travel

This Land: New York

Of course, like California, Texas, and Florida, New York is too big for just one post. However, we’ll have to settle on this phase of the tour as Ronnie & Rocinante are on an ever tightening time schedule. They may return to NY in late July or August, Texas in September or October.

Anyway… New York! The Big Apple! Everybody’s got a New York story, right? Like it’s a damn pilgrimage you gotta make to prove you’re a fully functioning ‘murican. So, Ronnie has his personal connections to New York, that slab of concrete crammed with eight million other schmucks all trying to get somewhere slightly faster than the next guy.

First up, Bob Dylan! Yeah, Bobby Z. The voice of a generation, a moniker he wisely refused to hold. Voice like a rusty wheel on an outlaw biker’s ride, but hey, you know what they say about the squeaky one! And Ronnie has a deep reverence for Dylan’s impact on the music biz. Over the years Ronnie has cultivated a small garden of his own. Well… not so much in the “business”. Even though he was active as a player in the 1980/90s, he retreated from that merry-go-round in time to ring in the new millennium. No longer playing for money, but not willing to abandon his garden. He’s out there with a tiny little rake and a watering can, growing organic, timeless songs while the bulldozers of pop-country are paving a formulaic paradise next door… in “the biz”.

Anyway, Ronnie retreated from the biz. Got out before some cheap hustler grafted a spiked dog collar on his neck and made him rock out about peach cobbler, or cherry pie, or something equally inane. Meanwhile, in contrast, Dylan, like Ronnie, came from “nowheresville“. But, unlike Ronnie, Bobby Z. made good. You could say he cashed in. Or you could say he wisely avoided J. Edgar Hoover’s death ray at a time of serious danger for influential folks taking contrary views on the war in Vietnam. And Ronnie? Well, he “jumped off the bandwagon in time to raise a couple kids and try to pursue some resemblance of adult career-like activities.” Translation: he chickened out and got a job! A job, folks! That thing you do so you can afford the therapist you need because of your job! But hey, at least he’s got his self-produced records, no autotune, all-natural. Not perfect, in fact, fairly crude. But hey, imperfect authenticity beats sanitized, pitch-corrected pablum any day!

Next up for Ronnie’s New York story! Those goddamn 1970s and 80s TV programs. Oh, the cultural landmarks! “All in the Family” apparently had a big impact. Well, that explains a lot, doesn’t it? His maternal grandad and eldest uncle were “Archie Bunker clones.” Clones! Like they were churned out in some bigot factory in Queens! Provincial, nativist, racist, misogynist… the wholeunenlightened enchilada! The things Ronnie’s Grandpa would say watching ball games on TV would make a PC maven cringe all the way to their socks. We kid you not! Probably stuff that would make Archie Bunker hisowndamnself say, “Whoa, take it easy there, Meathead’s dad!” There’s that. Yeah, but for Ronnie, Saturday Night Live came as a refreshing cool breeze… a tonic for the raging rebel soul!

Then, there’s the mid-2000s. Ronnie and his girlfriend hit the big city! A “whirlwind junket around Gotham.” Five days in Manhattan! Almost enough time to get used to the subway system. Almost! That’s like saying five minutes in a high-school boys’ locker room is almost enough time to get used to the smell! I’ve heard folks say you never get used to the New York subway. Like a mobile petri dish filled to the rim with way too much humanity and the distinct aroma of “what the hell is that?”

They “visited MoMa.” Modern art! Where jaded connoisseurs stare at a red square on a white canvas and go, “Profound!” Yeah, easy money, right? After a good stroll through MoMa, Ronnie and his companion “Sought out culinary treasures.” For some, that would be like paying $30 for a hot dog and calling it “artisanal.” But no, there’s super interesting ethnic fare to discover if you know where to look. Our heroes had an “exotic food on a budget” guide, and it delivered, in spades. They also hiked across the Brooklyn Bridge, a little slice of history. Hey! You can take the boy out of the High Plains, but… Anyway the pair also rode the elevator to the top of the Empire State Building! The observation deck! “Look, sweetie! Tiny little yellow cars full of tiny little schmucks just like us!”

And the highlight: a nighttime 5K around Central Park! Because running in circles in the dark in a city famous for its muggers is just good, clean fun! Nothing like a good dose of adrenaline to pump up your 5K time. And then, the pièce de résistance: Ronnie got yelled at by a Ralph Kramden clone driving a shuttle bus! A shuttle bus! They didn’t have a pass! A pass! For a bus! What is this, Gaza? “Where you from?” the bus driver bellows. Ronnie, thinking he’s clever, says, “Queens?” And the driver, a true scholar of human nature and New York geography, wasn’t buying it! So they had to walk back to the hotel! Oh, the humanity! Trudging through the concrete jungle, probably past a dozen guys selling “I Heart NY” shirts made by children in a sweatshop in a country they can’t pronounce. That’s your New York experience right there!

Finally, Ronnie and Rocinante are hunkered down in Horseheads New York for the writing of this post. Horseheads… central southern New York. Now there’s a name that just rolls off the tongue and lands in a pile of what-the-hell. The story behind it is “somewhat Stephen King-esque.” You might imagine it involving a disgruntled farmer, a cursed field, and a pile of, well, you know. Horseheads! We wouldn’t be surprised if the local football team was called “The Impalers.” Truth isn’t far from all that, by the way. You gotta love a town that just puts the weird right out there on the welcome sign. No pretense, just “Yup, Horseheads. Deal with it.” At least it’s honest, unlike the rest of the current era in the good ol’ U.S. of A.

Ok…

Onward through the fog… RH

In New York City…
You’ll find no pity…
To make it there…
Takes lots of gritty…
But like ol’ Blue Eyes…
In soothing crooner tones…
Make it there…
You’ll make it anywhere.

This Land: Maryland

We have the “West”.
We have the “Midwest”.
We have the “Southwest”.
We have the “Post-Jim-Crow South”.
We have the “New England” colonies.

All of these regions have their unique character. However, there is a place where this variety gets brewed into a delicious stew. That place is called Maryland. Sorta like “spiral motion physics,” where the motion around a source of attraction forms spiraling patterns toward the source like a whirlpool. That point is DC, and the American stew is at its diversity-best in the surrounding area, Maryland. And it’s not just the people as the geography is also representative of this diversity. Maryland may not be one of the largest states in the US, but with its variety of culture, climate, topographical features, and temperament, some would say…

Maryland is America in Miniature

Now… it’s impossible to speak of Maryland in the year of our lord 2025 without mentioning the apparent shifting in nature of that cultural/political source of gravity in DC. It is a brazen spectacle to behold, our present-day republic teetering on the precipice of a descent into a veritable kakistocracy. A governance of the witless and the fearful as outlined in the so-called “Project 2025.” This ponderous tome, a testament to the enduring American appetite for sanctimonious nonsense, imagines a future so bleakly uniform, so relentlessly scrubbed of the invigorating cacophony of realpolitik, that one is almost moved to pity the authors for their impoverished imaginations. They pine for a nation remade in the image of a white-washed sepulcher, a monotonous ethno-state lorded over by a monarch of their own anointing.

