A Lot Happens in a Year

I have some catching up to do. It's been over twelve months since I've last written and there's a lot to cover. I'll spare the details though...the details are unimportant. It's what I've learned from the details that matters. Much has changed because as I've mentioned before, a little over two years ago, I made a firm decision that included the following:

1. Sell my house.
2. Head west.
3. Explore.
4. Reflect.
5. Rediscover the creative mind that has been slipping away from me since allowing myself to slowly slip into the midst of mediocrity.

I can honestly say that I've accomplished 75% of what's on that list. So, concerning #1: Selling my house. I didn't do that. I tried. It sat on the market for two years because frankly, the housing market is crap and I was a naive buyer who purchased a home in a neighborhood within Cleveland that will only rise in market value if John Wayne comes back from the dead and strikes gold underneath the layers of silt and coal deposits that make up the landscape of Old Brooklyn. If I could market it on the quality of my old neighbors alone, I'd be able to move it in an instant. Unfortunately, that's not the case. So, I did the next best thing. I rented it out to my good friend and his family, who are now happily enjoying the freedom of home-living. So #1, half check. ...at least I moved.

Now, on to #2: Heading west. I did that. I successfully moved to Portland. I rented an apartment in the Nob Hill area, packed up my entire house, sold some stuff, put a bit of it in storage, then shipped the rest out here on a moving van. Have you ever tried to fit the contents of a three bedroom house into a 380 sq. ft. flat? It's a challenge. But I'm here, accompanied by my faithful companion, Kino. It's been three months and so far, so good. I may still be searching for permanent employment, but at least I got a cool little gig in a coffee shop to tide me over while I look. I'm still poor. I ride a 50 year-old yellow bike. I drink a lot of tea. I am truly living the Portland lifestyle.

#3: Exploring. I drove across the country. By myself. Through eight states that I've never visited in my life and I loved every second of it. I stopped in Chicago and drove north through cheese head-country. I saw an 80-ft. statue of the Jolly Green Giant. I visited Mt. Rushmore and drove through the Black Hills. I drove along the outskirts of Yellowstone, only to be driven back up north due to high winds and zero visibility on the roads heading in. I saw a random parade in Missoula, MT where everyone in the town danced down the street while dressed up as safari animals. I saw the sun set over the Rockies. I saw the sun rise over the Great Plains. I learned that Kino and mountain goats are not friends...not even a little bit. I became fascinated by the Columbia River Gorge and the many mysteries that it has to offer. I've seen the fog roll in from the Pacific and overwhelm the coastline. I've hiked the north western rainforests and discovered waterfalls that would make your heart skip, just as it did mine. I've fallen asleep to the sound of the surf hitting the Pacific shore. I drove 2800 miles in 3.5 days. I've done all this in less than three months. And I've only just begun to explore.

Along with this urge to expand my horizons comes #4: Reflecting. With so much time to myself, it's been fairly easy to reflect back on the past few years of my life and figure out what's gotten me here, what mistakes I've made (and there are many) how to remedy them, how to let go of them, and how to concentrate on looking forward to the future while learning from the past, not just dwelling on it. That's something I tend to struggle with on a daily basis...letting what's already come to pass weigh down my steps on the journey into what's yet to come. I think, however, I finally starting to be able to do so. It's a long process that will require a bit of a character change for me. Employing techniques that I've always used (meditation, illustration, daily exercise) in a more disciplined manner, I'm starting to see a bit of that change begin to occur. It's a process though, and will take time. Through patience, I know I'll one day figure out who exactly I am and what my life means. Until then, I continue on.

And finally, #5: Rediscovering my Creative Mind. Have I done this thoroughly? No. But that's why I'm here in Portland. This is an American hub of creative youth and culture. There's a saying here that's posted all over the city stating, "Keep Portland Weird." And you know what? It's weird. Every last bit of it. When I walk downtown, there are moments where, between the absurd amount of leiderhosen and over-population of handlebar mustaches walking about, I honestly feel as if I'm passing through a Carnival. My ex-girlfriend spoke Carny. If I started eeezy-weezy'ing around these guys, I'm positive most of them might plotz themselves on the spot. Am I walking through a Carnival? No. I'm walking through Downtown Portland. Aside from that culture, however, there is an amazing amount of small design boutiques, ad agencies and corporate marketing firms that hire graphic designers such as myself. I haven't found a permanent job just yet, but that's because it's extremely competitive. And since I've been here, I've applied to nearly everything I can find. But in the meantime, I've started writing again. I've started painting again. I've started filming again. I've given myself the opportunity to get back to the state of mind that I employed ten years ago while I was finishing up school. I'm starting to recognize myself. And that's nothing but a good thing.

