Monday, June 4, 2012

Inspired Writing This Is

They say you've got a twin on the opposite end of the world and everyone of us believes that ever since that first encounter with Bizzaro within the pages of Superman, you always thought that out there was an warped doppelganger who was going to steal up on you, kill your fat ass and make sweet love to your wife while secretly selling the neighbor's puppies to the dodgy 'exotic meat' restaurant in Sec 17 PJ.

You're not going to find another grumpy, angry, good looking man with an incredible flair for writing who works up an appetite every morning by wrestling bears before breakfast on this planet.

BUT what you will find is another angry, good looking man, wrestling with his alligator cynism who's word play would turn lesbians straight and make zombies turn to petunia gardening.

My friends and readers (all 5 of you) let me introduce to you Carlos The Tired One, who for some reason seems to find the rants and random shit on this blog to be somewhat entertaining.

I thought I'd share a little of Carlos' writing as it's made me reconsider how shit i am if I ever want to get published.

The account below is a short excerp from Carlos' epic cycling journey from San Francisco to Austin, Texas.

Enjoy.


A Bicycle Ride: The End

The first time I left Texas, I mean really left Texas, on an adult trip, was when I was nineteen. My then girlfriend and I drove from the loose center of the Lone Star State to the loose center of the Grand CanyonState. We stopped at Carlsbad Caverns in New Mexico on the way; a two-mile meteor crater east of the actual Grand Canyon; the Grand Canyon itself; miles of “Indian” reservations; the remarkable ruins of ancient cultures that were either eradicated by foreign invasion or allowed to die by resettlement; and even the city of Tombstone, romanticized for people being shot through with bullets. I loved the southwest. I loved Arizona, and for a long time afterward, I boasted it my favorite state of the union. As a man cycling through it thirteen years later, I saw it for what it really is: a sprawling region of fat rednecks, brandishing American flags and automatic weapons under a grimy cloak of fascist racism. Of course, I’m generalizing. It’s still a physically beautiful state, rich in history, geology, and geography, but without brains, it’s just a bubbly pair of breasts and a pretty face. Where was I going with this? Oh yeah, fuck Arizona. If I never return there again, I’ll not miss the place. It’s a . . . pleasing sensation to discard, without hesitation, something you once treasured. It’s dynamic. It’s discovery. It’s growth, and I see now that the only reason I marveled over the place at all is because I was still a boy, so full of shit that it was impossible to see that I didn’t know shit. I’m still filled with said refuse but at least I know it now, and at least now I can finally think for myself. It’s liberating, this relatively new freedom from mental slavery. *clickety heels*

Minds, however, are not the only aspect of being human that change (or warp, depending on your perspective) with the passage of time, and from a darkening of the mind to a waning of the heart, the body is just another turn of the screw. Muscles inevitably weaken during their lifelong press against the imprisoning physics of gravity, and from behind the bars of our windowless cells, skin sags and spines curve our droopy faces too far out in front of the rest of our palsies, and then one day, if we are not careful, we are old, tapping around the perimeter of a mall in trembling orthopedic shoes, cursing a generation twice removed because it is unlike the shitty generation we thought we were a part of while watching it on our computers.

The worst part, however, is the sensation that there’s nothing left to discover. Curiosity’s last light has set over the western horizon and darkened the prehistoric striations of the Grand Canyon into one shade of apathy. Intrigue is as dilapidated as the mud bricks of a lost Native American structure, weathered by the destroyer of all culture: time. The proverbial curtain of this lifetime theater has been unexpectedly drawn to reveal a stage of nervous barkers caught in a private congress of despair, and once you recognize their cries as sympathetic attempts to distract you from the inescapable truth that you and everyone you know will die, there is nothing left to do but leave the show and master the one thing that will survive this carnival of brunches, luxury cruises, birthday parties, vinyl collections, . . . greed and greed and greed: your soul. There never again will be an Arizona to meet with nineteen-year-old swagger, for the screw is tightened and we’ve followed the velvet rope of convention to the summit of disrepair where we will each die in our own time, having forgotten to live.

On the morning of January 15th, the cycling portion of my journey ended. I had known it would potentially happen a few days before as I had used all but one of my spare inner tubes along that vicious westbound stretch of Interstate 10, and the harsh desert had receded the tread of my back tire to total baldness. A final bounce over a jagged rock deformed the shape of the same tire, and a tiny hint of its guts were wearing through. I knelt in the blazing afternoon that day, staring at the damaged rubber, trying to conjure the future while remembering the past few days. Frustration dripped from my eyebrows and beaded at the end of my nose, and in the spirit of the South, I squatted there like all the other knuckle-dragging denizens in their cages, confounded and angry at nothing and everything. I stood and looked toward the wavering horizons of the east and west. Nothing. Nothing near and nothing far, so I changed my inner tube and nervously continued riding on a tire whose life expectancy I accurately predicted to be two more days.

It wasn’t just the tire, however. I had burned through more savings than originally projected. Food was a big deal. Sometimes granola, fruit, and dried meat just wasn’t enough, and no matter how awful an omelet and stack of pancakes made me feel after a day of digestion, my imbecile body demanded the calories and whenever the opportunity presented itself, Rocinante the Third was leaned against some mom and pop cafĂ© while I unapologetically stunk up a booth, juice, coffee, and a buffet of licked-clean plates piled strategically around my book and hunting knife. I also stayed in motels more often than anticipated. The mind is a curious thing. The complete mental resistance I had to sleeping in outside discomfort was unexpected and I can only attribute it to the fact that I wasn’t a springy youth full of milk and sweetness. My insides had soured. I perspired more and consequently, I smelled like hell. I ached more, and I was 1,000 times more concerned with monsters. What’s funny is that as soon as I was completely without a choice, I wasn’t bothered by it at all. Who knows? Had I been riding across country at 20 instead of hitchhiking, perhaps I’d have been just as averse. We’ll never know.

At a rest stop in the days following, I sat on a bench with a casino cup of hot chocolate, reflecting over my predicament, when an elderly traveler materialized at my side (as old ladies tend to do) and kindly bombarded me with a series of personal questions that culminated in a final and tremendous “but are you enjoying your ride?”

I didn’t have an answer.

For the full account go HERE.


4 comments:

C. Andres Alderete said...

Nice. What's funny is that I've long thought that we are, indeed, doppelgangers.

You recongnize that this means we'll be hanging out some day, right? Totally.

Chindiana said...

But of course Carlos! As always you've an open invite here to Malaysia. Just hope you're ready for some wild boar curry, The Durian and copious amounts of beer from various establishments of dubious repute.

C. Andres Alderete said...

It sounds rich with experience. I'm down.

Chindiana said...

Done! give me a heads up before you head out here Carlos and we'll plan some itinerary for you.