In moments of such profound national heartburn, it is instructive, and indeed, affirming, to cast a backward glance at the decision to remove the federal government’s seat from the feverish grasp of Philadelphia to the relatively blank slate of Maryland and what is now known as the District of Columbia. This was not merely a geographical relocation, but a providential compromise of competing interests escaping the miasma of a political homogeneity that then, as now, threatened to asphyxiate the nascent republic in its sleep.

One need only consider the character of Maryland, that delightful America in Miniature, to appreciate the wisdom of our founders. Here is a state forged in the crucible of religious tolerance, a haven for England’s persecuted Catholics, who, though a minority, were granted the revolutionary courtesy of coexisting with their Puritan tormentors. This early experiment in pluralism, though not without its lamentable “plundering times” at the hands of Cromwellian zealots, set a precedent for the rich and varied tapestry that is modern Maryland. It is a state where, to this day, the descendants of indentured servants and the progeny of freed slaves live and work alongside a vibrant influx of souls from every corner of the globe – Africa, Asia, Central America, and the Caribbean. Indeed, it stands as one of a handful of states where the so-called “minorities” now constitute the majority, a demographic destiny that sends shivers down the spines of the Project 2025 Christian Nationalist hierarchs.

The very soil of Maryland seems to reject the notion of a monolithic culture. From the salt-laced air of the Chesapeake to the rolling hills of the Piedmont, the state’s varied topography mirrors the diversity of its people. It is a place where the first American-born saint rests, a testament to its Catholic roots, yet where Protestants and the happily godless now outnumber the papists. It is a “Free State” not merely in its defiance of Prohibition’s follies, but in its very essence – a haven for the unconventional, boasting one of the highest concentrations of those who defy the rigid taxonomies of gender and sexuality. Let us not forget that the first American to proudly proclaim himself a “drag queen,” the courageous William Dorsey Swann, hailed from these parts, a pioneer in the eternal struggle for the right to be oneself, however flamboyant.

Contrast this vibrant, chaotic, and ultimately more interesting reality with the sterile vision of the Project 2025 evangelists. They yearn for a nation of one political philosophy, one creed, one stultifying set of beliefs, a landscape as flat and featureless as their own intellectual horizons. Theirs is a philosophy born of fear – fear of the other, fear of the new, fear of the messy and unpredictable nature of a truly free society. They would dismantle the very administrative state that, for all its bureaucratic bungling, provides a framework for our collective endeavor, and replace it with a system of pay-to-play patronage and ideological loyalty tests. They would, in essence, turn the clock back to an imagined golden age that never was.

The historical record of Maryland stands as a powerful rebuke to this retrograde fantasy. It was in Maryland that the ideals of the Revolution led to the liberation of thousands of slaves, a moral awakening that, while imperfect and tragically delayed, pointed toward a more just future. It was on Maryland’s soil, at Antietam, that the tide of a bloody Civil War, fought over the very soul of the nation, began to turn. And it was Maryland that, in the ashes of that conflict, abolished slavery and extended the franchise to its non-white citizens. This is not the history of a people wedded to a single, exclusionary identity, but of a people grappling, often violently, with the complexities of building a society out of disparate and often conflicting parts.

The proponents of this newfangled ethno-nationalist monarchy would do well to study this history. They would do well to observe the thriving economy of Maryland, buoyed by its proximity to the very federal government they seek to corrupt. They would do well to visit its public libraries, those bastions of self-directed education that offer knowledge to all, regardless of station or background.

In the final analysis, the decision to plant the nation’s capital in the embrace of Maryland was a stroke of genius. It was an implicit recognition that the strength of this republic lies not in its ability to enforce a bland uniformity, but in its capacity to absorb and celebrate its manifold diversities. The future of this nation, if it is to have a future worth mentioning, will not be found in the sterile pages of Project 2025, but in the noisy, vibrant, and gloriously untidy reality of places like Maryland. Let the hollow sycophants preach their gospel of homogeneity; the rest of us, the free human beings in this republic, will continue to draw our strength from the rich and fertile soil of our diversity.

And that’s all we have to say about that.

Onward through the fog… RH

You can’t just waltz by…
The state of Maryland…
Too much to see…
Too much to do…
Get on the Metro…
To the Fed. Triangle…
And don’t forget…
To hydrate properly.

This Land: Pennsylvania

Ok… Rocinante has ventured into the Pennsylvania interior, not so much because Ronnie asked her to, but because the public libraries in Altoona all seem to be stuck in the 20th Century. Either lacking accommodations for folks with their own productivity machines (laptops) or prohibiting Ronnie’s coffee mug AND lacking places for him to work with power and WiFi. Anyway, they finally settled in a Sheetz convenience store to compose this post.

Now, the extent of Ronnie’s personal history with Pennsylvania is from the deep dark days of the 1980s. A time of self-discovery, good times, and madness. Ronnie and few other lost children formed a brief tribal bond, and one of those lost children was a native of Pennsylvania Amish Country. So… rather than dig up a bunch of boring travel-blog fare, let’s relive a version of this story.

Without further adieu, the saga of “Dangerous Dan, the Sonesta Stud.”
WARNING – nearly all of the following names and places have been changed in order to avoid future heartbreak or litigation. Consume at 2025’s level of truth-decay:

The weathered picnic tabletop in the Yoder kitchen probably saw more existential dread per square inch than a Parisian café, and that’s saying something. Young Danny Yoder, not yet “Dangerous Dan,” certainly not the “Sonesta Stud,” just Danny, a kid with an ample bowl-cut mop of hair and a future he figured was about as exciting as a rerun of Hee Haw, was chief among the brooders. Pennsylvania. God’s country, his old man called it, usually right before hitching the family horse to the buggy to run errands. For Danny, it was a landscape of muted greens and plain grays, a place where dreams went to die, or worse, to settle down and work the farm.

He’d seen the rock gods on MTV, their hair a defiant sculpture against the drab backdrop of whatever town they’d crawled out of. Poison. Mötley Crüe. Bon Jovi, for christsake. Their rebellion was loud, dyed, and probably flammable. Danny wanted a piece of that. So, the bowl was stowed, replaced by a peroxide inferno and enough Pink Can Aqua Net to qualify as a minor environmental hazard. He spiked it high, a golden crown of defiance, and pointed his rust-bucket west, toward Thornton, Colorado, a place he’d picked off a map because it sounded like it might have a decent guitar shop.

Thornton in the ‘80s. It was a magnet for the misplaced, an endless sprawl of cloned, cookie-cutter future meth labs, much like its inhabitants. Dan, as he now insisted on being called, found his tribe. There was Rikki, a drummer whose rhythm was only slightly less erratic than his love life; Timothy “Zipperhead” Johnson, who’d fried half his brain cells working at a battery plant but could beat Kasparov two out of three, or so he claimed; and a rotating cast of lost boys and girls, all chasing something just out of focus. They congregated in the “Mountain Knowles” apartments along the Valley Highway smelling of stale cigarettes and ambition, the kind of ambition that usually fizzles out with the rising of the “Golden Orb.”

