Dispatches may be spotty over the next month — not because I’m not writing, photographing, & filming, but because cell coverage is still spotty in parts of our country. I’ll be finishing the Atlantic Coast Route / East Coast Greenway Route on my bicycle. Finishing the tour I started last year.
Last year I rode roughly 1,300 miles of the east coast — from Key West, FL to Georgetown, SC and later from Calais, ME to Stafford Springs, CT.
A smart person would just make up the gap from Georgetown, SC to Stafford Springs, CT— but as you’ve surmised by now — I ain’t no smart person.
No, I intend to ride from Georgetown, SC to Lubec, ME — roughly 1,500 miles (dependent on route variations). I’ll be on my own the first week from Georgetown, SC to Jacksonville, NC, and then on May 6th I’ll join up with 3 other riders, and then we’ll meet up with 2 other riders, and others will join and drop off along the way. This group is called the Spinners.
This all starts today for me, and on June 8th (thereabouts) we should be looking across an inlet at Canada from the shores of Lubec, ME.
I’ll correspond regularly, but the ether and theeinternets have their own wily ways and ideas and may not always cooperate. I’ll try to get through every night.
And so, here it goes . . .
What I’m Reading:
This yard is a certified wildlife habitat. These yards Make America
Laugh Again. Go Blue. From the top of a parking garage, I face the endless
not-anything. It is almost-green as I know it not-here.
got a synapse lapse gap got the serotonin sequence blues got a cytokine storm brewing antisocial binge spewing stuck in a funk punk death by a thousand boredoms gonna listen to the boredoms shake my mind up hustle the brain with skronk got the serotonin sequence blues
ain’t easy to be happy in a dying nation don’t sweat the small stuff — a dying civilization let’s hope the bacteria get it right next time got the serotonin sequence blues
we all have metanarratives inside us there’s a story for a story fix the music in your pose clarity in prose inessential got the serotonin sequence blues
What I’m Reading:
Troops of monkeys living on the Rock of Gibraltar have learned to eat soil in what scientists believe is an effort to settle their stomachs after all the junk food they receive – and sometimes steal – from crowds of tourists.
Researchers spotted the intentional mud eating, known as geophagy, while observing groups of Barbary macaques in the territory. Monkeys that had the most contact with tourists ate the most soil and consumption peaked in the holiday season, they found.
— Ian Sample / “Gibraltar’s monkeys eat mud ‘to avoid upset stomachs from tourist junk food’” / The Guardian
She spoke to her AI speaker, “Play ocean sounds.” The speaker responded and complied.
She dreamt of a thin pixellated mist outside her window as the opening shot to her next film.
She placed her hand on her clavicle—fingertips finding soft purchase in the hollow just above the bone. The contact sent a hot fist-sized ball coursing through her nerves to the center of her brain where she felt a concussive shock which sent barbs out through to every nerve ending in her body.
“I don’t feel normal. I feel as if something is off,” she said to a formless shadow in the mist. “Without any raw footage I have nothing to edit. Where’s my Bolex?” She rolled her glasses up on her head, keeping the hair off of her face.
The shadow spoke: “I think you should reconsider what you consider an appropriate gift. The only riveting thing about you are the rivets in your underhanded glances.”
Squalls of psychobilly guitar cut the air. She did a pogo-twist as if she were on the stage at Max’s Kansas City.
The sound transfigured into a spray of arterial blood on her bedroom ceiling. The walls, the floor the mirror behind the bedroom door were covered in spatters. A small pool of congealed blood in the corner next to her hamper. Drag marks on the floor.
She woke gasping for air. The ocean sounded like cyclonic roil. She woke up twisted in her sheets, on her side, with her head perched off the edge of the bed.
She called in sick. She had to sleep again to recover from the way she slept. She swore off indica edible gummies. Never again.
What I’m Reading:
And what might a bumblebee dream of? The moments of their life, perhaps: the flowers they have visited, their taste and smell. The paths they followed to get there. Other bees they have known.
Small drop leaf table and 4 vinyl/wood chairs, used indoors and outdoors. From home with a cat. TH 5 . . . “I think it’s important not to shy away from showing the hard stuff, reckoning with how things are.” . . . What happens when reality TV begins to look like the Stanford Prison Experiment? . . . Does reading make us better people? Yes, but maybe not how you expect . . . Last week, we stood in a room with the Governor of New Hampshire and a group of businesses building things here, and talked about why we choose to do it this way . . . You are receiving this email because you opted in via our website . . . a series of original essays that explores experiences and ideas that spark the writing of new poems . . . Mine is a life dedicated / to the calculation of loss . . . At twenty-five, my best friend from junior high took his own life . . . With full suspension, fat tires, integrated lights with turn signals, and app connectivity, this bike packs in a ton of features—but there are a few tradeoffs you’ll want to know about . . . Where in The Art of War does it say you should fire your senior military leaders in the middle of a conflict? . . . The trajectory of this month sure hasn’t been what I predicted due to a hard crash I took a few weeks back, head-first into some rocks . . . Attached is the most recent copy of the itinerary. I have added in the missing day on Cape May . . . Capture faster, immersive panoramas for instant sharing . . . Cocaine pollution in rivers and lakes may disrupt behaviour of salmon, study finds . . . May is National Bike Month and that means the best month of the year starts this week!
