And don’t ya come back no more

I was reading an article yesterday. The author said he was going to “hit the road.” Even though it’s a common expression I suddenly wondered, “Why is it hit the road?” We don’t say we’re going to punch the pavement or clobber the cobbles (though maybe I will now). I understand hit the sack because, flop, I literally hit the mattress. But I don’t throw myself onto the highway. At least not on purpose. So I googled.

The earliest-recorded use of the phrase—in the form of ‘hit the trail’—was in a book called Wild North Land by W. F. Butler published in 1873. 

The origin of the term is from horses hitting the road with their hooves.

The phrase was originally about telling someone to leave. But, of course, now we usually apply it to ourselves. In my case, more over the past six years than during the previous 61 years.

The difference between my sister and me

She’s about 700 miles farther north, 4,000 feet higher, and 35° colder.

Feeling that trapped thing again

Since I chase mild, dry weather as much as possible, I end up spending most of the winter in the desert, at lower elevations.

My recent visit to the coast happened to hit a weather sweet spot between a cold spell and a major storm front. Now I’m back near Yuma. Again. There’s a lot to like here. Plenty of boondocking space, no time limit enforcement, easy access to supplies, strong cell signal. But I’m struggling against sameness. Or, rather, I’m struggling against the part of me that fled the sameness of living in a building and hit the road.

I’ve been scouring forecasts in the region. I’m surrounded by wetness or low temperatures or both. It’s warmer in Baja Sur, but terribly humid. The same with the Texas coast, but with rain, too.

Some friends in the Rockies have been posting photos on Facebook showing them in knee-deep snow. I briefly think, “I could do that if I bundled up enough.” Then I come to my senses.

So I’m staying here a while longer. I’ll find ways to refocus my thoughts. Reading is a good way to do that. I’ll take my mind somewhere else rather than my body.

Another excellent day

Casa de Lou

Lou moved to his New Mexico property a few days ago. This structure was already there and will be the basis for the house he’s going to build. Once he fetches his remaining gear from Oregon he’ll have everything in one place again—a place of his own.

Above it all?

Desolation Lookout, where Jack Kerouac spent two months alone

According to author Joyce Johnson, her one-time lover, Jack Kerouac, viewed the world with sardonic detachment.

I saw some of myself when I read that phrase. Yeah, sardonic detachment.

Now, there’s some disagreement over what, exactly, it means to be sardonic. In the US, where wholesome positivity is a religion (see, I’m being sardonic), it has a dark connotation: disdainful, bitter, sneering, sarcastic. I see it more like the British, where sardonic is characterized as irony, mockery or derision. (The UK might be the capital of the sardonic attitude, if it isn’t France.)

To me, sardony (let’s pretend that’s a word) is the natural byproduct of not having one’s head up one’s ass, and of valuing truly worthwhile things. There’s so much in the world that deserves derision, so much silliness and stupidity expecting to be taken seriously. The Kardashians, for example.

I try to wrap my mockery in humor. Ridicule the ridiculous with more ridiculousness. Laugh about the laughable. Including myself.

Just as we can’t see the forest for the trees, it’s hard to spot the mock-worthy when you’re a participant in it. That’s where detachment comes into play.

The mental health profession considers detachment a problem, and it can be if it keeps you from functioning and having a good life. But sometimes detachment is the only way to remain mentally healthy and happy. Ask any introvert. (Me, for example.)

When you’re an outside observer it’s easier to measure the craziness against your values. We sardonic people do have values. We’re not nihilists. We’re simply selective.

I haven’t just mentally detached. I’m part of that minority who’ve physically detached as well. Less exposure to society means less reason to critique, which makes me happier. See, ignorance is bliss.

Safe prediction

The groundhog came out of its burrow and didn’t see its shadow, because it was the middle of the night and it just needed to pee. That means I will continue to wander happily about the West. And that the coming of spring is rather irrelevant in the desert because winter is like spring. Except with less daylight.

This must be my designated beach

San Onofre Surfing Beach is also called Old Man's. Even if you’re neither a surfer nor old man, it’s still a fine place to relax and stare at the far horizon. Parts of it are like a tropical island, with palms, palapas and tikis. And I blend right in with the surfer vans. And old men.

