🇵🇹 Slaughter

Hello Adventurers, 

My three week layover in Portugal has come to an end, and I'm now dedicating the next three-ish weeks to marathoning 10 different countries in Europe; done solo ala YOLO. And pray for me. Well, not for me (as in my wellbeing) but for the wellbeing of my flights...'cause I gotta get back to Canada in mid-July to celebrate the missus’ birthday.

Anyhoo, the Marathon Earth Challenge is first and foremost a physical project. However, given it's a bipedal vehicle for documentary, it's very much a creative project too. I've enjoyed my time in Portugal — not just for the marathoning but for the storytelling challenge — and the latter was very much a test of my creative skills. How so? Well, just trying to create three newsletter issues here — each with different angles — about one region in northern Portugal.

My goal was to be entertaining and informative...but you're the reader and ultimately the ref (so it's your call as to whether I put the bola de futebol into the net). And whether I was successful or not, it’s sorta irrelevant 'cause my style is always off-side (by vice of swear words...and by virtue of not giving a fuck about form or conventions).

I worked in marketing and advertising for decades and everyone was always asking, "How do we be more creative?" And such is evidence of the lack of passion and creativity in said industries ('cause it's akin to chefs wondering how to make tasty fare for eaters...which implies they're not chefs, and don't know how to cook...and don’t know what people want to consume…and lazily want shortcuts instead of putting in the time — as well the hard work — to learn the craft). And let AI — with knives out — come for it all…hacking at the hacks, taking the dough, and eating the cake as just desserts.

But I still get asked that question lots...and my answer is always the same; listen to rap music (it is modern poetry full of the best writing and the wittiest word play), go to galleries and museums and cinemas (they’re where real creativity lives), and spend time in the physical world getting a pulse check on what people want...and then selfishly create for yourself ('cause there's no guarantee anyone will care about your offerings...and ‘cause creating for what you think an audience wants is destined to fail ‘cause people are multitudes and don’t know what they want half of the time).

You also gotta find a well of inspiration that hydrates your sensibilities, one that continually flows with inarguable talents that are arguably better than yours (hence why it is imperative to study masters in order to 'up' your game). Me? I straddle two streams 'cause of my interests. So photographically, it's Robert Frank and Martin Parr. And writing? It's the New Yorker, Vanity Fair, and the New York Times. And here are one, two, and three recent examples from said publications that slap (and are pilfer worthy). I share them 'cause only idiots and egoists think creativity is original...when the fact of the matter is that inspiration always comes from something — or somewhere — else. Picasso knew as does AI (the latter creates laughable derivatives from stolen intellectual property that tickles the fancy of those with comically bad taste in the arts). Similarly, NFT has always been a consumer acronym for a subset of big spenders with ‘no fucking taste.’

Anyhoo, I profiled the 'tiny' via the personal in northern Portugal in a newsletter issue past, and then 'trails' via pilgrims in another, and I aspired to end my trilogy with a dispatch about some 'towns along a trial' via the physical.

This narrative arc wasn't original, and it wasn’t something I originally pre-mapped out. Rather, like all creative things, it just revealed itself when I was out in the world searching for meaning and inspiration. So let's get into it (yet never forget to stay creative when it comes to getting outside of the indoors — of both ourselves and our homes — 'cause that's where the real inspo is, it’s where you rob it from, and where you then rub it into something else…which is hopefully entertaining or informative, and something others dig). Oh, and TBH great art comes from the human soul,

- Ben Pobjoy

P.S. The ‘June Batch' of Pobjoy Postcards marathoned some of the Caminho de Santiago before they were sent off. If you want to receive a monthly, one-of-a-kind handwritten postcard from me on my Marathon Earth Challenge, you can subscribe here.

BUT FIRST…

As I exit Portugal, I just wanted to sincerely thank the Vieiras for letting me stay on their ancestral property these past few weeks. I presumed I was gonna stay in the ‘new house’ on the property…but my wife said I had to sleep in this one dank and draft-y stone shed from like 1678 ‘cause I never learnt how to speak Portuguese.* The shed did have two mattresses (and a tiny bit of hay on ‘em for warmth)…so I can’t really complain, and ya…fair play to the missus for the tough love!

