Adventures are mostly in the mind. It's better there, when you have the luxury of being warm, able to relax, unwind, and kick back with a friend and smoke a J.
I left New Hampshire in May to stay with a friend living on Martha's Vineyard. I was looking forward to sleeping on the beach, sex, and all of the similar romantic, daydreamy thoughts. I got there and crashed on her couch, in her tiny little shack where she lived with her mom. We spent a couple days just going into Vineyard Haven and hanging out at this shitty coffee shop called Che's Lounge. Tourists lined the streets, locals bitched about tourists, we hung out with boring rich kids. Everything in Mass is expensive too, especially on Martha's Vineyard. I wanted to bum around the island, expecting to find something great. We went dumpster diving, found a dumpster full of fruits and vegetables, and then a man came over and gave us 15 dollars. Said he owned a restaurant and that we could eat there for free when we wanted. No bums on Martha's Vineyard, it's a place where folks go to get away from seeing that kind of shit. After 3 or 4 days, my dreams were quickly crushed and I knew I had to get away. I took the bus to the furthest end of the island with my pack and said farewell to my lady friend. I arrived at a typical small, Atlantic fishing village and walked up the beach for a while until I found a nice spot to camp. Got the fuck out of there the next day. On my way out I saw mansions and plots of property like you wouldn't believe, left unused because it's somebody's summer home. Fucking ridiculous.
I took the ferry to the mainland and caught a ride with a mid-30s hippy mom and her dog. She liked to talk a lot, and ended up saying that her life interest is "the evolution of human conciousness." She dropped me off at a rest stop in Plymouth where I called my friend Josh to come pick me up, and he took me to his house in the suburbs of Boston. Josh is a dude who is really into cars and engineering, but also a professional trapeze artist, a really good bass player, a pot dealer and unicyclist. We smoked a lot of weed, I raided his fridge every night, and we would go out and build shit. We built chopper bicycles and a pneumatic potato cannon that we shot screwdrivers out of. We got drunk quite a bit, wandered into Harvard Square every so often, and basically rode bikes and kept busy. One night we went to Boston by Fenway Park and drank with some homebums, and watched as one got beaten up for some money he owed. Gogol Bordello was playing nearby, but were sold out, so we went up to them after the show and Josh ended up yelling at the lead singer and threatening him. They were famous douchebags though, and there's no room in famous people's lives for anyone other than the people that they seek out, it seems. I gave the roadie my name and he said he'd let me into their next show on the guest list. The show was the next day, in Burlington Vermont. Stuck out in boston, we continuously hailed cabs until one would give us a 50 minute ride for 10 bucks.
The next day I woke up, packed my shit up, and headed to the highway where I thumbed for an hour trying to get to Burlington, before a cop finally kicked me off of the exit. SUV after SUV full of Americans bred to fear hitchhikers drove by. Suburban sprawl. Giving up, I took the T out to Milford, Mass where I met up with my other friend. She's a mess, full of anxiety. I didn't have much fun, didn't do much at all, and felt unwelcome. Ended up just leaving and trying to get to Northampton, not knowing shit about it other than "I've heard it's cool." I got picked up by this dude on Route 9, and he turned out to be the singer in a hardcore punk band, and wanted to help me out. He sent me to meet up with some of his friends at the skatepark in Worcester. They picked me up, and took me to this apartment where a couple of punks were hanging out, and they brought me to this place called the Fuck You Center (a kind of record/zine/random shit store on 420 pleasant st. run by punks). I sat quietly, doing nothing, being tortured by shyness and extreme self-absorption, until I had somebody buy me beer and I could loosen up. We ended up drinking and smoking a bunch in the store and I took no contacts, got up and left and passed out in a ditch beside the dorms at a nearby college.
The next day was cold, and rainy, and I felt miserable. I felt a repeat of the past coming on, where I am stuck in an unfamiliar place, alone, inhibited by my shyness, so I resort to getting fucked up to escape it. When you're bumming, it's important to be able to meet other people, whether for food, shelter, companionship, or whatever. People are important. I walked around the streets of Worcester looking for a potential squat, with my large pack walking through unfamiliar territory in a shithole of a city, I felt pretty vulnerable. Finding nothing, I wandered downtown and went to the library, where I could get what I needed, which was just a comfortable place where I can relax and not be bombarded with constant emotion. Escaped in a book for a while. Sat and listened to the junkies talking. Wandered around more, bored, lonely, frustrated, wet, cold, no place to stay, met people but won't utilize them, life is no fun. Thoughts turned to heading back home and ending it right then and there, and in a snappish decision I took out my emergency funds and bought a Greyhound home. Feeling like a failure, going back to the land of no return, where I always have to return to.