I'm all shook up

I’ve probably reported before that I wake up several times a night. Well, the past couple of months, I’ll sometimes become aware of a mild vibration during those waking moments.

What is that? Where is it coming from? I had decided it was the refrigerator compressor. Or maybe it was a thing my nervous system was doing—some old person thing to add to the New Normal list. Great. Or space aliens are trying to beam me up. Yeah, that’s it.

But I finally made the connection last night. The vibration is from trains going by about a half mile away. At least I think it is. I need to test the hypothesis by observing whether the vibrations still happen when I’m far from any rails. If I never report back it’s because the aliens beamed me up.

Fools of the trade

Jeff and I worked in advertising for many years. Then he decided to make an honest living as a comic, juggler, magician and clown. Jeff is always working on new material for his various acts and trying it out on friends. Much of his schtick depends upon puns. So did his advertising work. It’s a transferable skill (or curse).

I, too, walked away from advertising with a skill/habit that’s either useful or annoying, depending on how and where I use it. One way to come up with new ideas is to try turning a statement around. For example, someone says, “There are too many hats.” And I reply, “Or maybe there are just too few heads.”

This or maybe trick might spark an idea. It might only be silliness to keep my brain from locking up. Sometimes (rarely) it leads to great truths.

But like Jeff’s incessant punning, I forget there’s a proper time and place for my or maybe habit. And it’s seldom in social situations or online discussions. Used among people who don’t get what I’m doing, or maybe can seem like criticism of the other person’s ideas, values or perception of reality instead of a fun way to keep a conversation going.

Or maybe is also about exploring options. “Yes, that’s a good idea. Or maybe we could do it this way. Or this way. Or this way…” I really like options. But unless the author of the first idea has thick skin and knows how or maybe is used, they could take it as rejection. Or a waste of time if we end up going with the original idea after all.

What does this have to do with wandering around in the Rolling Steel Tent? Nothing. Or maybe everything.

Up and away

I woke at 5:12. Not sort of awake. I was you’re-totally-done-for-the-night awake. What to do? Fidget in bed and stare at the darkness? I was going to hit the road at sunrise anyway. Might as well get an earlier start.

So, out to southbound I-5 toward San Diego. Traffic never really stops on California freeways, but pre-dawn traffic was flying along. Next thing I knew I was taking the 805 fork and then I-8 east. Now I was going the opposite way of the earliest commute traffic. I waved at the unfortunate drivers. “You’re going to work but I’m going to the desert, to do nothing much. Sorry.” (Not really sorry.)

Also, if I’d left later, I wouldn’t have seen the Blue Angels practicing over El Centro. They made a low level pass right over the highway. Good morning.

Back at last

A few years ago I learned about overnight camping in lots 11 and 12 on the jetty in Oceanside. It gets crowded on weekends when the weather is nice, but I still like it. It makes me feel like I’m a young dude partying at the beach.

The past few times I tried staying here, the lots were shut down for either some type of construction or for events. Rats. But the construction is done and there are no events at the moment, so here I am.

One thing has changed since the last time I was here. This lot—lot 12, the one with the view—is now closed between 2 AM and 5 AM, even if you have an overnight permit. So I’ll be moving to the less scenic lot 11 before I go to sleep. No big deal. There’s no view anyway when my eyes are closed.

Later

My own beach (sortta)

A beach in Laguna Beach with a parking lot? I’m so there. No doubt the locals resent outsiders having easy beach access, but they have plenty of others we riff-raff avoid because we don’t want to navigate nineteen feet of van through the jumble of narrow streets hoping to find a spot. Ugh, parallel parking and meter feeding.

It was Monday morning, and not very sunny, so I had the beach pretty much to myself. I walked to the end of the beach where I could pretend I owned one of the houses on the bluff. Rich guy for a day.

I didn't find a single crystal

I used to live about two miles from Crystal Cove State Beach, but I never went to it. I preferred Corona del Mar Beach, a few blocks from my apartment. It was past time I visited there.

It wasn’t classic beach weather, and the surf was almost nonexistent, but it was an excellent time to avoid the crowds and be alone with my memories.

Sand and sleep

I came into a little extra money this month, so I splurged on a beach-front site at Doheny State Beach. My wee van has lots of room in a site meant for a 40-foot RV and towd. Nice bushes for privacy, too.