Anyhoo, thank you Aida, Ines, Joel, Paulo, and Lisa. I did a huge clean-up of dead brush on the property (to show you my gratitude)…and I hope that settles my indebtedness to you.

*And no, my wife didn’t make me sleep in that shed…but if she had…this newsletter would’ve been written in perfect Portuguese!

2023 TREK TRACKER

Where in the world...record am I?

• Countries visited: 32

• Flights taken: 37

• Kilometres flown: 59.851

• Marathons completed: 105

• Kilometres trekked by foot: 5,003

• Total kilometres trekked since 2015: 68,094

RAPID WEEKLY RECAP

A speedy synopsis for time-crunched readers

• The Wildest Thing: Everyone I met in Portugal was related to my wife (no matter where we were…and sometimes much to her surprise)…and now I think she only married me to introduce some genetic variance into the family😜

• The Biggest Obstacle: Some beaten feet courtesy of some bad decisions🤕

• The Lesson Learned: I don’t own a car so I only drive like a handful of times a year, but last weekend the missus (who doesn’t have a driver’s license) asked me to drive her around to do some sightseeing…and everything here had different road markings, and no one was signalling, and everyone was doing rolling stops, and motorbikes were weaving in and out, and the slim roads through buttfuck lil towns were tight, and people were doing 130 km/h up my ass, and the multi-lane’d roundabouts confused the shit outta me…so the lesson is that you shouldn’t ask me to drive you in some foreign place…unless you want to see me stressing, LOL😰

FIELD NOTES: FROM AQUI TO ALLÁ

Things did not go as planned

I just couldn’t resist Spain. It was dangling there above me this whole time. Damn near taunting me…like the last lemon dangling from the many citrus trees I’ve seen in Portugal. And while those yellow bobbing fruits have been outta reach ’cause they’re too high up to grab, Spain is/was only 50 kilometres above me by foot — and reachable from Castelo do Neiva where I was staying — like, if I wanted it badly enough.

And it wasn’t sensible — but nothing about this project is — so it just made sense, meaning I had to go to Spain. Yes, to go there for the first time ever. Yes, to strike it off the list for my project. And yes, ‘cause I have to do inventory — every now and then — to see what I’m made of.

So I plotted the route, did the necessary gear checks, and readied myself to do the 100+ kilometre ultramarathon in a single day; from Portugal to Spain and back. And I was just so stoked to do it; what a great send-off — as well as a sign-off — from a part of the world I’ve thoroughly enjoyed.

And it never happened…because I made some bad decisions in the lead up, and fucked everything up.

Much has gone right — and according to plan — on my Marathon Earth Challenge. And I’m grateful…and believe my honest / lucky / earned victories are accurately reflected in the content I’ve churned out. But, I also recognize that I’m the sole narrator of this project, and singlehandedly weld the power to shape perceptions. Meaning, I could dishonestly focus on my literal wins (if I was a total asshole) — and omit the figurative warts — to put my idiomatic ‘best foot forward’ as I try and physically do the same.

However, when I conceptualized this project last year (under the strategic guidance of my brainiac friend Tim), we determined I had to depict it true; me, world, all.

So that’s what I’m doing this week. And not for the sake of moaning — and not for penance — but because one must prostrate oneself from time-to-time; not for submission but for ego-checking humility and radical accountability. Plus, I’m a little shit that calls-out sus stuff regularly (regardless of consequence), and that standard has to apply to me (because if I can’t take it, I can’t be allowed to dish it).

And I bombed…so bombs away…

Northern Portugal is surprisingly rainy. And it hasn’t been a problem ‘cause I’ve got lots of waterproof gear with me. Plus, I happily trek in all conditions…even when it’s miserable outside. Anyhoo, the other day I started a marathon along the Atlantic coast after a big rainfall…and a few kilometres in, I realized I had unknowingly erred in my routing because excess waters from the lands were angrily streaming down the sloping beach towards the ocean.