Change is good. Change is inevitable. Change is our only constant. Now that I'm here and I've given my life the shake up and challenges that it needs, I feel as if I'm finally able to embrace it.

On the other hand, there's always those jaws of defeat lurking underneath the water, waiting to pull me down at any instant...but at least then I'll have the peace of mind that I actually gave it a shot.

Week of the Geek

Yes, it's that time of year again: Comic-Con. Every summer during the end of July, San Diego hosts the biggest Comic convention in the world. Nerds, Geeks and Celebrities alike show up to promote the latest in paperback, film and television alike. Some even elaborately dress the part, parading as characters ranging from Doctor Strange to Ramona Flowers to Jay and Silent Bob's own Cockknocker. In order to acknowledge the event, I ask you to enjoy the following pic of this guy...The Fat Flash.

This guy couldn't outrun my mom. He even looks bewildered, like the photographer just snuck up on him. My favorite part though is the cop's uniform hanging behind him. God, I hope this schmuck is an officer of the law.

Conversations with Girls, #1: The Beer Bottle

I've been on a lot of dates. I can't say whether that's a good thing or not, but regardless, I've built a library of stories from these experiences. This column is dedicated to the more kooky women I've had the pleasure of sharing a few drinks with. ...God bless you, I'm really glad it didn't work out between us.

When: 2003

Where: A Hair Salon in Downtown Cleveland

All I remember of this girl was that the whole night was the result of a set-up by some friends that were trying to prove to me that they're really not my friends at all. She was a hairdresser and they thought it'd be clever for me to make an appointment with her at the end of her shift, then head to the lounge next door for a drink when she was done. Like the sucker that I am, I did. The conversation in the chair went something like this:

Crazy Woman with Scissors: Any big plans for the weekend?

Me: Yeah, I have some work to do on my house then just hanging out with friends. It should be pretty low-key, but that's cool. How about you?

CWwS: Oh, low key is good. I wouldn't mind having a low-key weekend this time around. As long as it's not like last weekend, I'll be happy.

Me: Why, what happened last weekend?

CWwS: Oh, not much. ...Well, I think I really hurt someone. ...No, I'm sure he's okay, but it was freaky.

Me: What do you mean you really hurt someone? Like, broke up with a guy or something?

CWwS: No, nothing like that. (snip snip) No, I mean I think I may have put someone in the hospital. I'm pretty sure he got really fucked up.

Me: ....

CWwS: Okay, but it totally wasn't my fault. I mean, okay, here's what happened. It soooo shouldn't be a big deal, but whatever. So my friends and I are out dancing and whatever. (snip snip) And there's this guy. Well, he tried this line on me, something stupid. I don't even know what it was. Like I had pretty eyes or something. It was just...stupid. So I just hit him over the head with a beer bottle.

Me: Wait...you what?

CWwS: I know, right? Have you ever seen anyone get hit over the head with a beer bottle? It's not like it is on TV where they just fall down. Nope, not at all. There's blood. Like, gushing blood. And the glass, it just, well it just sticks in there, like little daggers.

Me: (staring at her scissors with growing paranoia) Uhh....I don't--

CWwS: Okay, but in my defense, I really didn't know it was going to be like that. You know? Like I said, every time I see it happen on TV or in the movies, the guy who gets hit doesn't bleed. He just falls down, or doesn't do anything at all. Like 'John What's-his-name' in that college movie...Animal something-or-other

Me: Animal House

CWwS: Yeah! He just stood there and he even hit himself! This guy...no way, man. He just fell backwards, put his hands over his face and just started screaming. Like this; AHHHhhh! Aghhhhhhh! (she actually mimicked him screaming in pain). It was awful.

Me: Uh huh.

CWwS: And you know the worst part?

Me: God, no. What?

CWwS: I actually felt the glass cut his skin, you know? Like the edges of the bottle just dug in there and totally ripped open his scalp. I felt it. So weird... (At this point, she kind of trailed off, stopped cutting my hair and stared off into space for a few seconds.)

Me: Umm? Hi?

CWwS: What? Oh yeah. So anyway, we just grabbed out stuff and bolted. That's messed up, right?

Me: (nervously) Totally, yeah.

CWwS: So that was my weekend. Nuts, huh? Hopefully I won't be doing any more of that any time soon. Haha.

Me: (even more nervously) Heh heh, ...Let's hope so.

CWwS: (frighteningly sarcastic and wielding her scissors toward the mirror) So you better be nice to me... Haha...

Me: ...oh, don't you worry.