Dan, with his newly minted blonde spikes and a sneer he’d practiced in gas station bathroom mirrors all the way from PA, fell in with a band. Not in the band, mind you. More like… around the band. Their singer, a raven-haired siren named Tina whose voice could melt glaciers and whose eyes promised paradise and peril in equal measure, had a habit of attracting trouble. The kind of trouble that wore leather jackets and carried bike chains. Dan and the boys, fueled by cheap beer and an even cheaper desire to be heroes, appointed themselves her unofficial bodyguards.

Now, the legend of “Dangerous Dan” was born one sticky night behind a dive bar called The Rusty Nail. A gaggle of local tough girls, jealous of Tina’s allure or maybe just bored, decided to redecorate her face. Dan, armed with nothing but his Pink Can Aqua Net (extra super hold, naturally, because even in a brawl, a man has standards) and a surprising amount of righteous fury, waded in. He didn’t so much fight them as…disperse them, in a cloud of aerosolized lacquer and screeching. Tina, suitably impressed or perhaps just grateful not to have a black eye, rewarded him with a kiss that tasted like cherry lipstick and untapped potential. He was smitten. Head over heels. A goner.

The Sonesta Bowl, a local institution smelling of lane wax, stale beer, and desperation, was where the other half of his moniker took root. Dan, it turned out, had a certain…knack with the ladies who frequented the attached tavern. Maybe it was the hair. Maybe it was the brooding silence that some mistook for depth. Whatever it was, the whispers started: “That’s the Sonesta Stud.” He’d just shrug, order another Bud, and try not to think about how Tina’s eyes were increasingly drawn to the lead guitarist, a lanky dude with actual talent and fewer outstanding warrants.

The good times, as they always do, started to curdle. West Colfax was a different beast than suburban Thornton, a gritty strip of pawn shops, rods & bods, adult bookstores, and taverns where trouble wasn’t just brewed, it was served on tap. A turf war, or something equally pointless and testosterone-fueled, erupted between Dan’s loosely affiliated crew and a rival gang of greasers who looked like they’d stepped out of a time machine stuck on 1957. One night, under the flickering neon of a liquor store sign, things got biblical. Or at least, club-ical. Dan zigged when he should have zagged and a tire iron, or maybe it was a table leg (details got fuzzy when your bell was being rung like the Liberty on the Fourth of July), connected with his scalp. He woke up with a headache that could curdle milk and a ragged scab that peeked out from his blonde spikes, a permanent souvenir of his Colorado escapade. Dangerous Dan, indeed.

Then came the scattering. It happened not with a bang, but with a series of mumbled goodbyes and slammed car doors. Rikki, ever the pragmatist beneath the wild-man exterior, joined the Navy. “Three hots and a cot, man,” he’d said, “and maybe i’ll see the world, or at least a different part of this godforsaken country.” Zipperhead, after a particularly bad batch of something he’d scored, decided the ski slopes of Summit County held the answers, or at least better powder. Another, a quiet kid from South Dakota named Rogger Dogger, just packed his duffel one morning. “The grass ain’t always greener, Dan,” he’d offered, a sad smile playing on his lips. “Sometimes it’s just…different grass. And sometimes, your own patch ain’t so bad if you just water it right.”

The final blow, though, was Tina. She found her more eligible bachelor, a guy who owned a chain of car washes and didn’t have a collection of empty ramen noodle cups under his bed. Dan saw them once, gliding out of a steakhouse, her laughter echoing, bright and carefree. It was a sound he realized he hadn’t heard from her in a long time, not when she was with him anyway.

The Sonesta Stud. It was a joke, really. A hollow crown. He’d make out with the local talent, sure, a brief flicker of connection in the smoky haze of the bar, but it was like trying to warm your hands over a book of matches when you were freezing to death. The depression, when it finally hit, wasn’t a sudden storm but a slow, creeping fog, muffling the world, turning the vibrant colors of his imagined rock star life into a dull, aching gray. The kind of gray he’d tried to escape back in Pennsylvania.

The realization hit him harder than that club on Colfax. Wherever you go, there you are. The bleakness wasn’t in the rolling hills of PA or the strung out sprawl of Thornton. It was in him. A little piece of that old familiar picnic table, that existential dread, had apparently stowed away in that rust-bucket Pinto wagon and made the trip west with him.

So, Dangerous Dan, the Sonesta Stud, packed his remaining can of Aqua Net (it was mostly empty now, like his promises to himself) and pointed the Pinto east. Back to the land of doting parents, nosey cousins, and primitive back roads.

And a funny thing happened on the way back to being Danny Yoder. Or maybe it happened once he got there, once the Colorado dust had settled and the ringing in his ears from too many nights spent too close to overloaded amps had finally faded. The primitive back roads? They weren’t so bad. Kinda pretty, actually, especially in the fall when the leaves turned. The provincial attitudes? Hell, most folks were just trying to get by, same as anywhere. And his nosey cousins and doting parents…well, they were family. They’d clucked over his scar, his suspiciously blonde hair (now growing out, revealing the sensible brown it had always been underneath), and his general air of a man who’d wrestled with a few demons and maybe, just maybe, pinned one or two of them to the mat.

The things that used to grate on his nerves like a cheese grater on a raw potato suddenly seemed…comforting. The familiarity of it all, the sheer, unadorned Pennsylvanianess of it, was a balm. He even found himself helping his old man on the farm, the smell of turned earth a far cry from stale beer and regret.

Danny Yoder was home. The Sonesta Stud was a ghost, a story he might tell his own kids someday, if he ever got around to having some. Dangerous Dan? Well, maybe there was still a spark of him left, a reminder that even a kid from an hard working family in Pennsylvania Amish Country could chase a crazy dream, get his scalp split open, and live to tell the tale with a wry grin. The grass, he finally figured, was green enough right where he was standing. He just had to remember to look down once in a while, instead of always staring at some distant, peroxide-fueled horizon. And maybe, just maybe, that was the most rebellious thing of all.

Onward through the fog… RH

You can gain insight…
Off a single sheet…
From Amish country…
To the Denver mean streets…
To pin your demons…
To the mat of destiny…
Everywhere you go…
There you are.

This Land: West Virginia

Well well well, we’re still on the road. This week… West Virginia. We’re finding the fun has dwindled a bit. At times Ronnie confesses to feeling like an exposed nerve. It may have something to do with the change of scenery. After all, as a Kanorado native, Ronnie’s comfortable with wide open spaces. But starting in North Carolina, approaching the beginning humps of the Appalachians, Ronnie started developing a contracting state of claustrophobia. This sense of dread actually started earlier, in South Carolina, with conjured imaginings of what it would be like to navagate congested urban sprawl nestled amongst relentless steep grades, up and down and up and down, trying not to ride the brakes but sometimes unable to avoid it. Then what do you know? The two West Virginia college towns Rocinante stumbled into (WVU and Fairmount State) presented conditions exactly like Ronnie’s worst roller-coaster imaginings.

Now, the other side of Ronnie’s Kanorado upbringing leaves him no stranger to mountaineering. And, truth told, our heroes have learned to keep up with the locals. But there ain’t no autopilot moments like those on the prairie, and Ronnie’s exposed nerve feeling keeps interrupting the vagabond felicity. So, this brings us to what appears to be a recurring theme investigating West Virginia’s general “vibe”. From readings and conversations, Ronnie has detected a more than usual sense of bi-polar contradiction, set in some of the most beautiful, lush country our heroes have yet encountered.