The smart and sensible thing would’ve been to backtrack to higher and drier grounds…but part of the fun of freestyle marathoning is solving problems as they present themselves. So I was hopscotching over these impromptu ‘beach brooks’ by way of big stones, and it was a little splashy, but just a minor inconvenience. Well, that was until I was confronted by a near-stream pouring across the beach. And this one was major.

I scouted around to try and find the closest banks nestling the shallowest running waters…but I was shit outta luck. Until a Dutch or German guy noticed my predicament…as he was strolling shoeless along the shore (which is where the water was the widest). And this mensch? He kindly offered to physically carry me over the waters! LULZ!

I should’ve taken him up on the ludicrous offer…but I politely declined because I am a prideful idiot (which is the outcome of being a Leo…and my brother having been on death’s door for the first 10 years of his life…so no one else in the house could be fussy ‘cause everything else was irrelevant in comparison…and because I was then programmed to be too DIY by punk). And this is a fatal flaw in my character; my repulsion towards asking for and/or accepting help (because I think it is weak…which is wrong because people genuinely like helping others as an expression of love, and I push them away…but I’m working on changing my ways).

Anyhoo, that dude — had he lifted me — would’ve only granted me dryness for no more than a kilometre…but I should’ve taken it as one last sign to re-route. Why? Because I was soon confronted by rocky-bottomed, near-river waters splitting the beach…which I had to wade through balls deep. And I exited it with completely waterlogged shoes (worn so I didn’t cut my feet on the rocks)…as the rains returned…as the ocean spray kicked up…and I just knew I was fucked.

But here’s the thing…I don’t quit — and not because I’m macho — but because I’ve learnt that bad weather always passes and one can eventually dry off. So I scrambled another six kilometres along the shore to this shelter I had discovered days earlier.

There, it was no bueno…I peeled my socks off, and my feet were a mess ‘cause the skin had been rendered watery and crumbly as the sand that got through my gaiters had been exfoliating the skin to a raw state. This wasn’t a crisis, but it was an opportunity to innovate; so I got as much sand off of my feet as I could (sans water source or towel), let them dry a tad (as much as they could in the rain), I put on dry socks (had a spare set in my bag), then put waterproof socks (also had ‘em in my bag) over the dry socks, and put my feet back into my abysmally soaked shoes…and my feet remained dry for the remainder of the marathon. Magic!

Now, you may be wondering two things: why didn’t he just trek the whole coastal mess barefoot? And why wasn’t he wearing the waterproof socks from the jump? The answer to the first question is simple; 12 barefoot kilometres in wet sand is rougher — and more abrasive on the skin — than 12 kilometres in waterlogged shoes. The answer to the second question is less simple: waterproof socks are just neoprene sheaths wrapped in sock-y fabric…and I’m super allergic to neoprene (it makes my skin blister a few days after wearing them…so I can only wear these socks in total emergencies when I don’t have other marathons lined up). Plus, the last time I wore them they left permanent scars on my legs.

Anyway, I got that marathon done and the immediate outcome was slightly raw feet, and the eventual outcome — on top of that rawness — were slightly agitated feet from the neoprene (everything from my ankles down was red and itchy…but didn’t blister this time due to my regular-sock-in-waterproof-sock hack). Luckily, I had the weekend off (because my wife asked that I drive her around)…and I was hopeful my feet would recover.

I started the week with some time on the clock to hopefully attempt an ultramarathon to Spain. However, I thought it’d be prudent to first bang out a normal marathon…just to take stock on how my feet / body were feeling. So, I marathoned in-land to Barcelos for two reasons:

1. We drove to Braga and Porto last weekend, and both were super charming. Braga was just delightful with its pedestrian only-core, this wonderful rose-filled garden smack-dab in the middle of things, and there was this great café from which to sip good coffee and watch the world go by. And Porto was just quirky and hilly, and had lovely architecture, and lots of ace street performers (like puppeteers and dancers), and the waterfront is super unique and sunken in a valley with huge bridges over it (as well as all these old grafted-to-a-hill storehouses for Port wine). So things in-land seemed as rad as things were on the coast…

2. ...So I decided to hit Barcelos — another in-land town — mostly ‘cause the iconic ‘Rooster of Barcelos’ is from there — and it’s like the main tchotchke that all tourists buy all over the country — and I wanted to understand the lure as well as the OG lore.