The rest of the time I was in that God-forsaken chair, I sat in awkward silence, not knowing quite what to say for fear that she'd take it wrong and plunge those scissors into my jugular. She, on the other hand, seemingly took no notice as she finished my whack job of a hair cut, whistling to herself the entire time. Needless to say, I skipped out on drinks afterwards, mumbling some excuse about having to finish up some office work for a deadline. I also walked away from her sporting the worst hair cut I've ever gotten in my life.

I went back to a friend that worked in the same salon a week or so later, specifically on a day that she wasn't working, only to find out that I just missed her being fired. They fixed my hair the best they could, at no extra charge. I've never gone back.

Pizza

Recently, I've been getting somewhat experimental in the kitchen. I like it. Sometimes it's fun. Other times, I create a disaster. Regardless, most of the time I'm the only one judging the end product so the failures seem a bit more few and far between. ...As far as everyone knows.

A few nights ago, I had a girl over for dinner. I asked her if she liked pizza, she said yes, and from that point forward until she arrived, I believe I set her expectations at level "laziest guy ever." Not so, as she was led to believe. My dad bakes a lot of homemade pizzas, and he's actually gotten pretty good at it, to the point where his friends have suggested on multiple occasions for him to open up his own shop, so if I learned from anyone, I learned from him. Using that experience, I decided to get experimental that night and set out to make a Brazilian pizza. I have no idea what this would entail, but it sounded cool and different. So I did some research on Brazilian gourmet and came up with the following toppings. To quote the intended, "This is [expletive] amazing."

Before I did anything, I cut a thinly sliced Top Sirloin steak into thin strips and marinated them in coconut milk, coriander, and cumin for about an hour. Gross, right? You'll think I'm lying, but not so much. Like I said, experimental. I then made the dough from scratch, rolled it flat into a thin, square shape, pinched the edges and laid it into a greased pan. After that, I spread over the crust a tomato-based ranchero sauce that I got from the Central American recipe isle of the grocery store. I can't remember who makes it, but I've used it as a base for Spanish rice and enchilada sauces. It's got a sweet flavor to it...pretty amazing stuff. After pan frying the strips of steak, I added them first, followed by black beans, a fully diced tomatillo, garlic, mild green chilies, slices of red onion, thinly-sliced tomatoes and all topped with crumbled goat cheese. I threw it in the oven for about 20 minutes at 400 degrees and it was set to go.

Needless to say, if it ended up being a disaster, I wouldn't be bragging about it here. Give it a shot sometime. It was fairly amazing. I hear all the Brazilians are doing it.

I Apparently Have Emotional Scars

The memory of this conversation always makes me laugh. Then again, I suppose I shouldn't be surprised being a fairly bohemian individual, employed by a highly conservative firm. I know some of these guys don't always know what to think of me with my paisley shirts, ever-changing facial hair and cowboy boots, but that's okay. I don't mind. I do my job and they're pleased with what I produce, so it's come to be accepted. Great.

A few weeks ago, fully bearded (think Zach Galifinakis or Robinson Crusoe) and shaggy haired (it's about at my shoulders now), I poked my head into one of our sales director's offices to discuss a charitable project I was helping him with. Let's call him Ned. My boss was in there with him. Let's call him Boss. The conversation went something like this.

Me: I need to go over these designs with you. Give me a call when you guys are done.

Ned: Wait a minute.

Me: What?

Ned: Get in here. (I do.) Stand right there and look at me. (I did.)

(This is followed by about 10 seconds of awkward silence. ... I don't like it.)

Me: This is weird.

Ned: What the hell is wrong with you?

Me: Huh?

Ned: What are you hiding?

Me: I don't understand what you're...

Ned: You're hiding something. I want to know what.

Me: I'm not hiding anything. What the hell? Boss, I--

Boss: Nope. Leave me out of it.

Ned: Do you know what my dad did for a living?

Me: No idea.

Ned: He was the police commissioner for the city of Cleveland.

Me: Okay.

Ned: He taught me how to read people. After decades of service on the Force, he had this theory about men who grow out their beards.

Me: Yeah?

Ned: He told me, "A man with a beard is hiding either a physical scar, or an emotional scar."

Me: I don't have any scars, Ned.

Ned: Well, not any physical scars, obviously. You're a very good-looking young man when you don't look like Ted Bundy.

Me: Thanks. I don't have any emotional scars either.

Ned: And yet, you have a mass of hair covering your face.

Me: I just felt like growing it out. I like it.

Ned: Men don't just 'like' beards. It's like a big, dead animal. A big, dead animal right on your face.

Me: I do. And no, it's not.

Ned: Nope, you're emotionally scarred. I can sense it. So let's get to the bottom of this issue. Right now.

