like blue balls

years ago, i was in college... i was the editor of the paper working with a well respected journalist and beginning to get some recognition for my writing. I had the option to go work for a number of newspapers, but i didn't want to write news.

I wanted to write books.

I looked for inspiration to my favourite authors: george orwell, hunter thompson, mark twain, jack kerouac... and i realized, they went out and lived before they became writers. they all had amazing lives of adventure then they started to write about their experiences.

as a young, middle class american in college, i had very few interesting experiences in life. it was mostly the same old, same old. my experiences revolved around television, movies, video games. sure, i had done my share of partying. i thought i was pretty hard core from the handful of drugs i'd tried a time or two. and there were a few i even did regularly, if you can believe that. of course, none of it went beyond the usual youthful experimentation, which we all do.

so i realized, i needed to go out and live life. passive entertainment had eclipsed active experience for me, i was merely existing, finding ways to pass the days.

i finished my last 6 weeks of school. it took forever.

i quit my job. i sold and gave away 95% of the things i had accumulated for the last 23 years. i put the really sentimental stuff in storage, packed a (oversized) bag, and hit the road.

my mind was full of Kerouac and Evasion... it seemed so romantic:


"… then life began, and since then we remember each dumpster, abandoned house, and foot-chase by retail security. At night, after running around, plotting and scheming, our checklist items all crossed out, we paused to think — 'What to do tomorrow?' and the answer was always, 'As we please …" - Evasion


that's when it started, and why... i began traveling, living free, hitch hiking, squatting, dumpster diving... i began defining the rules of life for myself, not allowing them to be dictated to me by my parents or teachers or society. i wanted to live life to the fullest. i wanted to have amazing experience. i wanted to have something to write about.

and since then, i've done amazing things:

i hitch hiked across the country twice, squatted abandoned high rises with punk anarchists in New York City, lived 13 miles off the nearest roads in the hawaiian jungle, lived in hippie communes in Oregon and sex communes in LA.

tear gassed, beaten and arrested to defend true freedom and a healthy planet

chased cows across open land from horseback

built monster bicycles

learned to live in the wild off of what the land provides

met and impressed my heroes

had amazing trysts with incredible, beautiful women

But, the recurring problem; i just cant get it out
i cant find the right words to describe all this stuff
i cant find a starting point
i can do it in little blurbs, here and there, a couple pages.
but it lacks cohesion
time and again i sit at my computer, or typewriter, or with blank page and pen, but i can't get it to form in my fingers.

its incredibly frustrating, i just keep thinking: "keep living this life, the time will come to write it down, you'll know, it will be inescapable" i hope thats how it goes down

i want to get into the details, the intrigue: why did the FBI arrest me in the streets of Des Moines, Iowa; what's a suicide girl like in bed? (well, not that personal) but for now, i cant seem to find the right ways to phrase this beast that lurks inside of me. i can just let little bits of it slip out here and there, but without context, without flow, they make little sense.

i hope i can get it all out one day. i hope i find the words. i want to share the magic that i've found in this world with everyone else, i want to inspire people as i was inspired.. i want to write a book that sits on someone's shelf next to 'On The Road', just waiting to demand the youth of the next generation go out and live like they only have one chance; like life matters. to make their days amazing.

i want to repay the favor.

until then i'll keep coming back to the computer, and sputtering
and sighing

and writing about
how i wish i could write.