So I hit Barcelos via marathon…and it was just a complete gong-show. Firstly, I forgot my sunglasses — which I only partially wear for sun protection — but mostly ‘cause they keep dust-kicked-up-by-trucks out of my eyes. Secondly, I didn’t really study the route and the elevation gain was real…so my ‘not-fully-recovered-feet’ took a further beating from the endless up-and-down hills. Thirdly, much of the route was on the rough shoulder of a very busy road where cars were whizzing by me…which is just a draining stressor on the sympathetic nervous system when endured for hours and hours. Fourthly, when I got to Barcelos some car hit me (i.e. whacked me in the elbow with its side mirror when it was speedily / recklessly crossing the tight Ponte de Barcelos medieval bridge) which caused me to nearly drop my camera in the Cávado River. Fifthly, I attempted to take a breather to reset at a café in town…but got cornered by UK ex-pats who chatted my ear off. Just a note on the latter — ‘cause these one-sided exchanges always teach me loads about etiquette — but it’s more polite for one to do more listening than speaking when conversing, and it’s better to ask more questions than one answers..so engage the other / don’t blab on about oneself. These geezers didn’t get that memo…and just drained the last of my mojo.

So ya, I was in Barcelos for like 27 minutes before I dipped ‘cause my body felt like shit and my brain was getting cranky…so I can’t give you a comprehensive rundown about the place…but I’ve got a sneaking suspicion that you’d have a better time in nearby Braga or Porto (‘cause they got more to offer).

When I’m busted up on marathons (as I was when leaving Barcelos for Castelo do Neiva), I often do weird mental exercises to try and draw power from my surroundings…or just use the surroundings as a means for distraction from my achy body. Like, I’ll look at big trees — that are presumably old — and imagine they’ve probably endured occasional bouts of thirst and/or bad weather of whatever other hardship…and yet they’re still here / there; still standing, still growing, and still swaying in the wind. And such gives me hope.

It’s dumb and corny…but it’s a free tool I employ that kinda works to keep the mind optimistic and aspirational…and externally focused on the beauty out there rather than the hurt inside. So I just loop silly little thoughts like, “Be like the tree and keep standing”…y’know…just lil sayings like that.

Anyway, northern Portugal is just full of ancient walls and dilapidated roofless structures that have stood the test of time…and I just wanted to acknowledge that they kept my standing like mental crutches this week…when I was weak. And if you’re doing a marathon — and the ugly doubts begin to creep in — I hope you’re somewhere equally beautiful, and appreciating the surroundings (which I know can lift one up as one suffers).

I was officially busted by the time my final day in Portugal came around; my feet were still somewhat raw from the waterlogged beach day, my feet were still agitated from the neoprene socks, and the hilly trek to Barcelos gave me deep blisters on the balls of my feet (I don’t get superficial epidermis blisters ‘cause my feet are so calloused…so my blisters develop in the dermis between the epidermis and the subcutaneous tissue).

And yet I packed up for Spain…but did so with an off-ramp option; minimally complete a measly marathon if I couldn’t push my body to the max to nab an ultramarathon.

So I went out…and the ultra just wasn’t meant to be…it was just such a slog (every step was bad)…so a marathon had to be good enough. And in this year’s game of inches, I gotta keep the bad days — and the bad decisions — to a minimum since I’m probably trekking the next day (making the preservation of health and happiness a priority).

But I saw a kid making a tiled mosaic on a wall and some men making a swimming pool in the ocean…and while I was in pain, I was just grateful to be out there…and soothed by what I saw (i.e. really different scenes I wouldn’t have seen if I were indoors or back in Toronto).

