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It would take me months to learn the laws of motion applied to me. First, I had to hit the road.
About Me
About
I recently found out that one of my great failings in life is never having learned to jump rope. I was told that this childhood omission was unbelievable--where was I during recess? I immediately went out and bought a $5 jump rope, thus forcing me to learn a second skill I'd avoided throughout life (rhythm). I suppose I start with this anecdote because it seems more interesting than a standard biography, which tends to describe an object (Did I just objectify myself?) but not its essence. Nonetheless, I'll do my best to be genre appropriate henceforth. I grew up in a small town in Indiana (that sock-shaped state under Lake Michigan). To geography, I owe my comfort with somewhere in the middle. I never learned black and white, always settling for gray. I love heroic villains and villainous heroes. Growing up in open space where everything was far away from everything else provided me an appetite for the open road. I also attribute my love for the far out, the fanciful, the fringes to coming of age within the gridded confines of monocrop madness. My recently completed book (About the Book) melds these passions with purpose, seeking to find out if it's possible to travel this country without fossil fuels. Other biographical "facts": When not reading, hiking, or writing, I can be found under the hood of my best friend (pictured right with that tall girl in the goofy hat). I also have been building a website for my other best friend because, as a feline, she is unable to do so herself. When not squeezing these activities into the earth's 24-hour rotation, I may be located at the Monterey Institute of International Studies where I teach writing to a vast array of amazing international students. I also may be found freelancing as a content editor for CTB-McGraw Hill, a reporter for Monterey County Weekly, or as an editor for Editor Live. Wearing my writer's cap and birthday suit, I have composed numerous published odes, a sampling of which is provided below. Recent Work:The Inevitable Big Win: Short Story Published in Texas Told 'Em Gulf Stream: Monterey County Weekly Cover Story on the Gulf Oil SpillThe Secret of the World Sleeps in a Calabash: Published in Best Travel Writing 2008A Tale of Two Cities in Limbo: Published in Black Boot Literary MagazineSomewhere Between Nowhere and Everywhere: Published in Fringe Magazine No Airplanes in the Sky: Published in Collected Works from Twentysomethings Around the WorldA 17-Mile Drive: Published in Black Boot LIterary Magazine
About
About the Book
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In the summer of 2009, I left my newly-purchased foreclosure home on the Monterey Peninsula and began a trip that would take me from California to Florida, up the east coast to Maine, and back across the northern Midwest. Having purchased a house with my partner of three years, I was trying to work out what it meant to be in a long-term relationship, to have a job and responsibilities, to live ethically on the brink of planetary collapse. I set out to understand our cultural zeitgeist as one person in one car for one summer. With a car whose survival was always in question and a trunk full of heavy biodiesel, I met believers in crop circles and inter-dimensional beings; founders of sustainable agricultural sites and creators of alternative currencies; farmers and autoworkers; eco-enterprise startup entrepreneurs and gravediggers; outsider artists and self-deluded gurusall of whom gave me a glimpse into their lives. When I set out on my journey, I wasnt sure what I would find, but I came home with the realization that love is the only renewable resource and community our only alternative to isolation and conflict.
ABOUT THE LAWS OF MOTION
The Laws of Motion, a memoir/travel narrative, takes a classic theme, the American road trip, and transforms it into a modern search for meaning, the vehicle of discovery a 15-year-old biodiesel Jetta with 200,000 miles on it.
