Location: Mudbanks of the Salmon River, Hwy 2 Overpass Truro NS
Distance Travelled: 0 km (130 km)
"The Unknown God"
Crude is a good word, not inaccurate for the phase I was in, too harsh I guess for what I should have been thinking. I don't know how to describe that. I'm in a place now where behind me lies the life I've repeated, and before me lies Frost's fork. I can let it go and be cursed to repeat it again, or take the road less travelled, and actually stop the cycle... youth is sooooo wasted on the young.
And welcome to this week's installment of "Where's Greg gonna sleep next?" Last week we left our intrepid voyager in the Nova Scotian city of Truro; where he met a tribe of Pentecosts and befriended one of their soldiers of God. Now prepare, as we give you the on-going saga of "Where's Greg gonna sleep next?"
Ok, so I'm still a little hyped from the coffee and my brief walk on the Trans Canada... Man they are driving fast!! I found myself on the wrong side of the river and only a 3 hour trek back through town would get me on the side I wanted... or, I could use the main highway. I opted for the shortest route which was not the safest. Now I've hitch-hiked on the 401 back home, but I stood at least a good 5-8 feet from the traffic. This bridge only gave me a 4' path between the barrier and the 140 kph transports. It was a rush.
Once on the North shore, I decided to camp out under the bridge. The traffic won't bother me. I recall stories from my mother of how she would vaccume my room while I was sleeping. The good news is, I'm on hard-packed mud. A big change from the stone shiatzu only 48 hours ago. As Rudy may be saying right now "ask and He shall provide".
Now I'll get back to that later. Let's start with breakfast... mmmm bacon, eggs, spiced venison and a banana, topped with a big glass of apple juice. I passed on the coffee. It was instant, and I'm not a barbarian :) I'm only kidding! Hey, I'm eating strait from a can of flaked turkey (which looks more like cat food). I just choose what I drink and I can't go back to instant coffee. Now I have a tune in my head "you don't mess around with..." that's it. I really don't like not remembering words to songs. If anyone remembers the song, I'd like to learn it.
update:
Jim Croche: "You Don't Mess Around With Jim"
Uptown got it's hustlers
The bowery got it's bums
42nd Street got Big Jim Walker
He's a pool-shootin' son of a gun
Yeah, he big and dumb as a man can come
But he stronger than a country hoss
And when the bad folks all get together at night
You know they all call big Jim "Boss", just because
And they say
You don't tug on Superman's cape
You don't spit into the wind
You don't pull the mask off that old Lone Ranger
And you don't mess around with Jim
Well outta south Alabama come a country boy
He say I'm lookin' for a man named Jim
I am a pool-shootin' boy
By name 'a Willie McCoy
But down home they call me Slim
Yeah I'm lookin' for the king of 42nd Street
He drivin' a drop top Cadillac
Last week he took all my money
And it may sound funny
But I come to get my money back
And everybody say Jack don't you know
You don't tug on Superman's cape
You don't spit into the wind
You don't pull the mask off that old Lone Ranger
And you don't mess around with Jim
Well a hush fell over the pool room
Jimmy come boppin' in off the street
And when the cuttin' was done
The only part that wasn't bloody
Was the soles of the big man's feet, ooh
And he was cut in about a hundred places
And he were shot in a couple more
And you better believe
There come another kind of story
When big Jim hit the floor now they say
You don't tug on Superman's cape
You don't spit into the wind
You don't pull the mask off that old Lone Ranger
And you don't mess around with Slim
Yeah, big Jim got his hat
Find out where it's at
And it's not hustlin' people strange to you
Even if you do got a two-piece custom-made pool cue
Yeah you don't tug on Superman's cape
You don't spit into the wind
You don't pull the mask off the old Lone Ranger
And you don't mess around with Slim
The bowery got it's bums
42nd Street got Big Jim Walker
He's a pool-shootin' son of a gun
Yeah, he big and dumb as a man can come
But he stronger than a country hoss
And when the bad folks all get together at night
You know they all call big Jim "Boss", just because
And they say
You don't tug on Superman's cape
You don't spit into the wind
You don't pull the mask off that old Lone Ranger
And you don't mess around with Jim
Well outta south Alabama come a country boy
He say I'm lookin' for a man named Jim
I am a pool-shootin' boy
By name 'a Willie McCoy
But down home they call me Slim
Yeah I'm lookin' for the king of 42nd Street
He drivin' a drop top Cadillac
Last week he took all my money
And it may sound funny
But I come to get my money back
And everybody say Jack don't you know
You don't tug on Superman's cape
You don't spit into the wind
You don't pull the mask off that old Lone Ranger
And you don't mess around with Jim
Well a hush fell over the pool room
Jimmy come boppin' in off the street
And when the cuttin' was done
The only part that wasn't bloody
Was the soles of the big man's feet, ooh
And he was cut in about a hundred places
And he were shot in a couple more
And you better believe
There come another kind of story
When big Jim hit the floor now they say
You don't tug on Superman's cape
You don't spit into the wind
You don't pull the mask off that old Lone Ranger
And you don't mess around with Slim
Yeah, big Jim got his hat
Find out where it's at
And it's not hustlin' people strange to you
Even if you do got a two-piece custom-made pool cue
Yeah you don't tug on Superman's cape
You don't spit into the wind
You don't pull the mask off the old Lone Ranger
And you don't mess around with Slim
Anyway, to get back to my story. After breakfast, Rudy and I went to church which consisted of a mother's day sermon. Now I've been to quite a few baptist sermons, so today's was really low key. But the good reverend talked about the hnour and strength of a Godly woman. That was a very interesting speach. I personally believe in pre-marital sex and with cohabitaion of unmarried couples because; and this may sound crude; I don't want to marry a bad lay, or a slouch. I'm messy enough with my own belongings. So when I leave a mess, I want Hitler herself kicking my but to clean it up. As for Sex life, I want to be sure that she can return the kind of passion that I'm willing to put into a relationship, and not just first time. It has to reoccur regularly or it becomes boring and stale.
I've dated her, done that one, burnt the t-shirt. however, the Reverend's description of a woman who knows her worth and won't take garbage as a price, that's the kind of woman who earn's my respect. All through the sermon, a picture of the respectable woman was forming in my mind. The perfect wife for me. He may have described her as Godly, but to me, respect will do the same thing. Respect for her, and respect for herself.
Afterwards, while everyone was leaving, the Rev and I talked about traveling. He as a young man used to hitch-hike around the states and at one time was accused of a rape/murder that had occured near to where he happened to be. Against him was evidence like "lone traveller", "jewelery in his pocket", "carrying a strait razor". I don't blame anyone for carrying a knife, I carry one as a traveller myself. The jewelry was a cheap buy from a wholesaler who'd given him a ride a few days before. His saving grace was a journal he kept of his travels' much like this one. That journal probably saved him from a life in jail, or the death penalty (depending on which state he was in). Well this Rev was the kind of person who had well earned the respect, trust and admiration of his flock.
For the next hour or two, Rudy and I had coffee and we talked about our differences, my philosophy and his faith. I think we came to the point where we each understood the subtle differences in our platforms. I believe in the possibility of the unknown god, as was claimed by Socrates, and Rudy's faith was based on Peter's placing Christ on that empty pedestal.
--
Friar Greg
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