And I pushed as far north as I could — and right before turning back — I crossed paths with a bunch of disabled teens on a school outing. They were in matching hats and so pumped to be outside on a coastal trail with their pals and their teachers…and they were so chatty with one another…and seemingly happy to see me…and we all waved at each other as everyone flashed big smiles and exchanged greetings…and it was a very human moment.

And it made me tear up a lil behind my sunglasses; infectious joy from others as unintended gift that lessened my suffering. And desired ultramarathon result or not, I’ll take that type of magic over anything else…any day…anywhere.

So Spain taunted me in Portugal, and my inability to get there by foot will long haunt me. And that’s just how it goes sometimes.

Anyway, I’m now in Ireland…and I can only hope that there’s a pot of Gold [Bond] at the end of this [Pride Month] rainbow. And if there isn’t, there isn’t…’cause I’ll keep pushing forward honestly; in my wins and in my losses.

BEST LOCAL THING-Y

This isn’t a trick question — and I’m not being facetious — but bread in Italy is a ‘thing’, right? Like the Italians supposedly do it well, ya? Well, if that’s the general consensus, then it’s a huge misunderstanding — verging on total deception — ‘cause the bread in Italy sucks; the crust is always half-committal, the big-ass loaves are dry…and the innards are just this dense and doughy tastelessness…that no amount of spectacular balsamic vinegar poured onto some plated glorious olive oil can compensate for (even when said bread is dipped into such class liquids). And check this…the pizza in Italy…it’s also pretty ‘meh’! And you know why I’m right? ‘Cause I routinely rant about Toronto’s endless wrongs, and can honestly say that Turunno has developed into a world-class pizza town over the last decade. And I hate that place but love its pizza. Like, I’m giving props to my enemy…and gain nothing from that. #Facts

But the French? They do it right; that golden baguette crust with the steam-hardened sheen and the airy innards…it’s so damn good that you can eat it naked (which cannot be said for Italian bread…which needs dips or lots of crap stuffed into it to be edible). Plus, the French look so appetizingly chic or handsome when cycling away from some boulangerie with the baguette poking outta the tote bag…like an extended middle finger to us and our lesser bread back home.

Now some of you may disagree with me — and normally I’d say that’s fine — but I’m a legit bread expert vis-à-vis being British…so shut it. For us, ‘bread and butter’ isn’t an economic term…it’s something that’s totally acceptable as a full meal. We’re fucking freaks for the stuff even though we can’t make it well (and that is why savage England had to colonize the world…’cause English food is so shit that barbaric Brits had to violently wrestle take-out food from the hands of more culinarily gifted civilizations elsewhere). Look…my people have always had an appetite for destruction, a bottomless stomach for others’ resources, bad taste in manners when it comes to interacting with foreigners abroad, and a historical inability to settle the bill.

And so do the Portuguese…but they at least know how to bake great bread, and I did not know this. Now, I’ll be the first to admit when I’m wrong — like I’ve always hated cornbread (it’s subpar compared to wheat bread) — but the come-around and the eventual apology can take years. Like, back in Toronto I lived on the edge of the Little Portugal neighbourhood for eons, and bought my bread from a local Mom and Pop joint rather than give my money to the robber barons that price gouge Canadians with their grocery oligopoly. And the bread was alright; made by good Portuguese people with so-so Canadian ingredients.

But the bread in Portugal? It’s easily better than the nearby Italian kind, and the pão here does peacefully rival the best-in-class pain in France; from that country above, the one looking down on Portugal. And the missus was like, “You idiot…I told you so.” And she’s half-right…and I’ll only half-budge; because I had to go to Portugal — to get what she was getting at — ‘cause the bread back home in Little Portugal is only half as good as it is here.

And whether the bread here came from a low-end grocery store or a middle-y café or a sleeper of a high-end resto, it was consistently good in all the varieties. And fuck, even the cornbread…which I enjoyably ate…as I un-enjoyably ate my words.

