Kelly Let me Post on Her Site! - @Southern Fried Children

Kelly over there at Southern Fried Children - http://southernfriedchildren.blogspot.com/, let me guest post on her blog today!

If you've been following my auto-biographical story about leaving Albuquerque, this is the next installment. The one when I land in California.

While you are there, you should stop and read some of Kelly's writing, She is fantastic and I am so honored that she is posting one of my stories on her blog. She is one of my favorite writers and I think she'll be one of your favorites too!

I'm Leaving Town, but Where Will I Go?

--by Mike Adams

Continued from:
Part 1 – Something Had to Change
Part 2 – In Search of a Plan
Part 3 – From Sandia Peak, a Plan is Born

Next day, I awoke, to an unusually warm environ. The sun’s light glared menacingly at me from every angle, such that I had to squint and cover my eyes. Flipping over onto my stomach, I lay there, like road paint melting into the highway on a sweltering summer day. “Wait a second,” I said, “the sun never hits my room before 2:00 pm.” I looked at my clock, which read 3:45, “Shit, I never sleep past noon!”

I struggled to free myself from the bed. The sheets adhered to every inch of my anatomy, glued by gallons of sweat, which had poured from my body as I slept in the afternoon sun. “Oh Crap, there better be some left over coffee, I can’t possibly brew or drink hot coffee now!” I walked towards the kitchen, “how am I going to leave town, when I sleep till 4:00 pm?”

This last statement stopped me cold, “Whoa! ...It’s already starting!”
I tended towards reversing course a day or two after making big decisions in life. I’d wake up and notice the general incompetence with which I managed my affairs, and then guided by terror, I’d change my mind. I had done this and regretted the outcome often enough to be fully aware of what was happening. I wouldn’t allow it, not this time. The previous night’s decision was important. I had a sense that backing out would be a terrible mistake.

Up to this point, I had been incredibly fortunate while searching for jobs. I was always offered the first for which job I applied and every job I had found was recommended by a friend. I had never searched the employment section of a newspaper. I’m not sure I knew it existed.

Where should I go? I began considering the important questions, how many single and attractive females live there? Is the music scene eclectic? Will the political climate suite me? Is there good hiking available?

Worry about finding a job and a place to live tickled the base of my skull, but I refused to entertain any serious thoughts about those topics. Reality, it seems, would have to wait. It could attack my psyche in a new city, but not now.

I snorted aloud to myself, “How hard could it be to find a job? I’ll work in a Hotel, they’ll be lucky to have me. And finding a place to live? That is simple! I’ll find a really cool place and live there!” The idiocy with which I considered the basics of survival leaves me a bit queasy even twenty years later.

After thinking about what I knew of various cities in terms of the questions I decided are important, I decided on San Francisco. I figured there have to be beautiful and single women everywhere. I could become a bicycle messenger and maybe start a racing team. More importantly, however, I had a friend who was living with his parents near San Fran., he’d probably let me stay there for a month or two.

I phoned and explained my plans, then asked if I could stay with him until I was situated. He said "sure Mike." I urged him to check with his parents, and avoid surprising them. He said, “Don’t worry, it’ll be fine.” Retrospectively, he couldn’t have believed I’d actually move. I had repeatedly threatened similar actions in the past and never gotten past Colorado Springs. To anyone who knew me, the possibility of my moving to California was remote. His affirmative answer was, therefore, neither considered, nor based on a realistic sense that I might knock on his door expecting a place to stay.

My employer was unhappy to lose me, but probably a bit relieved as well. They were always one full pay cycle behind, so I planned on saving two paychecks to fund my move, and receiving one more in California to help me get started. I failed to consider my own inability to manage finances. I had several “going away" parties, where I was the only celebrant and one week later, my whole paycheck was gone. Next week, I received a second infusion of funds, and I threw another party. Everyone was invited, so the next morning, when I awoke, paycheck number two was GONE! I’d have to wait two more weeks, and with my final check, I’d leave.

Two weeks later, I was packed, my bike was tuned and I was ready to go, but having been sober for almost two weeks, I couldn't resist throwing one last party. I want to “leave in style,” and I hoped Sarah might want to spend a passionate evening in my arms. Next morning found me alone and ...broke! I was moneyless, unemployed, and thoroughly humiliated...AGAIN!

I asked Mom for help and she came through with $200. I hugged her and said “good bye, I love you.” She began crying, “I’m worried about you. Why do you want to move so far away? I won’t be close enough to come if you needed help. I don't want you to get hurt.”

I froze, as guilt and shame suffused my being. Seeing my expression, mom hugged me and smiled quickly, “I understand, you need to find your way, to grow up! All moms want to keep their kids safe. You better get going, before I start crying again. I love you, please be careful!”