West Virginia! A veritable Janus of banjos and 5g smartphones. Even before the rabble in Philadelphia started their tiresome bleating about liberty and taxes, this land of craggy peaks and shadowed hollers harbored a glorious dichotomy. On the one hand, you had rugged frontiersmen, creatures of axe and rifle, suspicious of anyone wearing hats indoors and whose idea of polite conversation involves hitting the spittoon bullseye. Folks of fierce independence, mind you, who’d sooner wrestle a bear than abide a revenue agent or a banker.

Then, cheek-by-jowl with these noble savages, you’d find the seeds of a peculiar sort of… let us call it genteel indolence. Picture the languid river valleys, where the air hangs thick and sweet as overripe peaches, and where ambition rarely stretches beyond a decent slash of corn liquor and a comfortable spot on the porch swing. Folks who view haste as vulgar and consider vigorous debate over the proper way to cure tobacco the height of intellectual ferment.

Enter the great unpleasantness of the Revolution, and West Virginia, bless her conflicted heart, found herself straddling the fence like a hound dog caught in a barbed wire. Still part of greater Virginia, she sent forth her share of flinty riflemen to give the Redcoats a proper thrashing, a surprising burst of collective energy. Yet, even amidst the patriotic fervor, one might suspect there were plenty of mountaineers more concerned with deer season than the pronouncements of some powdered wig in Williamsburg.

The Civil War, naturally, only amplified this delightful schizophrenia. Brother against brother, neighbor against neighbor… a perfect illustration of a populace simultaneously capable of profound loyalty and stubborn contrariness. One faction, fiercely attached to the traditions (and peculiar institutions) of the Old Dominion, marched off under the Stars and Bars. The other, smelling a chance for their own patch of sovereignty and perhaps harboring a lingering resentment for the tidewater gentry, cast their lot with the Union. The result? A bloody, internecine squabble fought amidst some of the most gorgeously indifferent scenery on the continent.

And now, in this glorious age of the World Wide Web, this bi-polar beast roars on. You have pockets of genuine, unadulterated Appalachia, where decent 4g access is as mythical as the Sasquatch, and where the most pressing technological concern is whether the battery in the coon-hunting flashlight is still good. Here, the ancient rhythms of the land persist, the wisdom is passed down through generations of storytellers, and a firm handshake still means more than a thousand likes or shares.

But then, just over the next ridge, you’ll stumble upon a Starlink antenna sprouting from a double-wide, its tendrils reaching out to the digital ether. Here, the denizens are just as likely to be scrolling through TikTok as whittling a piece of wood. They’re ordering drone parts on Amazon while simultaneously canning beets according to a recipe passed down from their great-grandmother. They’re arguing about cryptocurrency on Reddit while their hound dog snoozes by the wood-burning stove.

It’s an all too human mess, this West Virginia. A land where the echoes of Daniel Boone‘s long rifle mingle with stock-ticker notifications. A place where the fierce independence of mountaineers clash with the modern craving for instant gratification and online validation. It is, in short, a microcosm of the American condition, amplified and seasoned with a healthy dose of mountain stubbornness and a suspicion of anything invented after the Mason jar. Long may it remain so, a testament to the enduring human capacity for glorious contradiction.

As for OUR contradicted heroes, they’ll keep pushin’ on. Ronnie’s “exposed nerve” will surely abate. And just as well as the worst is yet to come. In fact, we’re told Blue Highway windshield time in Upstate NY and further North amounts to traveling up endless claustrophobia-inducing tree alleys. It’s funny because delusional Ronnie thought he would NEVER miss driving on endless prairies, but here we are. He probably just needs a reminder that flatlander driving very often includes bucking white-knuckle gale-force head and cross-winds… and that ain’t no fun neither.

Onward through the fog… RH

It makes you dizzy…
Blue Highway shizzy…
In West Virginia…
You can get busy…
And take a page from…
The Tao Te Ching…
This too will pass…
And equalize.

This Land: Virginia

To be clear, Rocinante is no stranger to mountaineering. In fact, she was literally born in Colorado Springs, her first initiation over Independence Pass through the valley of the Roaring Fork northwest of Aspen, where Owl Farm, Hunter S. Thompson‘s home redoubt sits. A gorgeous, exhilarating trip and Rocinante handled it without a hitch. Now, this is all familiar territory for Ronnie, a native of Kanorado. He’s seen it all, from Black Bear Road to the endless prairies of Western Kansas. That said, it’s hard for our heroes to stay focused traveling through Virginia as the lush Edenic land goes on and on and on. They made a point to stay on what Heat Moon dubbed “Blue Highways” and by arrival in Waynesboro, Ronnie was overwhelmed with the beauty of Virginia’s interior. So much he began to doubt his ability to return to the flatlands.

Anyway, let’s try to scratch the surface of Virginia, warts and all. The name whispers of a land steeped in history, and since Ronnie has no personal memories here, he’ll have to rely on the testimony of others weaving a tapestry with threads of glory and shame, beauty and brutality.

THE GOOD: In the nascent days of the Virginia Colony, a spirit of enterprise, however fraught with unintended consequence, took root. Brave souls, lured by the promise of land and opportunity, crossed the vast ocean, establishing settlements like Jamestown. Here, amidst hardship and uncertainty, the seeds of a new nation were sown. Think of the fortitude of women like Pocahontas, who, whether through romanticized legend or historical fact, stands as a bridge between two worlds, a figure of diplomacy in a time of great tension. The fertile soil yielded tobacco, a golden leaf that fueled the colony’s growth and prosperity, laying the foundation for a burgeoning society. Later, Virginia became the cradle of revolutionary thought, birthing patriots like Washington and Jefferson, whose eloquent pronouncements on liberty and self-governance echoed across the land, ultimately shaping the destiny of the United States. The establishment of institutions of learning, like the College of William & Mary, fostered intellectual pursuits and contributed to the development of a uniquely American identity. Even in later years, the spirit of progress continued, exemplified by the tireless efforts of individuals like Booker T. Washington, born into slavery in Virginia, who rose to become a beacon of hope and advocate for education and self-reliance for African Americans across the nation. His work at the Hampton Institute and Tuskegee University stands as a testament to the enduring power of human aspiration in the face of adversity.

THE BAD: Alas, like the shadow that invariably accompanies the light, Virginia’s history is not without its darker chapters. The very prosperity of the early colony was built upon a foundation of injustice: the brutal exploitation of the land and its indigenous inhabitants, and the abhorrent institution of chattel slavery. The arrival of enslaved Africans marked a profound and enduring stain on the Virginian narrative, a contradiction to the lofty ideals of liberty espoused by its leading figures. The echoes of the lash and the cries of the oppressed resonate through the centuries, a stark reminder of the inherent cruelty and inhumanity of this system. Even the allure of the land led to conflict and displacement, as the relentless westward expansion often came at the expense of Native American tribes who had called this land home for generations. The seeds of division sown in these early days would ultimately contribute to the cataclysm of the Civil War, a bloody conflict that tore the nation asunder and left an indelible scar upon the Virginian landscape.