POBJOY'S GLOBAL PRICE INDEX

This is an on-going documentation of how much things cost in different places around the world. Here are some of the things I bought in Castelo do Neiva, Barcelos, and Santa Leocádia de Tamel (all prices converted to USD):

• A 946 millilitre carton of soy milk, a 100 gram bag of goji berries, a 500 gram bag of chocolate chip muesli cereal, and five ciabatta buns from a grocery store in Castelo do Neiva: $6.88

• A doppio espresso from a cafe in Barcelos: $2.19 (‘cause I was too braindead to pick up the change)

• A 500 millilitre bottle of water and a 200 millilitre bottle of orange juice from a café inside a grocery store in Santa Leocádia de Tamel: $2.19

MARATHON MUSINGS

An overdraft on wealth and prosperity

The other night I was in the modern kitchen here eating some shitty slapdash sandwich…the fillings of which I had hastily sandwiched in-between some wonderful walnut-y cornbread…which my hungry rush to eat had violated. And Christine yelled in from the outside for me to drop my sacrilegious sandwich, and instead go over to the neighbour’s house with her.

This was after I had done some yard work earlier; raking broken glass out of a muddy path (so the lil ones wouldn’t get nicked on their visit here next month), and piling up some-now-dead-things that were remnants of some-once-living-things harvested in the small garden plots by the neighbours on the Vieira land (which I did so the land looked nicer for Aida when she gets back to her homeland soon).

And me and Christine trekked over, to next door…in through the front door where sixty-something Manuel (phonetically known as Nell) was smoking a fag. And we went right into the kitchen. And into somewhere else; be it some earlier point in time…or maybe even into heaven itself.

Seated at the table was Rosa, a beloved-to-all eighty-something heroine of a hard life…dressed in that all-black mourning getup as declaration of some traumas past — with a cloak-y black bandana on her head — who visibly lightened up at the first sight of seeing Christine (who has that effect on people…which I do not, LOL).

Nell finished his dart, and circled ‘round aimlessly — the way men do when they don’t know what to do around pretty women — before he took a seat at the table…which had a plate of cheese chunks and sliced sausages that everyone was poking at and a circular golden crown of some dessert-y cornbread thing that everyone was ripping at and some lil pastries in a box and bananas that sat motionless like a still life on a plate and some glasses of red wine for us boys. All atop one of those colourful, patterned tablecloths here…which everyone is always shaking out and washing and hanging to dry and then resetting on the table…which I don’t really get (but respect the properness of).

Christine has a lovely smile as does Mother Rosa and Son Nell, whose two half-sets of old-world teeth maybe combine to form a complete one as the roommates they are. And all three happy mouths were fully speaking Portuguese, and speaking paragraphs to one another…which Christine or Nell would occasionally translate for me as a distilled-down single sentence…where you get the gist but not the all. It was nice — and I was appreciative — but then I sorta tuned out; not because of boredom…but because I was overcome with a feeling (of loss? of finding? of confirmation?), and I sorta recessed into myself; in both things long thought and some stuff recently read.

But I didn’t fully fade — ‘cause that’s rude at social gatherings, especially ones with family-ish people — so I’d do a delayed laugh when someone said something funny…laughing after they all did ‘cause I couldn’t understand much, and then I’d follow their physical cues…nodding at things said when everyone else did…’cause that’s how you roll in the tumble of the untranslated.

Mostly, I just looked around from my vantage point. At the kitchen’s massive hearth from another century that could’ve cooked a whole, fully grown cow standing up. And the handmade-outta-stone wood burning oven…no longer used but still a commanding presence. And at the mud on the tile floor that I had accidentally trudged in…which Nell waved-off not understanding my embarrassment. And at the family pictures — as well as the pictures of friends — in one display cabinet for the nice dinnerware repurposed to be a memory museum of sorts. And at the shrines — or knickknacks — to devotion in every room, and on every wall. And after taking it in, I wandered the garden outside; strawberries, lemons, beans, eggs, greens, and much else grown from ground or animal. All of it at the foot of a forest-y hill near a beautiful coast in a part of the world where humankind is kinda better in-synch with nature, where the people like to yell into each other’s open windows in hopes of catching a chat, where the living is simpler but not easy, and where the rivers of life’s purpose lead to moments like these; some eating, some chatting and much connectedness. Something that isn’t scheduled, but something that nevertheless happens near daily.