What I’m Reading:
the body emitting the body emitting flames of radiance flames of radiance . . .
Within the U.S. today, people are again moving because of disasters, and because of the slow-grind attrition of heat, flooding, and rising insurance rates. Earlier this year, the nonprofit Internal Displacement Monitoring Centre found that disasters had caused 11 million evacuations or relocations in the previous 12 months. These numbers will climb.
— Vann R. Newkirk II / “What Climate Change Will Do To America By Mid-Century” / The Atlantic
Not sure what’s more embarrassing, that at fourteen I still lusted for stuffed animals or that mum’s target at the claw machine was way better than mine.
Precise as threading a needle, she’d push the steel arm straight into the heart of the stuffed pit, wait, sipping Pepsi, hand on hip, sure as a cowboy. Once, her single turn brought back not one but two animals.
— Preeti Vangani / “Astro Mischief”
The right to roam is an American tradition dating back to our nation’s origins, when ordinary folks had the right to walk through privately owned woods and fields, and along the coasts.
While this may seem like a vestige of our past, gone forever like the flocks of passenger pigeons whose migrations once darkened our skies, there is reason for hope. In several European countries this freedom has been reborn and is thriving, suggesting that it can be reborn here.
— Ken Ilgunas / This Land Is Our Land: How We Lost The Right to Roam and How to Take it Back
This is a brutal place.
We blame the dead for their dying.
We train our eyes to make their bodies grow to monstrous girth.
We say their blood is a necessary sacrifice.
Or worse, we forget their blood.
— Ashley M. Jones / “Conflict / War”
An analysis of DNA evidence from more than 15,000 ancient humans has revealed that human evolution has accelerated over the past 10,000 years. Researchers identified almost 500 gene variants that evolved through natural selection in ancient European and Middle-Eastern people after the dawn of agriculture. Many of those variants are linked to the resistance to diseases, such as tuberculosis. Accelerated evolution could reflect the intensification of lifestyle changes that started in the Neolithic period, such as new foods and pathogens, says population geneticist David Reich.
— Jacob Smith / “Human evolution sped up after farming” / Nature Brief
We didn’t have a telephone.
We didn’t have a radio.
We didn’t have a fridge.
We used to keep the bodies for three days because that’s how long it took for the messenger to alert the relatives, by foot.
They put the dead bodies by the side of the river.
— Bhanu Kapil / “Diptych”
In the next 30 years, climate disruptions won’t make whole states unlivable, and demographic shifts might not reach full exodus levels. But in America, small change is often deeply felt, and bit by bit, the American economy and culture will likely be transformed by climate attrition and the redistribution of people. Southern states will lose residents and dynamism. Bad weather and ruined infrastructure will sap productivity and leave behind thousands of acres of abandoned farmland after crop failures.
— Vann R. Newkirk II / “What Climate Change Will Do To America By Mid-Century” / The Atlantic
What I’m Listening To:
Now who the hell are these federal pricks? Hiding in the senate like a bloated ass tick Air-conditioned fuckstick loafers Sittin’ in a room full of army posters
A coal to a diamond, a vote into law They campaign up all the blood they can draw Mold your world, a soldier’s just clay How much does every soldier weigh? Cut you at the ankles, and they throw that ass away
Boots on the ground
— Massive Attack & Tom Waits / “Boots on the Ground”
something changed within the wound . . . next, i was in a hall of whirling cylinders . . . from ooze to steady flow . . . a damned infection set in . . . the vicodin didn’t hurt, and it soon kicked in . . . late fly fragile sparkle theory ripe different voracious air chubby saudade . . . use my leatherman on the weatherman irrigate him quickly . . . i’m not a surgeon . . . sid vicious was the nurse and gibby haynes was on the anesthesia mask . . . my jaw locked . . . the slits were the surgical team . . . this was going to hurt — a lot . . . dolorous incantations from the raincoats as my nerves were severed . . . the biohazard bag was soon full of useless viscera . . . i felt pounds lighter . . . is a cold shower safe after the abscesses are spread on sourdough . . . i was completely exhausted then, half the person i’d been . . . i walked into the fog-socked tundra . . .
What I’m Reading:
. . . the labyrinths you build for yourself have no exit . . .
Panda cycling and recycling, panda-demics, and panda demotics. Find yourself in the world of widespread fraud and plate tectonics in response to politic-tonics — those gestures and flourishes that are not of this society, of this culture, right? Write!
Go on and write so much so that you can pare down and shape it into something resembling cohesion — that will catch a sovereign ear rather than the father of the mishmash masterclass, of the pell mell muttering, and thee argy-bargy desultory twister.
Meaning is at once nonsense and resoundingly salient only to itself, its maker, and to ladies who lunch coiffed in Viking hair and festooned with scratchcard lanyards. Heep hoop!
Pick up the dry cleaning.
What I’m Reading:
In truth, I haven’t tasted coffee For twenty‑nine days. I haven’t written. For twenty days I waited, Thinking it might be enough To call your name And weep for you.
Alas, very soon everything will disappear: the birdcalls, the delicate blossoms. In the end, even the earth itself will follow the artist’s name into oblivion.
This interior thing, miniscule. From the blackness of the blind viscera, hot and yellow, the miniscule speck, the luminous grain. Yellow spreads and smooths, a downpour of the pure light of its name, tropicordial.
thee istsfor manity reader 