Book Excerpts
Article 1
Snapshot: Neon Graveyard
From the passenger seat, John directed me to the boneyard, the place where neon signs go to die in Vegas."Its an awesome sight," he said, self-consciously choosing his words.With his board shorts, sandals, and eternally tussled blond locks, John clung to youth well into middle age. I met him by way of Couchsurfing, a social networking site that matches travelers with couches. Whereas Facebook and company connect one to familiar faces, Couchsurfing brings together (hopefully) like-minded strangers. Though I had planned to crash at EcoVillages, campgrounds, and friends places along the route, none of those options were available in Sin City. On his Couchsurfer profile, John had seemed normal, even interesting. His interests included surfing, yoga, and Buddhist philosophy. At the very least, he seemed non-threatening. Within moments of meeting, John had revealed his enormous wealth (from an undisclosed profession), his prolific sex life (with women who left no trace), and his encyclopedic knowledge of Las Vegas (though the Strip was off limits for reasons unknown). I pulled off to the side of the road next to a chain link fence. A No Trespassing sign was gently negated by an adjacent sign advertising paid tours.Dont worry about that, John said, stepping out of the car and waving away the sign, We can see plenty through the fence."I dont mind paying for a tour," I said.My words trailed behind him like a rejected younger sibling. "Dont bother." He grasped the fence with both hands and stuck his nose through the octagonal slots. "Absolutely not worth it."I dutifully took my place at the fence next to John, allowing a healthy dose of personal space."Fine by me. We can just look. Whats this place all about anyway?""Some of these signs are really old," John said. "You know, they have historical value."Behind a giant high heel decked out in busted Christmas lighting, the neon remnants of Stardust appeared."You see that?" John asked. "Thats the old sign from the Stardust Hotel."A first-timer in Vegas, my background knowledge had been formed entirely by pop-culture. I relied on intuition to guide my curiosity: "Wasnt that place famous?""Very famous. Its where tourists used to go to watch the atomic bomb tests in the 50s and 60s." With one hand still grasping the fence, he turned to gauge my reaction. Wiping sweat from his face, he continued, "They called the hotel Stardust because pink dust would settle all over everything after the tests."Unsettled, I released the fence, "What about radiation?""They didnt know back then," he said with a shrug. "Those mustve been some cocktail parties."The city of eternal now, Vegas demolished its inconvenient pasts and rebuilt anew. The Stardust had gone down in a 2007 controlled demolition, long after radiation and Hiroshima made atomic tourism taboo. Staring into the tangles of defunct neons, I didnt notice that John had walked farther away until he called out and gestured for me to come look."Its Vegas Vic!"Following his extended finger, my vision landed upon a Marlboro man with a lasso spinning overhead. The 20-foot-tall Vegas Vic sat lifeless, the glow taken out of his stride."He was a Vegas landmark for years," John said. Like Boston's Fenway Park Citgo neon, Vegas Vic had been a city mainstay. In historic Boston, rumors of the Citgo signs retirement were immediately met by protest despite its stature as a notorious eyesore. In the city of eternal present, people seemed less attached to their landmarks. Despite his stogie, checkered shirt, bandana neck-tie, and all-American blue jeans, Vegas Vic had been relegated to the boneyard without a peep."I have something else to show you," John said, turning away from Vegas Vic. I nodded and looked back into the boneyard, expecting another Vegas Vic or Stardust neon."No," John said. "We have to get back in the car."Back inside Little Red, the engine hummed and the smell of fried food infiltrated the interior. I did not enjoy the idling; exhaust already was invading my clothing, reminding me of my days as a fast-food slinging teenager.So...where we going? I asked. John looked preoccupied, torn."Take a right up there and keep going."Before I even pulled out of the roadside ditch, I heard a loud booming sound coming from the passenger seat.OMMMMMMMMM..."What the...?" I started to say. Then, I glanced at the stereo and saw that a CD had been inserted. Little Red's interior was filled by the sound of monks chanting, and I asked myself, "Has this guy really just put a chanting CD into my player?""I have to keep my psychic vibrations high," he explained matter-of-factly.I nodded and subtly turned the volume down, wondering what I had gotten myself into.I took the prescribed right, and slowed for people crossing the street. They werent everyday pedestrians: They lacked the new t-shirt glow of tourists or the suit and tie readiness of office commuters. Looking closer, I saw ripped and soiled clothing. One man limped across the street, a sock with holes on one foot and a Nike high top on the other."Where are we?" I asked."Tent City, "John replied.He closed his eyes and lowered his chin to his chest. Before I had time to ask for clarification, he began chanting. Outside, a variety of setups appeared. Certain homesteads resembled campsites at reputed RV parks. One pristine tent even featured a tarp porch and fold-out chair. Inside, the edge of an air mattress exuded comfort. Most neighbors were less fortunate; they had draped blankets from nearby fencing, creating shade against intense desert sun. Here in the hinterlands, a safe distance from the Strip, the homeless had been left unmolested by law enforcement. Only later would I learn that Vegas was one of the American cities hit hardest by the recession.I paused a little too long at a stop sign, my hand on the gearshift, uncertain of a next move. John placed his hand atop mine."Send them psychic blessings," he said. "Thats all you can do."
