and as a reminder and reflective admission that I have not fooled myself of the source of true contentment.

The other picture is of Oggy trying to sew little dots of velcro onto a bug screen to keep the bugs from flying into the escape hatch. This failed for a variety of reasons but it also led me to another attempt that failed and now the third attempt will work if I want to sew 8 ft of velcro strips onto the screen by hand. That may take place on a rainy day.

The next is a picture of the van far off in the distance near the municipal wharf. The locals tolerate my presence there and I try to pay it back with litter picking and by fixing the toilet and plumbing around the grounds. But at least no asshole with his BMW has driven up and yelled, "WHEN ARE YOU LEAVING?" like happened many times in Los Angeles. I said, "As soon as I see the sign that SAYS THIS IS YOUR PRIVATE FUCKING PARKING SPACE!"

And they would mutter their bourguois responses, "Hippy pissing in the hedges, lazy, dirty, call the cops...etc..." and I would simmer my resentments in a miserable shirtless existence as I struggle with a rusted nut on the exhaust.

No, it's different here.

The last picture is of me on the Grenfell trail overlook where the doctor and his wife and a few key players in the hospital saga have been IMPLANTED INTO STONE because when you do what Grenfell did then you get to do whatever you want with your ashes.

Internet usage will be sparse for the next few days or weeks. I have a lead on a vacuum modulator in Cornerbrook, maybe the last in all of North America, so that is a future destination.

St. Anthony Street Clean-up a Success!

Dennison and I did our part to repay the hospitality of St. Anthony (We freely partake of their water and internet) by walking from the Marina to Fisherman's Point picking up litter. This is not "pollution", which is more like oil spills, but Tim Horton's (Dennison says, "Bloody Tim Whoreton's") coffee cups and straws and cigarette butts. We are a frivilous animal with coarse pursuits and it shows in our respect of the land and the resources. The sailors told of meeting floating metal cargo containers that fall off cargo ships. The ships can expect to lose 5% of their containers and maybe they will be retrieved or maybe a sailboat will run into one or maybe it will sink into the abyss. For what? So, Americans or Italians can trade shoes and belts and other gadgets. This is grotesque to me, a grotesque and irresponsible waste of resources and energy. The Chinese slave who sits at her table for 12 hours sewing Mickey Mouse Pillowcases will see her life's work drowned in the Caspian Sea. IT'S A BUNCH OF BULLSHIT@!

We gathered 5 bags of trash, some home insulation, a tennis ball, and the thanks of a local tour boat captain. Then Dennison served some pressure cooked beans in tomato sauce and I contributed moldy flaxseed bread.

In sampling the news in the aftermath of the storm I see nothing has changed in my absence; America is still obsessed with celebrity porn, internet comments still scrape the bottom of the barrel of civility, and the pot cooking the frogs is slowly reaching a boil while the frogs spit in each other's eyes with curses and venom. It's every man for himself and the funny thing is that it's been this way for a long time. I want no part of it.

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Man in the Van by Oggy Bleacher is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 3.0 Unported License.