I climbed on my 1972 BMW R75 motorcycle, perched my helmet on my head, a nod to my Mom's concern for safety, started the beast and headed for the edge of town, where the helmet came off. I rode West, into the sunset, a grin on my face and a feeling of weightless glee in my gut. The sunset was amazing and it seemed to last for ever, as I chased it into the middle of Arizona. The wind tossed my hair and I imagined the glory ahead of me as I charged into my future soaring above humanity as a falcon, released from the zoo.

…Open up that Golden Gate, California Here I Come – To Be Continued...

From Sandia Peak, a Plan is Born

Story, Continued from Part 2 In Search of a Plan
- or -
Click Here for Part 1 Something Had to Change

--by Mike Adams

On Sandia Peak, I stood entranced by the natural beauty surrounding me. Slowly, I let myself fade into the experience. The grandeur of this desert inundated my senses, it stripped me of significance. The pettiness of my life’s concerns seemed to carry no greater import than that of an ant, living by instinct, working only to serve a collective. My thoughts slowed and the situation transformed me into a mass of awareness. I experienced my breath, slow and steady. I felt the wind flit upon my face and I watched in amazement as the colors danced in the distance as landscape transformed into mirage.

The tension swirling around in my abdomen, a manifestation of anxiety continued to surge through my core, but it no longer harassed me. I drank heavily of the deep blue sky and absorbed every detail of the cumulus cloud formations dispersed across the horizon.

I felt a tear roll down my cheek and slowly, I began to cry. But my tears brought no relief. I clinched the hand railing of the viewing platform and cried a little harder as my thoughts became jumbled with questions like, “why can’t I keep a job?” “Why didn’t I finish school?” “Why am I such a loser?” “What can I hope to accomplish in life?”

I found my thoughts focused on an incident from two and a half years earlier. I had been sitting with a group of friends at La Posada, the University cafeteria. We had been out playing hackey sack in the sun and realized that cafeteria would soon close. We hurried to get lunch and upon arriving at the cafeteria, I realized that I was in possession of two beers. Quickly, I tucked them into my baggy pants pockets and went in.

After eating my food, I stealthily opened a beer and began to drink it slyly. A friend looked at me with a mischievous smile and said, “Mike...dude, you’re an alcoholic.” He laughed, held up a flier to my face and continued, “you gotta go to AA Bro.” Then he quickly scanned the area for University staff, and took a quick swig of his own hidden beer. Johnny had been joking, but what he said ruined my enjoyment of lunch. His words harassed me for the remainder of that day and continued to assault my consciousness at the most inopportune times. I knew he was right. He had been joking, but his statement was true—I was an alcoholic.

The last thing in the world I wanted to be was an alcoholic, because I knew it meant I would someday have to give up drinking. Drinking had been my only comfort during many dark times. It had proven to be a dependable and convenient companion. I sometimes wondered if perhaps beer had saved my life. Quitting was out of the question, and therefore, being an alcoholic was completely unacceptable.

Disdainfully, I thought, “Why do I always land on this thought?” I shook my head and brushed the thought aside. “How could I be an alcoholic after only three years of drinking? That is just stupid!” I felt the tears slide down my cheek and the wind blow my hair about. “How can I go on like this. I don’t know how to live life, I don’t know how to make friends and I don’t know how to be happy.” I stared at the trees and rocks below and imagined what it would feel like to jump from the viewing platform. I imagined how it would feel to spread my arms and take to the sky as my last defiant act in life.

But I was afraid to die, terrified in fact—I couldn’t do that, not now. I stood there for hours, looking out, over the Albuquerque basin. I walked along the ridge, examined the foliage and waited for an inspired thought. Sunset came, and I watched the volcanoes on the West side of town swallow the sun. Then, the stars began peeking out from behind the darkening veil of night, and still I sat there, aware of the singular fact that something had to change.

“I’m going to stay here until I know how to proceed. There has to be a way to improve my life,” I thought. So there I sat, my mind contorting to various thoughts, my senses absorbing the nature around me, all of this observed only by the night stars. Finally, I stood and said aloud with conviction, “I have to leave. I have got to get out of Albuquerque, I have to make a fresh start.” I knew that I couldn’t return after a few weeks, this time, I had to stay gone, so I decided that it was time to hit the road. With this, Willie Nelson began singing to me about being “On the Road Again,” and I knew I’d have to make it work, I’d have to figure out how to live, I’d have to find success.


Continued Here...

In Search of a plan...