Article 2
Arivaca
The sky at Arivaca is a lid clamped tightly to the ground. During the day, a flat blue movie screen features fast-moving jet stream clouds that hang close enough to touch. In the tightly constricted space, the heated air is barely enough to breathe, but eventually, night comes and the jar opens: Stars fill up the sky with a 180-degree panorama of everything that remains hidden by day. By the time this relaxing scene arrived, volunteers had spent hours in the scorching sun. There were two outings per day: the first departed at 5am before the heat of the sun became unbearable; the second came in late afternoon when it began to cool off again. Two to four teams went out to known migrant trails and hiked for 3-4 hours at a time. We lugged backpacks full of canned goods and water bottles to leave at drop-off points. Usually when we arrived at the stops, the food and water left days prior had all been consumed; empty plastic bottles and tin cans were scattered across the shrubby hillsides. It was strange to see the supplies vanish because we so rarely saw actual people. Most days, volunteers ran into one or two migrants in need of help; some days, a large group of 8 to 10 would be found, lost, hungry, and scared. Volunteers could re-orient them, offer food and water, wish them luck. Then, it was back to different paths for us all. At night, volunteers gathered around the campfire for a short camaraderie before sleep. A guitar came out, but no songs followed. Sad picking, random chords, sleepy yawns, quiet conversations. The borderlands change a person. Clean-cut students on a summer volunteer program through Duke stopped bathing and shaving, an improvised, unconscious contest of self-denial. Seasoned volunteers wore the desert in blackened clothes, soil caked to their skin, a fight or flight desperation tattooed on their faces. They exchanged war stories over tea and campfire, rolled cigarette smoke and starlight hovering above. Angela wore meso-American angles on her face, a sandy complexion darkened by the sun and desert. Her voice was low and measured, not shy but discriminating, choosing her words carefully, almost begrudgingly as though her inner voice could not fit into language. Cody swallowed his words with a Georgian maple syrup sticking syllables to the roof of his mouth and holding them hostage in a guttural guillotine. His voice was always on the edge of cracking, his large glasses creating an unnatural sphere around his face, shaved head and afternoon shadow emerging at the same length. Wayland, a 22-year-old vagabond, hitchhiked from place to place with free abandon. He had been in the desert for three weeks, but had appointed himself an expert (Why is it that those who know the least talk the most? Steve had asked). Stephen, tall and lanky, carried sadness in his eyes too heavy to float on his voice; he stayed quiet and stared into the fire, listening. He didnt sleep at night, reliving his years as a soldier in Iraq where the setting was so similar, his mission so different.We mapped Bartolo today, Angela offered quietly. Not too many people using that pass and I can see why.The migrants call it labirinto, Cody said.Well, weve been calling it a cluster fuck, so at least theres agreement, Angela replied.She laughed, then looked surprised by the unexpected sound. Days packed in numerous sorrows but little laughter. That day, slashed water bottles had lined the trails. Alicia, one of the formerly crisp and clean Duke students, had dropped water down a well-traveled path when she saw a Border Patrol agent come from the same trail. He waved with a sly grin and when volunteers returned to the site, all of the water bottles were slashed. Driving back to camp on the bumpy roads of Arivaca, Steve had expressed his dismay over the slashed bottles. What I fear now is that somewhere in the BP hierarchy, they are telling agents to slash bottles...or maybe some agents have decided on their own to do it.From the passenger seat, Wayland chimed in, Yeah and then they all go out drinking together, patting each other on the ass like, Dude, how many did you slash today? I did like a hundred.Thats stereotyping, an older woman from Tucson hissed, shaking her head. Her voice traveled from the back of the SUV, confronted the windshield and fell back into the vehicle: They arent all bad guys. A lot of them are just trying to raise a family.There are no true borders in border towns. Activists live next door to Border Patrol agents. Minutemen go bowling with ranchers who feed migrants.Steve glanced at Wayland reprehensibly and nodded. Thats right, he said.Steve was in his sixties, but out-hiked the 20-somethings who watched in amazement as the white-haired, pony-tailed elder slipped away in the distance. Born and raised in Alabama, his call outs to the migrants followed a slow southern cadence, a strange Spanish rhythm. He traced his involvement in No More Deaths to the Civil Rights Movement where he saw Martin Luther King, Jr. deliver his last speech on April 3, 1968. King told the assembled crowd in Memphis, We are determined to be people. We are saying that we are God's children. And that we don't have to live like we are forced to live. When King was assassinated the following day, Steves life turned on a dime.Me and my wife decided right then and there that money would take a backseat in our lives, that this work would be what is important to us, he said. Right here, this is the civil rights movement of our time. Next to the campfire, Angela spent the evening writing messages on water jugs with permanent marker: DO NOT SLASH THIS BOTTLE. People are dying of thirst out here. If you slash this bottle, just realize that it is equivalent to murder. You are in a privileged position to not have to worry about what you will eat tonight and to have a roof over your head.
