the three musketeers, all fighting for some type of purpose, a deeply personal request to the world that it grant us asylum into who we really are; im pretty sure that well all say the magic word. in plenty of different indigenous tongues, if that scores brownie points. jeff, the thom yorke lookalike with a scientific eye for choice pics, smoked a cigarette at every beautiful scene that we rushed towards, slowing our collective pulse with each very french, and very picturesque inhalation on his chill sticks. there was something real emotional about this fella, but nothing that made you feel like he was trying out to be cast in mean girls 2, only that he had a sense of commitment toward others feelings that drew me toward him. i thought it was incredible how he asked me to help him construct one of his many amazing shots, drawing an x in the sand for every time that he had thought about his sisters back home. we littered the beach with those badboys, and even the waves couldn't wash out his compassion, as the faded x's still lingered after their time had come to pass. i appreciated his overflowing appreciated for the beauty in his life - every time that he said that something was 'perfect' or 'amazing' in that very distinct french quip, i had to smile, because it felt good to be around someone who gave a shit, who saw what was in front of him and didn't get bored, his eyes perpetually open, soaking in every amazing and perfect thing. then there's eggie, a real tigger. a human pinball with the curiosity that would make even george the monkey seem like an uninterested little runt, there wasn't a tree left unclimbed, a flower unpicked, a bird unnoticed and subsequently catcalled. it was like letting little kids out of the car when they get too roudy - you just had to let him get fresh air, watch him run around and do roundhouse three sixty kicks at the air, throw water on you and run off laughing, or throw a rock in a random direction and see the consequences. we were all bound together by the gorrilla glue that is the concept of travel - we were all very different, yet so similar, in that we found realness in similar pursuits, and enjoyment in them too. we were all on personal missions but our collective group essense was defined by our roles - jeff the 'seasoned veteran' (at 26, he could be considered the grandfather of our ragtap supergroup), eggie the sparkplus (and at 20 the second in command). and me, whatrever the hell i brought to the table. our individual crosshairs often found the same targets. from jeff and i's love for the photo, to egg and i's love for PB (he might even have given me a run for my money), to all three of us digging some mean sounds (bumping eddie vedders "society," and collectively wondering out loud if society would be lonely without us). i think that our short time together can be summarized in the most popular of our poses, one where the hands are thrown up to the sky, legs slightly spread, evoking some type of pride in the fact that we were all living the dream.
(Click on pictures to enlarge)
"trick or treat!" i still don't know why i said it, some part of my deep seated intuition just stood up, made me blurt it out, and as he laughed and wandered over from his car on that hallowed halloween night, it also commanded: "thou shalt roadtrip with this man." and so it was.
the man? matt mcduff. im going to get out my crayolas to give a stick figure portrait of my man: matt is beauty and beast all rolled into one. from the ancient viking stature, punctuated by the wicked goatee and pony-tailed locks, to the compassionate fellow being, who cares deeply about, and constantly seeks to connect his essence to those around him, in an attempt to grasp at the greater meaning in life behind each small event that takes place within his realm of awareness. the constant contextualizer, from the smallest mote of dust wandering on the dash to the greater ideals that man has always struggled with, there is an attempt to understand everything in his environment for the way it is, not by some smeared report from a third party. matt burns, if not in the kerouakian sense, then close to quite literally due to his proximity to my bumbling early attempt at a celebration of guy fawkes using my cooking hardware.
now ill let him whip out his easel and rock a self-portrait oil painting for you: "I'm a wanderlusting juggler of the worlds of the mind, the page, and the heart that lubricates the swirl with a musical montage. This may be my first attempt to present a lyrical snapshot of myself in a white box and I want you to know that I love life, have an insatiable appetite for new experiences, and will never be able to collect enough beautiful conversations to reach a point of overflow. I live to move and life moves me. I can only hope that I never come to a point where I feel the world is moving around me, I always hope to be moving around the world. I'm enamored with music. It is how I relate to my world and to the universe. Its the pull that moves me forward and takes me back. I love things that are beautiful. I love people. I love people who are willing to share themselves, even if for brief moments. I love smiling. I love indirect moments that yield depths of understanding and connection with unexpected individuals. I love expression, and avidly seek to create and consume it." raphael, anyone?
introductions aside, the the next four days were filled to the brim with classic roadtrip: music coming from every angle, botched attempts at shortcuts from the atlas, stopping randomly on the side of the road only to find a world famous rock garden, hiking to mt cook, strange conversations at gas stations concerning the nature of kiwi skinheads at halloween parties, relieving ourselves wherever we damn pleased, a random pop in on parrot, and conversations that stretched wider than the plains we crossed and higher than the mountains we passed through. but the highlight had to be an unofficial couch surf for two official pros, as we jammed out (matt slays with an acoustic axe) on an abandoned couch on the shores of lake tepako, letting the wind run through us, trying to carry away the tunes before they reached our ears; the ultimate theft. but we sang louder. for those of you who've heard me sing, don't picture this, for those of you that havent, it was b-e-autiful, i can assure you. beautiful sunset, good meal of beans (85 cents - mine) and pasta with tuna (more than 85 cents - his), then choc covered pineapple and, of course, what were you thinking, a bit of PB. i sat, no, was plastered to the couch, as i felt my pulse slow down, my body attempting to do something with the newly created child held in my PB womb, but really only wanting to listen to the creative flow gushing from source right now next to me. from 'wagon wheel' to various chili pepper favs, to his personal gems...even our own blues song, which resulted in the mantra-like phrase of 'follow your beard,' we chilled hard, watching the ember-like lights of the town across from us dance and flicker about, as if they were about to fade. we would have kept any fire going that night, not just from our camping-food induced rocket fuel, but rather with an energy that can only be produced by two vagabonds with the same mission: to follow your beard. a pact among wrestless beings who just cant stand the monotomy provided by a sedentary life, and any thoughts of a razor that come with it. and when there is no wind to rustle our facial man-rugs, then we will create one through our movement; 'around the world, not it around us,' espousing a zephyr of curiosity toward all things foreign behind us. and up its warm and unregulate waves, a faint hint of baked beans and peanut butter will casually hang a ten.
i cant begin to quantify how much of an impact soaking up matts sunny rays of disposition toward life had an impact on me. therefore, i feel sincerely lucky that our beards both flowed in the same direction on the road to our individual somehweres.
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