THE UGLY: Beyond the grand narratives of heroism and injustice lie the more granular, often overlooked aspects of life that reveal a less romanticized past. The harsh realities of colonial life – the disease, the famine, the constant threat of conflict – painted a grim picture for many early settlers. Imagine the squalor of early settlements, the precariousness of existence, the ever-present specter of illness claiming lives with cruel indifference. Even the pursuit of wealth could lead to avarice and exploitation, as individuals sought to amass fortunes at the expense of their less fortunate neighbors. The social hierarchies, rigidly enforced, often left little room for advancement for those born into less privileged circumstances. And let us not forget the presence of those who operated outside the bounds of law and decency, preying on the vulnerable. While not directly a Virginian, the infamous pirate Blackbeard, with his fearsome reputation, certainly cast a shadow over the coastal waters, a symbol of the lawlessness that could occasionally disrupt the ordered (or disordered) affairs of the colony. The tales of his depredations, though perhaps embellished over time, speak to a certain brutishness that existed on the fringes of society.

BELIEVE IT OR NOT: Now, let us turn our attention to some of the more curious and perhaps less widely known aspects of Virginia’s history. Virginia once boasted a significant wine industry in its early days, with attempts made to cultivate European grape varieties. Though these initial efforts met with limited success, they speak to the early aspirations and diverse ambitions of the colonists. Furthermore, consider the intriguing stories surrounding the Lost Colony of Roanoke in present-day South Carolina, a mystery that continues to baffle historians to this day. The disappearance of an entire settlement, leaving behind only the cryptic word “Croatoan,” fuels speculation and whispers of unknown fates. And who would have thought that Virginia played a crucial role in the development of early American literature, with figures like William Byrd II chronicling colonial life in witty and insightful prose? These lesser-known facets add layers of complexity and intrigue to the well-trodden paths of historical narrative.

GHOSTS: Ah, and now we venture into the realm of shadows and whispers, where the veil between worlds is said to thin. Given its long and often turbulent history, it is perhaps unsurprising that Virginia is rife with tales of spectral encounters. Ancient plantations, witnesses to generations of joy and sorrow, are often whispered to be haunted by the lingering spirits of those who once walked their halls. Tales abound of disembodied voices, unexplained footsteps, and the spectral apparitions of former inhabitants, forever bound to the land. Civil War battlefields, soaked in the blood and anguish of a nation divided, are said to echo with the cries of long-lost soldiers, their restless spirits forever reenacting the tragic events of the past. Even the coastline, once frequented by pirates and privateers, holds legends of ghostly ships sailing through the mist, their spectral crews guarding long-lost treasures. Whether these tales are mere fancy or hold a kernel of truth, they undeniably add a certain mystique to the rich tapestry of Virginia’s past, a reminder that perhaps some echoes of history refuse to fade entirely.

Jamestown Church (renovated) — Jamestown Church (restored)

Blackbeard's capture — Jamestown Church (restored)

Thus, we have traversed the variegated landscape of Virginia’s history, from its promising beginnings and noble aspirations to its darker realities and enduring mysteries. The story of Virginia is one of stark contrasts, of light and shadow, of triumphs and tragedies, all woven together to create a snapshot as compelling and enduring as the land itself. And with that Ronnie and Rocinante bid Virginia fare well setting a course for neighboring West Virginia.

Onward through the fog… RH

From the strife of Jamestown…
To Colonial Union…
The nation’s birth pangs…
Start in Virginia…
And though the land was…
Abundant paradise…
Independence came with a heavy price.

This Land: North Carolina

Okay, in our South Carolina post, we mentioned the gentle ribbing in which natives of North and South Carolina are known to engage from time to time. And the trip from Myrtle Beach, to Boone, really brought the contrasts home for Ronnie. We spoke with natives on the boardwalk at Myrtle Beach, the library in North Wilkesboro, and the Cracker Barrel in Boone. After a couple sleep cycles and a few walkabouts, Ronnie’s impressions resemble a two-state demolition derby of contrasts, and since we gotta keep this train a rollin’, here’s the admittedly brief and somewhat whimsical assessment:

First, North Carolina, that bastion of AshVIlle cool, where the air crackles with Ph.D. energy and the bookstores overflow with Derridean Phenomenology. South Carolina? They’ve got… GreenvUlle. Where the humidity clings, the fire ants sting, and the barbecue joints are serious business. Yessirreebob!

The music scene? Oh, sweet Jesus, the music! Up north, it’s all flutes and dreads, the earthy strum of acoustic guitars, the faint, sweet smell of patchouli oil wafting through the co-op. Down south? It’s hiking gear and bandanas, the twang of banjos at a bluegrass festival, and enough Realtree camo to outfit a small militia!

And the cars, yeowtch! North Carolina, land of the practical, reliable, ready for anything, and perpetually covered in a fine layer of red clay dust, Subaru. South Carolina? The sleek, the sophisticated, the ultimate driving machine, BMW!

Religion? North Carolina, with its burgeoning tiny home communities, whispers of Zen, and a general suspicion of anything too… organized. South Carolina? Mega Churches! Sprawling complexes with parking lots the size of aircraft carriers, where the faithful gather in their Sunday best to hear the good word, amplified to stadium levels!

Recreational mood lifting? North Carolina? Green Man and bowls of ganja, homegrown, shared with friends, and definitely not served with a side of kale. The local, the earthy, the “we’ve been doing it this way for generations” vibe. Think hand-carved walking sticks and a healthy skepticism of anything invented after 1970. Down South, baby! Bowls of oats, organic, gluten-free, locally sourced, and probably sprouted under a full moon. Weekend warriors, decked out in the latest Gore-Tex, ready to conquer every trail, every peak, every kombucha brewery!

The canine companions? North Carolina, the noble rescue mutt, each with a story etched in their soulful eyes, their fur a testament to a life lived… outdoors. South Carolina? Golden Doodles, prancing through the farmers’ market, their fluffy coats gleaming in the artisanal sunlight.

Leisure? North Carolina… Kitty Hawk! The windswept dunes, the birthplace of flight, where the Wright brothers dared to dream, and where the royal green is an endless expanse of Blue Ridge forests. South Carolina? Golf courses, manicured to perfection, sprawling across the landscape like emerald carpets, the domain of the well-heeled and the well-tanned.

And the people? North Carolina… Hippies! clinging to the fringes, their tie-dye shirts a defiant splash of color in a world of khakis, their vintage VW buses rumbling testaments to a different way of life. South Carolina? Yuppies! urban centers, teeming with young professionals, their eyes fixed on the next promotion, the next craft brewery, the next hot yoga class.

And let’s not forget the one thing that unites them… their shared, almost pathological need to make fun of Hendersonville! It’s the Switzerland of Carolina-bashing, the neutral territory where both sides can come together in a spirit of… well, mild derision.

But, hallelujah and amen, let’s be honest. For all the ribbing, all the contrasts, all the Tar Heel swagger and Palmetto pride… would they rather be anywhere else? North Carolina, with its mountains and its music and its… progress? South Carolina, with its beaches and its barbecue and its… soul?

Nah. They’ll take it all. The Villes and the VUlles, the flutes and the fiddles, the Beemers and the Subarus. Because, at the end of the day, it’s the Carolinas, baby! And, for these loopers, that’s a damn sight better than anywhere else.

