I hit the streets and they hit me... 06.14.18

I write this at 8 in the morning sitting on a curb next to my bicycle, out for a morning ride, coffee in hand.

Back in November of last year, my brother Cody and I set out on a bicycle ride from New York City to Ulfheim (central Virginia) the home of the Appalachia Wolves of Vinland, a trip that though being 7 months ago now, I still have yet to really been able to articulate either in spoken words or put to paper. I've had a few experiences in the last few years that have seemed too great, too mighty, to imprison with words, like the futility of trying to chain the mighty fenriz wolf with the same chain I would use to chain a pitbull up outside of a Brooklyn bodega when I was a dog trainer living there.

In gnosticism there exists this concept of the demiurge. A demiurge is a God who, like Yahweh in the Christian mythology, claims to be the only, strongest, omnipresent, omnipotent, benevolent God, but in reality is a lesser being who committed a great crime by imprisoning the human spirit into fleshly prisons. It is in this same way that we attempt to imprison our living experiences into linguistic prisons if those words are created in the intention of somehow being able to supplement or replace real life experience, which can cultivated lead to wisdom and knowledge (gnosis). In the canonized bible's book of Genesis, like in the cosmology of many other spiritual traditions, it speaks of how Yaweh spoke matter and being into existence. This is a powerful concept for our words too are a very powerful tool of creation. We can experience this power very intensely in ways such as singing rune galdr, practicing mantra magick, or playing music, though our every day speech and writing also harnesses these same powers. When we speak and spell, we cast spells, binding spells that contain and attempt to trap so as to communicate our human experiences in these flesh prisons. Our old grimoires are books of grammar, pathways to manipulate words so that one might manipulate matter through ones will, which is the essence of magick, the way we as men become Gods.

Words, language is just that, an ordinary, utilitarian chain, mundane and pragmatic.  Poetry, as beautiful and moving as it can be in the hands of the most skilled wordsmiths and bards, if one is truly honest, is still a finger pointing at the moon, an imperfect sketch, of a thing, it tries scratching, clawing desperately at the real and authentic in vain. I say that it is in vain not because I see no validity to poetry, or art for that matter, because art is communication of course, but it will always fail to fully and accurately convey and cannot possibly replace experience.

Experience is earned only through laying the miles down, and being present for them, is how you really 'get your moneys worth'. I write this too you currently and admittedly as a man who has never traveled out of the United States. Only a few months ago did I even travel to the west coast of the country where I did a guest spot tattooing in San Francisco's mission district at a shop called Old Town Tattoo. After spending a week in San Francisco,  me and my buddy Mike who traveled with me to train Ju Jitsu at the Gracie Academy over there, headed up to Seattle to see my buddy Cody and stay with him for a few more days, the first I had seen him since returning from the cycling trip. The middle meat of this country still remains largely unexplored by me, and the rest of the globe as well though I doubt for very long will allow this to be the case.  The point I'd like to raise though is that while I may have up until this point in my life,  spent most all of my life on the east coast of the United states, in many ways I feel I have come to intimately know my home in a way that most cannot say they have. When I speak to most people of travel, their stories seem littered with planes and cars and tourist traps and souvenir stores and miserable better lost distant relatives. Though sometimes a neccisary evil, to sit behind a car windshield one might as well stay home and watch the world go by on a television screen. Are the badges and stored up empty barstool talking points and half fabricated boring stories, the checklist of places you were psychically but not in spiritual immersion really the goal? The reason you hit the road in the first place? Why cant the road be the destination, even for the moment? Riding a bicycle 650 miles along the east coast I got to see the beauty of natural rivers and hills and cemeteries... as well the bleak expansive craters of trash and ghettos and economic destessed hellholes of this country up close and personal. Similarly one might ask if this logic could be applied elsewhere to drive the point home, is it better to have a thousand acquaintances, or a handful of brothers that have your back?

Refuse to spend your life counting and collecting useless knick knacks from gift shops and calling them life experiences. Refuse to know your home,  your world, your friends, your self in little more than name. Lay the miles down and take it all in. A train is better than a plane, a car is better than a train, a motorcycle is better than a car, a bicycle is better than a motorcycle, a skateboard is better than a bicycle, walking is better than a skateboard, and to sit and stay awhile is the best of them all. To get to know a place sleep in it's dirt, bathe in it's rivers, and let the bugs get a taste of your flesh. The earth is a gorgous :th:ursian giantess, and it is my wish to intimately explore every peak and valley of this womanly goddess' beautiful body and being while she remains still yet completely battered and bruised by this kali yuga.


"The most common form of terrorism in the U.S.A. is that carried on by bulldozers and chain saws." -Edward Abbey

92.