Me: I'm not emotionally scarred.

Ned: Is it because of a girl?

Me: No, there's no girl. I'm not emotionally scarred.

Ned: Do you have Daddy issues? Mommy issues?

Me: What? No.

This dialog, question/yes & no answer format, went on for another ten or so rounds. My boss, standing silent to the side of us, shifted his neck back and forth, as if he were at Wimbledon. Finally, I cut Ed's little questionnaire clean off.

Me: Okay, do you want to know why I like growing out my beard?

Ned: I already know, but go ahead. Enlighten me.

Me: Sure. When I was little, like five, I saw my grandpa shaving. I thought it was the coolest thing. So I say to him, "Grandpa, I can't wait till I get to shave too."

He looks at me with the most grave, dire expression on his face and tells me, "Kid," because he always referred to me as Kid...never Brian...not once, "Kid, don't ever say such a thing again. Do you hear me?" he warned. "Never."

At this point he puts down his razor and kneels down in front of me, clasping his hands over my shoulders to desperately accentuate his point in a most dramatic fashion. An uncharacteristic gesture for him, I might add.

"Shaving is the bane of my existence," he continued. "I hate it. I despise it. If society and your Grandma would let me, I would never shave again. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, Grandpa," I replied.

"Kid, promise me you'll never again look forward to the day you start start shaving," he desperately concludes to me. "Because once that day comes, you'll be at it nearly every single day for the rest of your life. Enjoy your pre-pubescent freedom while you have it."

(Ned is looking at me, confidently unconvinced.)

Me: And with that, I decided that I didn't like shaving. To this day, I've grown to hate it. Even when I shave, I don't really shave; I clip. It's just me. He was right. In addition, I don't have a wife and I don't really care what 'society' finds acceptable in the realm of facial hair, so I let it go. And I have fun with it. I can trim it into fu-man-choos and Wolverine chops. I can grow it long, or I can buzz it to scruff. Hell, I could cut my sideburns into a profile of Alfred Hitchcock if I wanted to. I. Don't. Care.

Ned: So you have Grand-daddy issues. Got it. Now go shave your beard.

I tell him I can't, that his wife told me she loved it last night. He laughs and flicks me off. I turn around and walk back to my desk. He still tells me to shave nearly every time he sees me. We're still friends. I still have a beard.

Good to know you, Ned. Because of you, I apparently have emotional scars.

Facelift

What was once the Conti Contemplative (a name I still regret creating to this day) is now the Journatorium. Is it better? Maybe. As a title, to me it reflects a collection of random thoughts and obscure observations that I make on a daily basis, all gathered together under one roof. However, it's also about the journey one takes in the midst of that collection. The, "Where am I now," and "where will I be then?" So, I've basically come up with a more complicated way of saying 'blog.' ...yeah, that sounds about right.

Gone is the awful silhouetted image by the lake, replaced by a collage of meaningful aspects of my life...my house, my dog, my introspect, my vision, my love of the water and the impressions my travels have left upon me. Gone are the oppressive twilight blues and grays, exchanged with the light sandy off-whites and tans to present a more meditative atmosphere. It's easier to read and as I said before, that layout just never set well with me. Maybe that's why I abandoned the blog so quickly and started Jack Traveler...I just didn't know what to do with it.

I have however, kept the previous articles, solely for archival purposes, the last being my re-discovery of the Hidden Bridge in Mill Creek Park. I suppose that one event led me to re-purpose my life, as pointed out by a good friend when I first shared that story with her just after it happened. I feel it's appropriate to serve as both a transitional account and a memory of where things started...well, started over. From here forward, it's all about the journey to discover where things will lead.

The Hidden Bridge

A small stone footbridge, hidden deep within the ravine. I had a glimpse of it then, what could've been close to 20-25 years ago. My dad was taking me for a drive in Mill Creek Park, a huge expanse of trails and Washington State-like wilderness buried in Youngstown, Ohio. It's the city's gem, really. A maze of steep ravines, waterfalls, lakes, and hemlock groves where one could get lost among the many twists and turns within a variety of trails.

I remember it vividly. He was driving me along a road alongside one of the many gorges, showing me the spot where he used to park his car and give it a good wash. A little odd, I know, but he was reminiscing, and it made perfect sense at the time. I was after all, barely in elementary school. The park was enormous to me. It had no end, and offered nearly limitless opportunities of exploration. We were heading around a curve when I saw it: the bridge. Trees and the surrounding hills had eventually overwhelmed it. It was fairly dilapidated, even then. The small stone footbridge lay isolated and buried between the walls of the gorge. It came out of nowhere and before I could realize it was there, it was gone. I asked my dad to stop and turn around, but he had an agenda. I had never seen the bridge again since that day, often wondering if it was nearly a figment of my imagination. If maybe I had seen something else and pieced it together as an image that didn't really exist. I had spent years searching for it, learning that park backwards and forwards, but had never again caught a glimpse of it again. Until today.