--by Mike Adams


Continued from Something Had to Change - click here to read the first part of this story

My sleep that night, was restless. I awoke late the next morning, but felt neither refreshed, nor recovered from the previous night's binge. I stumbled to the bathroom and for perhaps the first time in working memory, I looked, not at my reflection, but at my true self. I didn’t like it either. What I saw, was a barely recognizable young man bloodshot and drooping, he wore a dour expression, which communicated defeat. I’ve heard that eyes are the window to the soul and if this is true, his eyes revealed a beaten old man whose exuberance for life, if ever he had any, had long since dissipated. He stood there, staring at me, terrorizing me. He was a withered and decomposing leaf, tormenting and taunting me to care, daring me to try and change. My head jerked away, I had to avoid prolonged exposure to the emptiness that had invaded me.

I turned quickly grabbed hold of the shower lever and twisted, setting free a stream of water, which would soon fill the room with steam and provide me with reprieve from the haunting visage in the mirror.

For as long as I can remember, showers have had an almost magical restorative quality. They provide relief to sore muscles, vitality to the sleepy, they can wash away the momentary horror of an uninvited personal confrontation. On this morning, the mixture of hot water, steam and soap did not fail me. I stepped from the shower with a restored sense of acceptance and when I looked in the mirror, the reflection was that of a young man trying to get clean for the day...the dreadful spectre of futility had left and I hoped he would stay gone.

The day proceeded as any other. I rummaged the house for sustenance and failing to find breakfast, I walked to the bagel shop. There I drank coffee and ate bread. I sat for hours and watched the patrons come and go. I examined each visitor and considered what tasks their busy lives had in store for them. I envied their sense of purpose and their apparent fulfillment in life.

Two years earlier, I had designed my life to include this free time. I had never intended to sit isolated and depressed each day, rather I had felt it important that I find time to contemplate matters of import. I fancied myself a philosopher, a revolutionary thinker and, at the time,  I had needed to free myself from the constraints of “normal living” so I could focus on “my work”. As it turns out, I was to spend hours in solitude, even when surrounded by friends. “My work” somehow included alienating those who were closest to me and envying virtually everyone I saw.

It didn’t start this way. For a few months, I happily thought about topics of justice and human rights. I considered the minutea of racial inequality and contemplated how poverty entombed our class divide. My intent had been to write a credo, to create a message that could change the world. Within months, my musings increasingly shifted toward the mass of unfulfilled aspirations that a younger version of myself had dreamed. I doubted my ability to complete anything and my focus turned increasingly inward.

So though I had been a vibrant and inspired nineteen year old, two years later, I had thoroughly fermented. My thoughts had shifted from concerns about my fellow humans, to considerations of how I might keep my head above water and booze in my stomach.

The intervening two years, had seen me switch jobs three times, hitchhike to Colorado, try to start a new life there and then quickly return to my old life, my old habits and my old job. The only time I felt at ease, was when I rode my motorcycle through the mountains at dawn or on a moonlit night alongside the Rio Grande.

So there I sat, eating a bagel, when suddenly, I recalled the wrenching anxiety that had gripped me the night before. I remembered with mild horror, the revelation that I was deeply flawed and that something had to change. My words came back to me now, “tomorrow I’ll have to think about what to do next...I’m too sleepy and way too drunk right now!”

So I refilled my coffee cup and tried to recount what had happened. I needed to arrive at an informed decision about how to proceed. I thought for several minutes and then decided I ought to ride East to the summit of Sandia Peak, where my mind might be cleared. I finished my coffee, walked out into the late morning sun, mounted my bike and headed East.

As I rode out of Albuquerque, my mind kept focusing on the phrase, “there is something seriously wrong with me and it has to change if I’m going to survive”. This made me panic and I tried to vanquish the idea with all my will, but it kept crashing through my barriers and invading my conscious thought, insistent and intense, much like an early morning visit from the police.

Periodically, I would become overwhelmed with the high desert beauty, but my reverence was always interrupted with the same invasive question. I rode to the top of Sandia Peak and looked out over Albuquerque. I imagined Buggs Bunny taking a left and began to wonder where I should have gone left.

The summit at Sandia is stunning. You can see the whole of Albuquerque from there and you find yourself enveloped with a surprising number of colors, contrasts and hues. One might think of the desert as monotone, but here in the Southwest, it's as if an artist had skipped and danced about the rocks creating scenery that would stir long forgotten emotions, draw them from deep within our unconscious psyche and move us to tears...that’s just the way it is!

...A person can get lost in rapt adoration of the natural beauty and on the peak, the wind blows making you feel it’s possible to spread your arms and fly. To soar with a falcon above the frail existence of humans below—secure in the knowledge that we are insignificant. It is a humbling experience. It strips away pretense and self importance, so Sandia is where I went to think about life’s important decisions. 