We’ll see you in Virginia…

Onward through the fog… RH

Be on your guard…
In the Carolinas…
You may get hooked and…
Go full messiani…
From sandy beaches…
To misty mountains…
These folks are blessed to have it all.

This Land: South Carolina

So, we’re rolling into South Carolina, aye? And there ain’t any hot springs. Nada. Zip. Zilch.

THE GOOD: South Carolina’s got plenty of choices for college. Little ones, medium-sized ones… like a box of assorted chocolates, only instead of sweet surprises, you get knowledge. Or something like that. You’ve got your College of Charleston, your Furman University, your Wofford College… even Clemson, though it’s so big it practically needs its own zip code.

And if you’re a bookworm, don’t despair. South Carolina might not be Faulkner country, but it’s got its own literary quirks. The Gibbes Museum in Charleston has enough Southern art and literature to make your head spin. Plus, the whole state’s littered with historic homes and plantations – you know, the kind with long, shadowy porches and a whole lotta history (and maybe a few ghosts) tucked away inside.

Now, if you ask a South Carolinian what they love about their state, they’ll probably start waxing poetic about the scenery. Mountains, beaches, swamps… it’s like Mother Nature threw a dart at a map and said, “Let’s put it all right here.” Of course, they’ll also mention the history. Charleston, in particular, is like stepping into a time machine, with its cobblestone streets and Gullah culture. And the people? Well, they’re friendly, that’s for sure. Southern hospitality ain’t just a saying, folks.

Oh, and did we mention the cost of living? Compared to some places (uh, California), South Carolina’s practically giving it away. So if you’re young and broke but still clinging to that tattered American Dream, this could be your destiny.

THE BAD: The infrastructure… some of those roads are so bumpy, you’ll think you’re riding a buckboard wagon. And the summers? Hoo boy. Imagine a sauna that also happens to be outside. That’s the dog days of July and August in South Carolina.

THE UGLY: The political climate? Let’s just say it’s redder than a sunburn. In 1932, most of South Carolina voters, nearly all white in a state where nearly half the residents were Black but not able to cast ballots, chose Liberal FDR for president at the start of the Great Depression. Ever since, the conservative backlash has been long, steady, and at times infused by racism. Among the landmark moments include Strom Thurmond’s 24-hour filibuster against the Civil Rights act in 1954, then his decision to switch to the Republican Party continuing the fight to block civil rights legislation in Congress.

So, who’s who from South Carolina? Well, there’s Darius Rucker, the country crooner who used to front Hootie and the Blowfish. There’s William Refrigerator Perry, lineman for the Chicago Bears in the 1980s. There’s James Brown, the hardest working man in show business. And the ever-graceful Vanna White from the Wheel of Fortune game show. Oh, and let’s not forget Strom Thurmond. Yeah, South Carolina’s got a complicated past.

Now, Ronnie hasn’t resided East of the Mississippi, so he can’t say for sure what the people in the two Carolinas think of one another. But we’ve heard whispers. Apparently, North Carolinians think South Carolinians are a bit slow. Laid-back, even. And South Carolinians? Well, they think North Carolinians are a bit uptight. All work and no play, you know the type. But hey, at the end of the day, they’re both Southern states. They love their college football, their barbecue, and their beaches. So maybe they’re not so different after all.

Anyway, South Carolina’s an interesting place. It’s beautiful and frustrating, welcoming and backward, all at the same time. The job market’s getting better, but it’s still tough to make a decent living in some parts. And while the state’s slowly becoming more diverse, it’s still got a long way to go.

So, is South Carolina for you? That’s a question only you can answer. But if you do decide to take the plunge, just remember: pack your sense of humor, your mosquito repellent, and your open mind. You’re gonna need ’em.

Onward through the fog… RH

As we were rolling…
‘Long a Carolina shoreline…
We saw the truth…
Across the skyline…
It brought us back to…
First principles…
This land is here…
For you and me.

This Land: Tennessee

Ok… there we were… Memphis, TN… home of Graceland and, if we may be so bold, some of the worst highways and city roads poor Rocinante had been forced to endure on this tour. We didn’t hit a tire killer, but that’s only because Ronnie practices hypervigilance when traveling Tennessee roads. Read, he’d seen this show before… he came prepared. That said, we had a super pleasant stay in Memphis. Not all of the roads were peppered with tank-traps. For example, the eastside Germantown area is quite nice. It reminded Ronnie of some of those old money neighborhoods in Kansas City. Anyway, on laundry day, waiting for machines to do their business, Ronnie struck up a conversation with one of the patrons. We’ll refer to him as Ronnie’s “laundromat companion” (LC). After some brief introductory exchanges, Ronnie’s LC launched into a string of Music Biz-related anecdotes, slightly embellished below.

Turns out, Ronnie’s LC is from old money, himself, but chose a vagabond’s life over joining the family business. He struck out on his own doing various music-biz functionary tasks, traveling the world with this band or that. In the process, got to meet and work with quite a few of the stars most of us only see in the tabloids or on stages. Now, Ronnie wasn’t about to let this opportunity pass so, with encouraging nods and mostly closed mouth (don’t laugh), he took it all in.

“Well, now, let me tell you, Ronnie,” he said. “Tennessee’s music scene ain’t just fiddles and steel guitars. It’s a regular circus, i tell ya. A regular menagerie of the peculiar.”

“First off, there’s Elvis, ‘The Kang’ himself.” At this point, Ronnie couldn’t believe his luck, and this LC raconteur was just getting warmed up. “Now, you’d think a man with that much hip-swivelin’ talent would have the good sense to get himself a pup, like any respectable fella. But no, sir,” LC was on a roll. “Elvis, flush with his first taste of fame, decided he needed a monkey. And not just any monkey, mind you, but a spider monkey.” Ronnie nodded, having heard this particular story before. However, LC wasn’t done. “Then, as that wasn’t enough monkeyshine, he brought home a moonshine-swilling chimpanzee he called Scatter, a ‘coconut-headed little mother fucker,’ as Elvis would call him. Imagine the chaos! I reckon those critters saw more booze than a saloon floor on a Saturday night.” Ronnie agreed, anxious to hear more.

“Then there’s the Ryman Auditorium, that grand old cathedral of country music. Built by a man of the same name, who, they say, still wanders the halls like a lost gospel tune. Folks swear they hear noises, see lights flicker, and some even claim Hank Williams Sr. is still there, singin’ his lonesome tunes.” Ronne offered a lame missive, “Maybe he’s just lookin’ for a decent after-life honky-tonk.” Ronnie’s LC winked and carried on.

“And speaking of lonesome tunes,” LC’s segues were tight, as if he had had plenty of experience providing soundbites to interviewers, which by some cosmic synchronicity happened to be a skill Ronnie had honed in his working life as an electronic-media educator. “It’s all in the eyes,” Ronnie might say. LC continued, “…there’s Willie Nelson. Now, Willie, bless his edible cannaboid heart. He’s a man who appreciates the finer things in life, like… well.” He winked again. A friendly sort of ‘know what i mean?’ way.