Article 3
Heidelberg Street
While a green recovery may be the only hope for Detroit's economy, art may be the only thing that can save its soul.That evening after work, Kara and I drove through the town thats been called an empty canvas, a ghost town and a city of holes until we reached Heidelberg Street, artist Tyree Guytons attempt to turn a crime-stricken neighborhood into an open-air art museum. Hes succeeded to a remarkable degree275,000 people visit per year, on a street in what must be one of the most depressed neighborhoods in the United States. We parked Little Red in front of the Numbers House, a residence painted with numbers of all shapes and sizes. They were everywhere, upright and upside down, hanging off like peeling paint. Below the numbers, bored teenagers sat on the porch, reluctant to talk.Nonplussed, Kara put on her most charismatic smile and asked, "What do you guys think about this being your neighborhood?"Shrugs."We drove all the way out from California just to see it."This comment garnered some attention. A disbelieving "What?" flew from the porch. A young man in a baseball cap and baggy jeans tried to keep his cool, but his voice betrayed surprise. He got up slowly from his chair and nonchalantly moved to the corner of the porch to get a look at my license plates."Why would you come all the way here to see this?""Its pretty cool, dont you think?" Kara asked."I guess," he conceded. "I mean, we live here, so were used to it. Its just a bunch of stuff stacked on top of stuff.""Ok, well, were going to look around," Kara said brightly, ignoring the teenage apathy.Out of earshot, I whispered to Kara, "All the way from California, huh?"She laughed."I thought that'd make their days.""Lets hope so."Just ahead of us, a bright orange house announced itself with a front yard billboard. FOUND: Weapons of Mass Destruction. Bright colors and pop culture images popped out of the landscape. A Rubics Cube, a Brady Bunch divided TV screen, and Warhol neon images of Camels provided the backdrop for the text, Addiction for sale. The piece was hypnotic like 30 seconds of fame or a television set."Hi there," a voice called from the yard.A computer-geek-guy-next-door stood watching us in a paint-splattered t-shirt. He had blended in with his surroundings so well that we hadn't even seen him standing there."This is my studio," he said, opening his arms in show.Behind him, wooden sawhorses held up beams and rusted pieces of metal."Wow, "I said, "this is quite the workshop." Noticing burnt posts standing in formation behind him, I added, "Whats that?""Those are beams I took out of the abandoned Studebaker factory.""They look just like the burned up redwoods I saw after the Big Sur wildfires last summer.""So, youre journalists from California? Are you press or free journalists?""Neither," I said. "Just visiting." "Then, whats your badge there? "He pointed to Karas work tag still hanging from her neck. Those pesky My Name is tags and their convenient forgetfulness. One beautiful day, everyone from the cafe barista to the neighborhood bum knows your name and you become convinced of your sudden popularity only to realize that you are still wearing a name tag.Kara quickly removed it saying, "Its from work. I work at the Detroit Institute of Arts.""Oh, well, let me introduce myself," he said, recognizing the art connoisseur in his midst. "I'm Tim Burke."His 60-second artist statement indicated that he had no formal training, but took found objects from Detroits urban morose (burnt out wood beams from the Studebaker plant, cigarette machines, old vacuum cleaners, stuffed animals, abandoned cars) and created art installations. "I met Tyree Guyton about eight years ago and decided to move onto Heidelberg Street," he said.Today, he lives in an alternate universe, John Waters Desperate Living meets the muppets after a methamphetamine orgy with pop culture.Tyrees down there somewhere, he said, motioning down the street. We began to walk away. I turned to wave goodbye and saw him watching us through gold-wired glasses, a red and yellow hat crowning his hair. I thought of how many people he must watch arrive, look, and leave yet he stays."What exactly does that "outsider" artist