West Bound Road: A Series of Absurd Essays About A Journey to the Coast (#OutOfOrder2)

The Way Out

I knew I head to get a head start. I'm a night owl and knowing that I wanted to try to and get to the Texas border by dawn, I had to go - despite protests from my aunt, I had slept all day and couldn't sit still. I was ready to get back to work, but not before I stopped to see my grandfather. 

I saw a smile cross his lips when I walked through his door. He sat comfortably on the couch without his prosthetic. I saw the stump that was his right thigh. He rubbed it on occasion, no doubt because it was still uncomfortable and he admitted his prosthetic wasn't as tightly fitted as he needed - of course he would ask for an adjustment. But he did say he was trying to get away from using the walker and just use the cane, another step in the recovery process.* 

The black and white movie became white noise and our conversation went on as it always did - certainly with my grandfather, never a dull moment being together- from his daily activities to spirituality to the latest in the news and my job. But the night was getting late and I knew I had to get on the road. Papa insisted on giving me a little gas money, he used his upper body strength and his good leg to maneuver into the wheel chair, rolled to his room and grabbed his wallet. He pressed 20 bucks into my hand.  

Seeing him in the wheel chair made me realize his frailty. It was the first time I had seen him during his surgery. I was aware of the pain he went through. And as I walked out the door, slipped into my Jeep and slowly pulled away, I watched him. He lingered in the door way and his face...just seemed so sad. 

I bit my lip and rode away. 

The night was before me, the dark desert with me, I had hours to drive and the next overnight stop  seemed as far as the stars. But I was determined because one cannot start a mission and not finish... 

Open Mic Night: Lazy Hummingbird

I walked into the strange cafe that had a Fedex attached to it. I smiled to myself and thought, "this place is hokie." I was amused at the rag-tag Ocean Beach crowd that swarmed in and out of the narrow door at a place so fittingly called "Lazy" Hummingbird. 

When I walked in, the young crowd was friendly and shared a few hellos. Most were there staring straight ahead at the open mic of musicians, paying close attention, not saying a word and dedicated to the music. It seemed they were all a little less than hippie, a little more than hobo - dreads, multi-colored clothes, tattoos and an interest to save the world through music and community. They were a group of artist-idealists. 

A little blond toddler walked into the cafe, looked at me curiously and gently put her little finger to her lips instructing me to "shh" - she bent down next to the jewelry maker on the floor and pointed to the game shelf wanting to retain the Twister box. After she got her hands on it, she darted out the door to play with her mom, a woman about my age with long beautifully wavy hair who later told me she was from Colorado.

I looked up and my friend had just walked in with her Ukalale. I made my way through the crowd and we decided to head outside. While there were no chairs available, so we found a table with a lone artist and made ourselves comfortable on the cement next to him. Through the course of conversation, he asked my friend to play during his spoken word session, for which she happily agreed. The young man told my friend that he was going to call it the Penguins of Paradise because he appreciated how penguins stuck together in the harshest conditions and well, he liked paradise, so it worked. 

Conversation continued for a while until we thought it best to check out a couple of the other artists. As we stood up to go inside, the emo-Brad Pitt and his motley crew behind us asked if they were bothering us - and we assured them we just wanted to hear some of the music. Although, I'm quite sure the other guy who was shaky and wouldn't sit still was looking to escape for a drug hit. 

We walked inside and watched various musicians take turns sitting in the hot seat. At one point, a gentleman, with long grey hair sticking out of his green hat and a nervous demeanor sat down. My friend leaned over and said, that's Dave. He was abducted by aliens and this is his song, she smiled. I stopped and shifted my eyes into a dead stare at her, thinking...um really? I shrugged and turned back to the man on the stool. But instead of singing a song this time, he made an announcement about how he identified with the Occupy group in San Diego and believed in equality. He passed out orange fliers and walked away. 

Back to the music and it was finally time for a little spoken word. The young artist my friend and I spoke with was up and she joined him. He allowed her to start with her song about a tree and he followed with his poetry, while she continued to play. Several drummers picked up the beat, but before long there were a few too many and the drum circle wasn't really listening to each other. Even so, my friend found a way to conduct them back into the same basic rhythmic pattern and the Penguins of Paradise carried on through the 10 minute open mic. 

When it finally dissolved, my friend and I exchanged smiles and left the little hokie coffee house. All in all, it had been a sweet and entertaining evening on Santa Monica street. 

A Word On Syria-

 "So in the interest of innocent victims everywhere, 
we as journalists need to work harder to find out who they were, to paint a picture of the lives they had and the people who grieve for them. 

May they all rest in peace -- and be counted." 

(Sara Sidner, CNN)*

*the quote above was take from an article discussing the recent 17 victims in Afghanistan, however it applies to this platform

In Syria, an estimated 9000+ people have been declared dead. And as numbers continue to increase, so does the discourse about what will come next and if the Syrian regime doesn't accept a plan presented by Kofi Annan to end the conflict peacefully, which thus far has not been done. Of course, the debate also rages on as to whether or not Annan's "cease-fire" and negotiation "plan" will even be effective as the Opposition groups struggle to come to terms in Istanbul. 

The Western educated Syrian leaders, with their iTunes lists, flirty emails and general dismissal of the pain they inflict on their own people has certainly been nothing but disturbing. In recent days, President Bashar Al-Assad visited the city of Homs where much of the shelling occurred and from where residents fled...those that did not die on the way out, for the past year. But it seems his visit was only that of a political ploy. According to activists, shelling continued after he left and others say security forces gathered a "pro-Assad" crowd to make his visit seem welcome. Even humanitarian groups have had difficulty getting in and out of the country to rescue those with dire medical needs. The situation, frankly, is a mess.

Ironically, the "Friends of Syria," seem to be looking less like friends and more like the political leaders debating how to handle the ravaged country, that is, idly sitting by and "talking." There are those among the Arab nations who might readily arm the opposition and but Western powers hesitate when there is a wide variety of opposition groups that have yet to come together. At the end of the day, the International Community is frustrating the people who are suffering the most. Even Annan's 6-point plan seems like steps right out of a self-help book in the dusty corner at Barnes & Noble bookstore. 

While the world's leaders have encouraged the opposition to create a clear vision of what they hope for the future of Syria, most are just trying to survive. Women, Children, Old Men - are lost, are dead, are barely hanging on. At the end of the day, the politics are meaningless and the talk is just that -- babble achieving nothing, at least not until the last gun shot is fired, not until the last explosive reduces to ashes. If the international community doesn't, there are those with ill intentions, and theirs will be the help Syria receives because they have no one else.  Even then, the repair will take years and the mourning will have only just begun. 

The tears, anger and suffering press on, and ironically, the journalists seem to be the only hope for the Syrian people. Perhaps, just maybe, if we keep showing their stories, chasing the aftermath, showing the blood and sweat and screams -- the world will finally wake up.