TTT #11 - Highland Dayze. Trying to get fired. Immigrant friends. Colter Wall.
Triple Threat Thursday. Photos. Story. Songs.
Greetings from New Hampshire.
1 - Photos
2 - Story
I’m standing in the water of the lake, waist deep. Reading books on my phone. I’m on Jed Mckenna‘s third book, Spiritual Warfare.
I realize that I’m still doing things that I don’t want to do, for no particular reason. They are residual things I unconsciously signed up for and forgot to stop doing until now.
An hour ago, I was coaching and guiding a 3-hour private mountain biking lesson.
The pollen is high today and it’s affecting my ability to pretend that I want to be doing this bike park job.
Doing a three hour private lesson with some guy who said his wife and kid are living in a different state. He greets people on the chairlift like it’s the first day of school. I guess it’s his first day of mountain biking school.
I still get a little hit of stimulation, pleasure, I suppose, when people give me a cash tip at the end. This guy had a great time and learned a lot but he did not think to leave a tip. I’m annoyed because I expected it. But no one told him gratuities for coaches are a thing. The managers don’t let people know that tips are accepted. The main manager vetoed any kind of ‘tips' sign. I bring it up again.
I realize that the only reason I am annoyed or care about the tips thing is because I don’t actually want to be here, doing this job, or this work. Riding with this random guy on trails I’ve ridden 100 times.
Why am I still doing drudgery employment? Inertia from a past decision. Reprieve from being awake. A nap from human adulthood.
It’s later in the day, I’m at a u-pick blueberry patch picking bluebs. I'm wearing a bike helmet because I didn't bring a hat. I'm writing, speaking some thoughts into my notes. The farmer is messing with a tractor by the barn. He’s watching me bumble around in a helmet talking to myself and eating berries instead of putting them in the basket.
I look retarded.
The opposite is true.
My favorite meme is the noob and master have the same nonchalant nonstrategy.
But they’re not the same. One of them lives on the other side of fear, and one of them will be tempted by the promises of mastering complexity.
One of them lives in the simplicity on the other side of complexity. One of them is vulnerable to confusion.
There’s a young teenage girl here at the blueberry patch, conversating with a young woman.
“One day if I ever make it to heaven or hell I will fight whoever put letters in math.” says the young one.
I hear Jed Mckenna. What is religion but man’s fortress against reality.
“What’s the point of learning something we never need to know or will never use?” she wonders.
“Just to torture you,” I say through the bushes.
The young woman laughs.
The girl says, “In the middle of the night I wake up to either two things, mom and dad fighting or mom and dad doing other things . . . “
I’m leaving now. My thoughts drift to primary schooling.
There’s children trapped in a room against their will. Get them out of there!
I don’t know what you need to do. You know what you need to do.
It’s later in the day and I'm mountain biking on the trails near my house. Time to sell all my bikes.
I think about getting fired for putting up a “we accept tips” sign. It’s the happiest I’ve been all day. I imagine getting an email about it and me responding “fire me”
Alas, a smile to finish the day.
The next day the manager says “did you see the sign I put up?”
“No,”
Below is the tips sign. You may need to zoom in to read it. I laughed out loud. As if I needed another reason to abstain from employment.
On the way back to my house, I stopped at Canterbury spring, which is a pipe popping out of a hill that shoots out Earth water for the taking. Engraved on the mystical pipe is “ENJOY”
If your water is tainted, the question is, what’s upstream?
Even illusion is real.
I am the intersection of particles and waves.
Ripples in the water.
98% water molecules
If your water is tainted, what’s upstream?
The book is almost done. The winds of change are blowing.
Dinner
Manuel and I are downtown at a Thai restaurant.
Manuel: “I like this place man. It’s tempting to just eat here every day. Thai Connection. Best restaurant in Manchester.”
There’s a young waiter who’s very pleasant. We’ve both seen him many times.
“I like the Japanese guy. He is very nice. He likes us.”
“He probably actually hates us.”
“Eh, who cares? What’s the difference?”
“He’s not Japanese, he's Thai.”
“No you think so? What about South Korea?”
I look up photos. Tough to say.
He does a bowing thing after he interacts with you. Soft spoken, eye contact and smiling the whole time.
He comes over.
“Are you from Thailand?”
“No”
“South Korea?”
“No”
“Japan?”
“Yes!”
Says Manuel, “See you need you to trust me.”
“You need to trust yourself.”
We talk about dating. He’s Catholic and has never had sex. America is a rough dating market.
“In South America you say to a girl let’s hang out and she says
Mañana?
It’s simple.”
Rafael comes over, he’s another waiter here, from Sao Paolo. He’s talking to us in spanish about various cities, languages, and activities.
He says he has a canoe and we should all go canoeing. We exchange contact info.
We both ate the duck special. Manuel after dinner: “That was so good man. So good! Good food, good people. Rafael is cool man.”
“Yeah because he’s not American.”
“The Japanese guy is cool too.”
“Also not American.”
He laughs.
The immigrants come and they slowly get poisoned and their children are poisoned too. Both memetically and chemically, two concepts but an inseparable reality. Chemical memesis.
“I’m scared,” says Manuel.
“Why?”
“I’m scared I’m going to become like an American.”
We laugh.
I process it, and laugh harder.
“I wouldn’t worry about it. . . Well, maybe a little.”
Songs
I’m going to Montana on Saturday. I’ll be off the grid with a group organized by Jordan Jonas. So, no posts next week.
When I go to Montana, I think of Colter Wall.
“Bob Fudge” is the story of a real man’s life. The Fudge family migrated from Texas toward California. Comanche’s killed Bob’s uncle and stole their horses.
Bob Fudge settled in Montana operated as a cowboy until his death in 1932.
“When I first saw Montana, I knew I would love her,”
In 2020 I drove through wildfire smoke through Oregon, Washington and Idaho, to get to Montana. Listening to “Bob Fudge” was totally epic and still gives me chills.
Honorable mention:
Thank you for reading
I’m focused on creating truthful, authentic and useful media. The result is comedic stories with insights.
I co-host the Weird and Worthwhile podcast on Spotify and YouTube.
I’m working on a book.
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With that, have a great rest of your day.