Ronnie was keeping up without too much trouble. And since Tennessee doesn’t have legal weed for recreation, there was no talk of sharing a toke. Anyway, LC picked up where he left off, “Willie even claims he lit up a joint on the roof of the White House during Jimmy Carter’s time, the 1970s. On the roof! I tell you, that’s bolder than a bullfrog in a teacup.” Ronnie nodded. “Snoop Dogg, take notes,” Ronnie was warming up to this fella.

“Now, don’t go thinkin’ these music stars live a life of pure luxury,” LC continued. “Johnny Paycheck, of ‘Take This Job and Shove It’ fame, proved that wrong. He stopped for a drink on his way to see his mama, and some fella recognized him. Invited him for deer meat and turtle soup, which, to be fair, sounds like a dish straight out of a Ma and Pa Kettle episode.” Ronnie chuckled and LC took a sip of his soda. “Well, Johnny, he wasn’t havin’ it. He pulled a gun and asked the fella if he looked like a ‘country hick,’ then let a round fly, grazing the poor yokel’s scalp.” Ronnie was astonished, he hadn’t heard this one before. LC continued. “Nine years they gave him, but they let him out early. Seems the judge could appreciate a rare talent when he saw one.”

At this point LC and Ronnie had to move their respective laundry from washers to dryers. But once the tumbling got underway, the stories resumed. Ronnie remembered LC had mentioned working for George Jones at one point, so he encouraged LC to expand on that. “Now, i called George Jones, the ‘lawnmower man,’ LC began. I called him that because his wife, bless her drunk-wranglin’ heart, tried to keep him away from the bottle by hidin’ his car keys. Too bad she forgot about the lawnmower.” This sounded familiar to Ronnie, but he thought is was about someone else. Anyway, LC went on. “A ten horsepower rotary engine riding mower. He rode that thing all the way to Beaumont, Texas, 16ish miles.” Ronnie glanced at the tumbling laundry. This sure was more exciting than watching clothes dry. “Now that’s that’s dedication,” Ronnie said.

On the laundromat’s TV, a feature about T-Bone Burnett and his soundtrack for the Coen Brothers movie, “Oh Brother Where Art Thou” was on and that reminded LC of a Bill Monroe anecdote. “Mr. Monroe, the father of bluegrass, a devout man, mind you. But even saints have their limits. He got himself arrested for hittin’ his ex-girlfriend with a bible. The word of God! And then, they let him go.” Ronnie sighed, “That’s taking bible thumpin’ to a new level,” joking. Ronnie’s LC chuckled. “I recon you got that right.”

As the dryers’ time grew short, Ronnie’s LC wrangled up one more wild Tennessee music biz anecdote. This one for for the ladies. “Sweet Dolly,” Ronnie’s LC drawled on. “Now, she’s a queen, no doubt about it. But even queens can be out-queened. She entered herself in a Dolly drag contest in Santa Barbara, and lost!”

“W-what,” Ronnie couldn’t believe what he was hearing!? “That’s right, she made her hair bigger, her eyes bigger, her beauty mark bigger, everything bigger, and still lost,” Ronnie’s LC said. She said she had gotten the least applause.” LC shrugged, “I reckon that’s the kind of humility you only find in a true legend.”

And with that, Ronnie and his LC had clothes to fold. Once finished, they bid fare well and went their separate ways. And, there you have it, loopers. A little slice of Tennessee’s musical madness. It ain’t always pretty, but it’s always entertaining.

Onward through the fog… Rohlfie

Keep your eyes peeled…
Drivin’ through Memphis…
The potholes deadly…
Will break your senses…
But take a moment…
To offer reverence…
Music is born in Tennessee.

This Land – Louisiana

On the road to Alexandria, Ronnie and Rocinante pulled into a mud bug shack for a bite before settling in for the night. Striking up a conversation with the bartender, Ronnie asked about all those Apostolic churches he was passing on the Louisiana back roads. In the next hour and a half, Ronnie got waaaay more than he bargained for. The bartender had a mellow drawl Ronnie found mesmerizing… a combination of Southern gentry and creole. His ample snow white beard reminded Ronnie of those Park Avenue Santas helping New York parents discover the hopes and dreams of their little ones. He had the dark skin and flashing blue eyes of an avid sun worshipper, projecting the relaxed countenance of a lifelong beachcomber. His loose fitting color patterned shirt reminded Ronnie of African Dashikis, but the style was more like something you would expect to see at a Grateful Dead concert. The bartender seemed intrigued about Ronnie’s curiosity, and so began to unspool a strange tale of spiritual divergence in the great state of Louisiana.

He told the story of Amos Moses, a Cajun of mixed heritage. Some say he’s indigenous, some say his ancestry has deep roots in Palestine, some say Hebrew, and some say he’s Mexican-American, but most interestingly, there is talk among the bayou natives that Amos was a baby floating in a wicker basket, in the swamp, sorta like the Moses of biblical lore. They say he was home schooled in the bayou and currently roams the Mississippi/Louisiana swamps alone in a semi-reclusive stasis.

Anyway, the story heats up with interesting reports of things that happen around Amos. People having lost sight, suddenly able to see again. Others seemingly on death’s door, miraculously recovering after a short visit. Also, some of the cryptic things he says have been interpreted to contain deep spiritual meaning to those in earshot. Some have claimed Amos’ words hit them like lightning bolts, instantly transporting them to a more enlightened existence. Like the Zen Masters of old, he spins koen-like puzzles that shake the fetters from these troubled souls. And there is a genuine movement coalescing around Amos. The locals are beginning to believe this fella is the actual reincarnation of the biblical Yeshua, or as westerners call him, Jesus of Nazareth.

Now, controversy is building because, in Louisiana, there are Apostolic churches everywhere. In the poor parishes, of which there are many, and more affluent ones as well. Since the 2016 presidential election, you may have heard a thing or two about the New Apostolic Reformation. For those unfamiliar, this is a branch of Christianity declaring “spiritual war” on western liberal democracy. From their tough talk, one might think they are ready to take up arms and do physical harm to their non-Christian Nationalist neighbors, though it seems no one really believes they’ll walk that talk. That said, the apostolics have friends in high places. Sam Alito, the Supreme Court justice, for example. The Speaker of the House of Representatives, Louisiana native, Mike Johnson for another.

Anyway, the movement brewing around Amos Moses aims to make a clear distinction between this New Apostolic Reformation’s “holy war” and the actual teachings of the biblical Yeshua. Why? Because, according to Amos’ devotees, the anticipated moment has arrived. Yeshua has returned, but it’s not like the apocalyptic Christian sects think. The movement growing around Amos wants everyone to know the end-times tone of apostle John’s “Book of Revelation” is not to be taken for anything more than a commentary on the fall of the Roman Empire of John’s day. Most likely, if John had known his words would be taken literally two thousand plus years later, he would have been amused, at best.

So, Amos’ followers believe he is the second coming of Yeshua, but Amos himself, having grown tired of arguing about it (like Brian in Monty Python’s satire), declares that if it IS true, he wants everyone to get back to the original intent of his past self’s teachings, and please don’t try to elevate him to a position of political power.

“For fuck sake,” Amos is notorious for letting the swears fly! “The ‘kingdom of God’ is an ephemeral idea, not of this world, and certainly not a literal form of governance… Jesus Jumpin’ Christ,” he ironically moans!