term mean?" I asked Kara as we walked away."Its a self-taught artist, someone who didnt go through traditional art training at school."Behind one of the houses, vacuum cleaners were being guided by disembodied rubber gloves. These werent your typical modern vacuums. They were solid metal machines, pieces of fine engineering. If it were possible to find the right spare part, they would certainly roar back to life and suck the earth right out from underneath us. Instead, they had become art-i-facts in Heidelbergs backyard, their displacement reminding me of 1950s housewives, empty-gloved, valium-stupored hovering over dead machines.Nearby, shopping carts were stacked up, forming a metal tree stretching high into the air, stuffed animals hanging from the metal mess, smiling in stuffed artificial euphoria. The stuffed animal motif reappeared in an abandoned car lot in the neighborhoods mid-section. The cars were crammed, brimming with critters. The stuffed animals channeled 60s teenagers squeezed into a phone booth with perma-grins perpetual buzzdom. The word God was scrawled obsessively on random objects. An advertisement showing a girl with cell phones, pagers, memory sticks, and iPhones was blurred with bright red lipstick; God stretched above her with a poignant question mark.Suddenly, a man called out to us from across the street: "Hey there- can I get you guys to sign in over at the information booth?"To hear the media tell it, Tyree Guyton is a recluse, shy of attention. As Matt Thompson wrote in United Magazine, "Though [Guyton] remains friendly, hes not one for conversation." Yet, before wed even made a move to walk over, he asked our names, indicating that at least for two women, he was up for conversation.After giving our names, I asked for his.He replied in a serious tone: "God.""Oh yeah? Ive seen a lot of you around here."He began laughing."Yep, thats me."Finally, he admitted, Im Tyree Guyton.He directed his attention to me, asking, "Are you an artist?""No, Im a writer.""You fooled me with that hat," he said, pointing to my bright Easterly colored plaid hat, unscrupulous and wild uncut hair sticking out beneath. "But, you play with words, thats another art."Guyton pioneered the Heidelberg Project, beginning by painting his house with polychromatic polka dots in the mid-80s. Over the years, his art projects garnered a great deal of attention, not always positive; the city has twice torn down his installations. Most recently, they tore down three houses that Guyton had painted, including Your World, Happy Feet, and The Canfield House. After this demolition, Guyton brought a civil lawsuit against the city and won in a ruling that stated that the project was protected as political speech under the First Amendment.The disappointment of having his art destroyed did not break his spirit and today, the Heidelberg Project remains one of the only attractions downtown. "That was the best thing they couldve done for me, Guyton explained. Its why youre standing here. The longer I live, the more I realize there are no accidents."Soon, the conversation turned to rapid-fire questions, a near-perfect monologue where Kara and Is responses simply contributed to his presentation. Somewhere in the smooth talk, Guyton sold us two maps of the Heidelberg Project. I thumbed to page two and Guyton pointed to a picture of the vacuum cleaners, "I saw you guys looking at them. Whatd you think?""It reminded me of fifties housewives," I said.He looked surprised and rushed to correct me. "They symbolize government inefficiency, he said. Can I borrow your map?"He continued by reading the maps explanation aloud while holding back laughter: "Officials are elected to clean up, support, and protect all people, but much like these vacuum cleaners, they dont work!"Finishing the description, he released the laughter that hed been holding in, stopping when Kara asked, "How'd you get started doing this?""I started art school, but felt disenchanted by teachers who insisted that an artist takes 25 years to become good."I misheard."God?" I asked.Laughter again."Yes, it takes 25 years to become God."Good, Kara pronounced in my ear.
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