I stood there and gazed out over the city. I saw the volcanoes to the west. They protruded from the earth just past the city basin, where my home sat empty. I looked beyond...into the desert and ravenously devoured the experience. I stood there, transfixed, waiting for a clap of inspiration.

Continued: Sandia Peak, a Plan is Born

Something Had to Change...

--by Mike Adams

Twenty years ago, I owned a 1971 BMW R75 motorcycle. She was my most prized possession—I spent hours learning to adjust the valves, tune the ignition and replace the clutch.

On a regular basis, I polished chrome, cleaned lines and creases, and generally took great care with an eye towards detail as I maintained my ride. I loved that motorcycle so much, that I even named her Mindy. I had spent a great deal of time considering various names, when ultimately, I imagined Mindy would be the name of an exceptionally beautiful woman, so with that, I named my motorcycle and proceeded to worry about other matters of equal importance.

I worried about how to live life, you see, life was a constant struggle in those days. I was unhappy with my personal life and I felt that my work as a front desk clerk for a local hotel was horribly under appreciated. I had dreams of wild financial success coupled with incredible acts of philanthropic generosity, however, I thoroughly lacked the wherewithal to complete college. In fact, I enjoyed distilled spirits entirely too much, while I despised work too zealously to have any chance of fulfilling on my grandiose dreams. I drank every day, skipped sleep regularly and couldn’t force myself to attend class when enrolled in college.

Though I was a talented and intelligent employee, I brought with me the same lack of dependability that had ruined my college career. I was filled with a poor work ethic, and a boundless reservoir of self doubt.  All of this was covered with a flimsy facade of self assured arrogance, which often worked against my interests and prevented me from meaningful self reflection. I couldn't tolerate solitude, but lacked the necessary social graces required to be around other people. All of my money was spent at a local bar named Chez What, where I sat alone each day.

Chez What was a quiet bar, with a good selection of beer. I liked the surroundings and particularly, I fancied the waitress, Sarah. I often thought, “tonight I’ll ask Sarah out”, but always, I ended the night by leaving the bar, too drunk to walk straight, having dodged the embarrassment of asking Sarah out in the midst of a drunken stupor. I would stagger to my motorcycle, climb on and ride home. In retrospect, fate must have smiled broadly on me for countless occasions as I rode home without incident or accident.

One night, after I finished work, I walked out and looked up into the open and broad New Mexico sky. New Mexico's night sky is an awe inspiring scene—a cornucopia of overflowing stars, each heavenly body adding to the inebriating magic, which is on no small part responsible for the state's phrase, "Land of Enchantment". The breathtaking scene, a humbling experience of beauty, can capture a person's imagination, leaving them forever changed.

On this night, I looked up, paused for several moments, sighed heavily—expressing a mixture of profound reverence and futile solitude, I shook my head, mounted my motorcycle, and rode off, ready to patronize my regular watering hole.

Arriving at Chez What, I sat at my usual table, and drank till my thoughts ceased or at least slowed enough that my mind could pretend to be at rest. This was a daily routine and though I sometimes would alter my drink orders, I usually started with six or seven gin and tonics, then maybe a few jello shots, and ultimately I’d finish with numerous beers. This pattern had become a well established rut and though I didn't often contemplate the futility of my life, I knew that the numbing effects of alcohol saved me from this grating existence. I was under the dominion of a despotic ruler ceaslessly destroying my future and shredding my hope.

So night after night, I sat there drinking and watching as happy couples or boyant groups of college friends cycled through the bar. I wondered about their lives, what were they like during the day? Could they possibly be as happy as they seemed? Always, I watched Sarah serve them and wonderd if perhaps tonight I'd work up the courage to ask her out.

Then, she’d bring me a refill, I’d smile and pass her some money and keep drinking until last call, when I’d order several more. I'd finish my drinks while the staff cleaned up and finally, the bartender would flash me a smile and say, “you don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here...it's closing time.”

On this particular night, I stood up from my usual seat, said goodnight to everyone and walked out to my motorcycle. I don't know what came over me, perhaps it was my communion with the night sky from earlier, perhaps it was a revelation that more was available to me. Whatever it was, I had a very distinct thought that night, which told me that something was very wrong with me...that my life was unacceptable and that something drastic had to change. I was immediately overcome with a sense of conviction and profound anxiety. I didn't have the slightest idea what to do, but I knew that something big had to change and it had to change fast or or I might lose my mind.

So I went home, curled up in my bed and went to sleep, thinking that I'd have plenty of time to figure out what needed to happen the next day.

Click here to Continue ...In Search of a Plan