All that said, this brewing mythology could simply be a case of mass hysteria. But if not, Amos Moses, reincarnation of Yeshua of Nazareth, is bound to have a thing or two to discuss with the Pope (vis child abuse) as well as those TV preachers pushing the “prosperity” snake oil fleecing vulnerable believers every day to the tune of billions. Regularly raking in enough to finance lavish the lifestyles of boldly acquisitive charlatans. And whether one believes Amos Moses or the purveyors of the new Apostolic Reformation, it might be best to let devotees sort it out away from the halls of political governance.

As Ronnie leaves the bartender a generous tip and Rocinante pushes the HSoB tour to Tennessee, a few things can be said of the great state of Louisiana. For one, there are super colorful characters and interesting diverse spiritual traditions. We haven’t even mentioned the Voodoo community, let alone anything in the vein of Islam. After all, some of the most transcendent, gorgeous poetry comes from the Sufi tradition.

And so, as Rocinante rolls into the Louisiana sunset, Ronnie’s final take away is this: Spiritual vibes run deep, wide, and mysterious in Louisiana, just like those swampy bayous down south.

Onward through the fog… RH

On the bayou back roads…
In the fertile Delta…
You’ll find devote folks…
In Louisiana…
So boil them mud bugs…
Strike up a Zydeco…
Meet me, with beads, in New Orleans!

This Land – Mississippi

They say Mississippi is a great place to commune with ghosts, that Mississippians love a good story. And so, in honor of the great state of Mississippi, here’s a real doozy of a ghost story. Mostly inspired by a dream from our first restless night in here. For some reason, Ronnie awoke around 4:00am, probably from a limb scraping against the side of the van nudged by a gentle breeze (or something like that). Anyway, fragments of the dream are drastically embellished below… Enjoy!

The setting is a ghostly confab at a fabled haunted house, the McRaven House, in Vicksburg, Mississippi.

Attendees:
Sam Clemens
William Faulkner
Edger Poe
Margaret Mitchell
Ambrose Bierce
Kate Stone

The McRaven House, a skeletal silhouette against the bruised, twilight sky, pulsed with an unearthly chill. Inside, or rather, through the decaying grandeur of the parlor, a spectral congress convened. Skulking around the fringes of this gathering is the ghost of little Maggie, playing trickster pranks on the adults, generally bringing a sense of dark levity to the air.

We open with a tight shot on Mr. Clemons, a wisp of white mustache and sardonic grin, his cigarillo fuming. He’s leaning against the hearth, its phantom flames licking at the soot-stained bricks. “Well, gentlemen, gentleladies, and… whatever that is,” he gestured vaguely at a giggling, translucent figure flitting near the chandelier, “let’s get down to cases. How are our successors faring? Are any of them capable of spinning a yarn worth a damn?”

Mr. Faulkner, a cloud of tobacco-scented gloom, swirled into view. “Faring? They wallow, Sam. They wallow in the shallow pools of… of instant gratification. They cannot understand the… the weight of history, the… the tangled roots of the South. They write… tweets, truths, threads, blue butterflies. Shit postings! Hardly enough for Walt to call a ‘barbaric yawp,’ and this is supposed to encapsulate the human condition? Absurd.”

Edgar Poe, his eyes dark, hollow pits, floated near a dusty window. “They seek brevity, a fleeting spark of… of sensation. They have lost the exquisite agony of prolonged despair. They write of… of vampires with sparkling skin. My own horrors, once so profound, are now… romantic comedies.” He shuddered, a sound like a rustling death shroud.

Ms. Mitchell, her spectral Scarlett O’Hara flouncing slightly, adjusted a phantom shawl. “Darling, it’s simply dreadful. They’ve taken my beloved South, my tragic heroes, and… and they’ve made them into… into soap operas! They’ve diluted the very essence of suffering into… into sickly sweet drivel.”

Ambrose Bierce, his face a mask of cynical amusement, materialized near a broken mirror. “Irony, my dear Ms. Mitchell, is the universe’s most exquisite mistress. And it seems they have long since hung her in a cheap motel room. With the veritable parade of ironies cavalierly overlooked by average folks these days, one must imagine the poor girl spinning in her grave like a top. These mere mortals believe they have conquered death, disease, and ignorance. Hell, some of them actually believe their clever technologists have them on the verge of immortality! Absurd doesn’t even come close to describing their delusion.”

Ms. Stone, her translucent form radiating a quiet, melancholic strength, drifted near the window. “They have forgotten the true cost of war, the devastation it leaves in its wake. They romanticize conflict, turn it into… entertainment. They have no concept of the hunger, the loss, the sheer… futility. And now, they’re bringing those silly biblical prophecies into the picture… again. They can’t wait to launch a third global conflagration.”

A sudden, chilling giggle echoed through the room. Little Maggie, the spectral trickster, had replaced Faulkner’s pipe tobacco with a wisp of Spanish moss. He sputtered, the moss dissolving into thin air. “They also believe,” Maggie piped up, her voice a ghostly whisper, “that they can photograph ghosts with their… their ‘smartphones’. They take pictures of… of dust and claim it’s us.” She cackled, a sound like wind chimes in a graveyard.

Clemmons chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. “Indeed, child. They attempt to capture the intangible, the unseen, with their… their digital trinkets. They have become slaves to the very technology they believe liberates them. They spend their days staring at glowing rectangles, believing they are experiencing… life.”

Poe raised an eyebrow. “They believe the darkness can be banished with… with light. They illuminate every corner, every crevice, yet they remain blind to the true shadows that lurk within their own souls.”

Mitchell sighed dramatically. “And the fashion! Oh, the atrocities they call fashion! They wear… leggings as trousers leaving nearly nothing to the imagination! It’s simply… barbaric.”

Bierce, ever the cynic, added, “They have created a world of… of curated perfection. Every image, every interaction, filtered and polished to remove any trace of… of authenticity. They live in a world of lies, and they call it… social media.”

Maggie, now floating upside down near the ceiling, began to hum a discordant tune. “They think they can solve the world’s problems with… with the pound sign, they call it a ‘hashtag.’ They use it to pass around short photoplays like chain letters spreading like the plague, and say these picture shows can change the course of history.”

Faulkner, still slightly flustered by the moss incident, muttered, “They cannot grasp the… the cyclical nature of time. They repeat the same mistakes, generation after generation, oblivious to the… the echoes of the past.”

Clemons, leaning against a bookshelf, concluded, “In short, they are a collection of self-absorbed, technologically addicted, historically ignorant… fools. And they think we are the phantoms.”

A chorus of ghostly laughter filled the McRaven House, echoing through the empty rooms, a testament to the enduring irony of the mortal plane. Little Maggie, her eyes gleaming with mischievous delight, began to pull the spectral drapes from the windows, plunging the room into an even deeper, more unsettling darkness.

Onward through the fog… RH

In the town of Vicksburg…
In the house McRaven…
You may encounter…
Some ghostly maven…
And like the flow of…
The Mighty Mississip…
Everything that changes…
Stays the same.

Loopcircus

Loopcircus

travel

This Land: New York

This Land: Maryland

This Land: Pennsylvania

This Land: West Virginia

This Land: Virginia

This Land: North Carolina

This Land: South Carolina

This Land: Tennessee

This Land – Louisiana