Ruins fascinate me. As a kid, I had explored Mill Creek Park thoroughly for the treasures that it hides. First with my grandpa, who did the same thing when he was a kid, and then with my friends, whose love of rock climbing and the outdoors had gotten us into many, many memorable situations. The Park is old, founded by a man name Volney Rodgers. He bought the land in the mid-1800's and set it aside, untouched, with the vision of exactly what it is today: a wilderness preserve. Walking through the park is in a way like traveling back in time. Gone are the sounds of the nearby city and churning steel factories, traffic and the bustle of everyday life. As you walk through the park, it's not uncommon to come across a building, pavilion, or ruins of a house that could be close to 200 years old. When Rodgers bought the park, he didn' purchase it uninhabited. There was a hydraulic flour mill on the property (which still exists as a working mill to this day) and local pioneers had already started building on bits and pieces of the land, remnants of which you can still find today. This environment enthralled me throughout my childhood and well into college. In fact, I still go down to the park to just walk around, soon finding myself off the trail and clamboring my way through an empty ravine, just to see what comes up next. Today, was one of those days.

I was walking Kino in the park, along a trail known locally as the East Cohassett trail. It begins by the famous Silver Suspension Bridge, and follows the eastern rim of Lake Cohassett all the way to Pioneer Pavilion. About 100 feet above the trail is an all-purpose trail, a seasonal paved trail that is only accessible to hikers and biking enthusiasts. It used to be a road at one point, but closed down due to frequent landslides. Kino and I were about a mile in on the trail when he darted off and up the side of the ravine. He was following an old staircase that hasn't been really used in years. It's one of the many unkempt trails in the park...there are dozens.

Up he ran and then down into the gorge. I bounded up trail after him, skipping every other step along the way. As I reached the top, I saw what he was following, a spry young doe that had absolutely no intention of letting him get an inch closer than he was already. She bounded around another corner of the ravine, where Kino followed, as did I...sliding down the loose shale walls of the gorge, across the stream at the bottom, and into a side gulley where I last saw Kino turn. By this time he was trotting back to me, well aware that the doe was well out of his range. That's when I saw it, the hidden bridge, just...sitting there, exactly as it was 20 years ago. I had a different perspective on it now, being underneath it as opposed to driving well above it, but...I immediately knew it was the bridge that I had seen during that afternoon drive in the park, just by the way it was nestled in between the hills, by it's dilapidated state, and by the very stone it was molded from.

Without wasting any time, I was gripping my way up the side of the ravine, away from the trail and towards the edge of the bridge. The soil was loose and muddy, the effect of a day's worth of rain and sleet. After some effort, I made it to the edge and finally got to take a good look at the bridge that I had been casually searching for since I had been allowed to explore the park on my own. There are many footbridges just like this in the park, but most are still in fairly good condition, and actually connect two paths, or two sides of the ravine as a footbridge is supposed to do. This one...well, it was different. The distinct difference that I remember from my first sighting of it was that it seemed to lead to nowhere. I wasn't sure if that's just the way I perceived it to be, but now I know that it was true. This bridge lies smack in the middle of a ravine, halfway down into the gorge, with all traces of a trail on each end being completely absent. Its rails were rusted and half hanging off the side, a "no tresspassing" sign attached to the southern end. I climbed up the rest of the side of the ravine to see where I had seen the bridge from before and upon reaching the top, immediately realized why I hadn't found it before now. The road I was standing on was the All-purpose trail, the very trail that had been re-paved and re-routed after a series of landslides back in the late-80's. I had always been looking for an existing, functioning road, not one that had been closed to traffic for the past 20-some years. On top of that, since the trail had been re-routed, you're not able to see the bridge from the paved trail, but you can see where the road used to wind, and on that one missing curve is a direct view into the gorge, and of the hidden bridge itself.

I know, I know, big deal. I found a bridge. Let's have a parade over it and move on. I get it. But this was a really cool experience for me today. That one sight from the car so many years ago had stimulated years of imagination within me. I'm not sure why...maybe because it was so surreal...like it didn't belong in our time, in our world. I can't help it. It was fascinating. And what's even better? It exists. I didn't dream it up. I didn't piece together random memories to create something that wasn't actually there. I looked for it for a long time, years even. And at the single point in time where I wasn't looking for it at all, there it was. Funny how those kinds of things work.