Now I’m a decently travelled person that loves to travel…but I don’t fall in love with every place I visit. That’s just lust, and what the less travelled are susceptible to. But I compare and contrast everything — and everywhere — and run the numbers on where the good life — as well as the good living — is. And I believe it resides in places like these…which for me is romantically Buenos Aires but truthfully Europe most southern…but it could be elsewhere for you. Everything depends on one’s values. Like, my parents once determined it to be west of Toronto, and far from their home parts back in England north and south.

And here — not here-as-in-place but here-as-in-now — it just made me think about where I am and where I’m at and where I’ve been, and where I really oughta be. And none of it had anything to do with travel. Rather, it has everything to do with home and purpose and living fulfilled.

And this is a ramble, and probably difficult to comprehend if home is where you are and/or a place where your family is happy and/or where you are rooted or have long familial roots. But for me, it’s the logical outcome of being the son of two sunny immigrants, me who lived in other countries on another continent as a kid, who was on the road in tour vans in his teens and early adulthood, and who’s lived a life on the move since then; marathoning the far corners of the earth for close to a decade. Plus, Mum is a Britophile who has always made anywhere she lived British even when it was outside of England…and my Dad less so…but he moved back there nonetheless. So from whence…to where now…it’s more of a stopover than the final stop for people like us.

And I thought of Richard Hell speaking with the New Yorker recently saying, “You don’t change. You’re who you were at three…” and then adding, “…I’ve always been stumped and frustrated by how you can’t have your whole life at once. You’re stuck at the moment of the present...and I want all of it, not just whatever remnants there are that have whatever minuscule effect and vague presence now."

And I got it / get it.

And then I thought of that recent Kara Swisher profile in Vanity Fair where she said, [People are] "Worried about losing their place if they step out of line. And I’m like, the only way you get higher is if you step out of line...That’s the only way. Seriously. Unless you’re untalented. And then you should stay in line.”

And I got it / get that too. And took note.

And then I thought about this one great line at the end of some recent / killer New York Times piece about something else that said, “You either succumb to the vision of growth eating growth and try to make a living off the action, or you fight it knowing you probably won’t succeed.”

And I get it too and gulped…because that’s my existential conundrum in the succession of those three quotes.

I know who I am, long have.

I know where I need to be, long have.

And I know I gotta step out of line — and step on the toes of the emotions or fears or comforts of others — to get there…but I just don’t how successful I’d be parachuting into elsewhere, and that’s my paralysis. Well, that and the missus liking her life in Toronto…which is why ‘we’ live there as I’m continually elsewhere in mind and spirit.

But creativity is really just stealing to forge and fashion a new idea…or a new opportunity…or just a way more imaginative way of being.

And I could ultimately do a better job of being a thief…

…Poaching some of that conviction and confidence my parents had…when they got creative, threw caution to the wind, bounced, and made it elsewhere in the world…as well as in the windfall of their own doing (through lots and lots of very hard work and sacrifice).

And family trees with long roots…in one stifling place forever and ever? No thanks. My aspiration is to branch off like much of my family has…and be the apple that didn’t fall far from our family tree; the one uprooted and the one that oddly beat the odds to thrive out-of-genesis-grounds elsewhere.

And that will be the greatest test of my creativity; not the ‘un-creative’ mainstream careers I’ve abandoned ‘cause they were corny or this newsletter or the words I write or the photos I make…but the self, the imagination, and whether I have the talents to cut it…or whether I get chopped down and fail like firewood; burnt alive and where one’s dreams go up in smoke, and function like smoke signals that reveal one’s untalented truth; that in the end, I was more (tree) bark than bite.

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