I got stuck in Port Authority for 14 hours and some cops picked me up because I looked like a runaway, and am 17. I was on my way home anyways. Headed home with the thought of suicide fresh on my mind. Couldn't stand home, all I've wanted to do the past couple of years is travel, and I've had all my opportunities and fucked them every time because I am afraid of people. I feel like it will never end. I couldn't handle traveling alone, but that's all I've got. It's back in my mind again, the same thought I've always had, the wanderlust, but part of me says that it's all in the mind, that the same effort will yield the same results, and I get more and more pressured into staying in the comfortable, eventless drone of society. I want to go back to San Francisco, where I hope that it will be different, but maybe I'll take this shit with me wherever I go. Staying home and trying to get my head screwed on until next time. Peace
I left New Hampshire in May to stay with a friend living on Martha's Vineyard. I was looking forward to sleeping on the beach, sex, and all of the similar romantic, daydreamy thoughts. I got there and crashed on her couch, in her tiny little shack where she lived with her mom. We spent a couple days just going into Vineyard Haven and hanging out at this shitty coffee shop called Che's Lounge. Tourists lined the streets, locals bitched about tourists, we hung out with boring rich kids. Everything in Mass is expensive too, especially on Martha's Vineyard. I wanted to bum around the island, expecting to find something great. We went dumpster diving, found a dumpster full of fruits and vegetables, and then a man came over and gave us 15 dollars. Said he owned a restaurant and that we could eat there for free when we wanted. No bums on Martha's Vineyard, it's a place where folks go to get away from seeing that kind of shit. After 3 or 4 days, my dreams were quickly crushed and I knew I had to get away. I took the bus to the furthest end of the island with my pack and said farewell to my lady friend. I arrived at a typical small, Atlantic fishing village and walked up the beach for a while until I found a nice spot to camp. Got the fuck out of there the next day. On my way out I saw mansions and plots of property like you wouldn't believe, left unused because it's somebody's summer home. Fucking ridiculous.
I took the ferry to the mainland and caught a ride with a mid-30s hippy mom and her dog. She liked to talk a lot, and ended up saying that her life interest is "the evolution of human conciousness." She dropped me off at a rest stop in Plymouth where I called my friend Josh to come pick me up, and he took me to his house in the suburbs of Boston. Josh is a dude who is really into cars and engineering, but also a professional trapeze artist, a really good bass player, a pot dealer and unicyclist. We smoked a lot of weed, I raided his fridge every night, and we would go out and build shit. We built chopper bicycles and a pneumatic potato cannon that we shot screwdrivers out of. We got drunk quite a bit, wandered into Harvard Square every so often, and basically rode bikes and kept busy. One night we went to Boston by Fenway Park and drank with some homebums, and watched as one got beaten up for some money he owed. Gogol Bordello was playing nearby, but were sold out, so we went up to them after the show and Josh ended up yelling at the lead singer and threatening him. They were famous douchebags though, and there's no room in famous people's lives for anyone other than the people that they seek out, it seems. I gave the roadie my name and he said he'd let me into their next show on the guest list. The show was the next day, in Burlington Vermont. Stuck out in boston, we continuously hailed cabs until one would give us a 50 minute ride for 10 bucks.
The next day I woke up, packed my shit up, and headed to the highway where I thumbed for an hour trying to get to Burlington, before a cop finally kicked me off of the exit. SUV after SUV full of Americans bred to fear hitchhikers drove by. Suburban sprawl. Giving up, I took the T out to Milford, Mass where I met up with my other friend. She's a mess, full of anxiety. I didn't have much fun, didn't do much at all, and felt unwelcome. Ended up just leaving and trying to get to Northampton, not knowing shit about it other than "I've heard it's cool." I got picked up by this dude on Route 9, and he turned out to be the singer in a hardcore punk band, and wanted to help me out. He sent me to meet up with some of his friends at the skatepark in Worcester. They picked me up, and took me to this apartment where a couple of punks were hanging out, and they brought me to this place called the Fuck You Center (a kind of record/zine/random shit store on 420 pleasant st. run by punks). I sat quietly, doing nothing, being tortured by shyness and extreme self-absorption, until I had somebody buy me beer and I could loosen up. We ended up drinking and smoking a bunch in the store and I took no contacts, got up and left and passed out in a ditch beside the dorms at a nearby college.
The next day was cold, and rainy, and I felt miserable. I felt a repeat of the past coming on, where I am stuck in an unfamiliar place, alone, inhibited by my shyness, so I resort to getting fucked up to escape it. When you're bumming, it's important to be able to meet other people, whether for food, shelter, companionship, or whatever. People are important. I walked around the streets of Worcester looking for a potential squat, with my large pack walking through unfamiliar territory in a shithole of a city, I felt pretty vulnerable. Finding nothing, I wandered downtown and went to the library, where I could get what I needed, which was just a comfortable place where I can relax and not be bombarded with constant emotion. Escaped in a book for a while. Sat and listened to the junkies talking. Wandered around more, bored, lonely, frustrated, wet, cold, no place to stay, met people but won't utilize them, life is no fun. Thoughts turned to heading back home and ending it right then and there, and in a snappish decision I took out my emergency funds and bought a Greyhound home. Feeling like a failure, going back to the land of no return, where I always have to return to.
I got stuck in Port Authority for 14 hours and some cops picked me up because I looked like a runaway, and am 17. I was on my way home anyways. Headed home with the thought of suicide fresh on my mind. Couldn't stand home, all I've wanted to do the past couple of years is travel, and I've had all my opportunities and fucked them every time because I am afraid of people. I feel like it will never end. I couldn't handle traveling alone, but that's all I've got. It's back in my mind again, the same thought I've always had, the wanderlust, but part of me says that it's all in the mind, that the same effort will yield the same results, and I get more and more pressured into staying in the comfortable, eventless drone of society. I want to go back to San Francisco, where I hope that it will be different, but maybe I'll take this shit with me wherever I go. Staying home and trying to get my head screwed on until next time. Peace
