The Journey Chapter 65: In Search of Happiness and Watching the Sun Set

I MET A WOMAN TODAY

Relax, folks, not that kind of meeting. I stopped in the local IGA for a couple things, looking over the dog treat section, naturally directly in front of a product someone wanted, the woman previously mentioned, dressed in formal business attire, perfect makeup, quite frankly out of place in the Ocean Shores IGA, surrounded by retirees in bib overalls, or polyester, or polyester bib overalls, the ever present golf hat, maybe a polo shirt, I’m not being sarcastic, just callin’ them as I see ‘em.

Anyway, this woman says “excuse me, can I reach around you real quick?” And I step aside, she grabs a bag of Puppyroni, asks me what kind of dog I have, I return with the same question, then she asks do you live here or visiting, turns out she’s an investment banker from Los Angeles, looking at investment beachfront property, and what do you do, she asks, which leads to Puddle Walker and just killing time, the predictable weird look on her face, like she just exchanged words with someone from the Planet Xanadu.

“You really should look into making some investments, protection for the future,” she says, and I swear it took all of my willpower not to laugh.

I told her I was living my future, living off some retirement and Social Security, she was shaking her head by then, concern spreading across her features, mind you this was a complete stranger in IGA.

“But what about when you decide to settle down? You’ll need a nest egg at that point.”

Are you ready for the line which effectively killed the conversation?

“I imagine I’ll die in my bus, probably in some remote camping spot, body will be found weeks later, so the idea of a nest egg is really a moot point, don’t you think?”

I said it with a smile, but that wasn’t enough to sustain the conversation. She left after bidding me a good life.

Maybe it would have helped if I had showered in the four preceding days.

Nice lady!

It is now the next day and I’m in Olympia. Last night was brutally wet in Ocean Shores. Seriously wet. Wet as in there is no way I could live there all winter.  It’s one of the realities of bus life, dealing with the rain, especially with a dog, cuz there ain’t too many solutions to that problem.  Maggie has to pee; Maggie gets wet; Maggie comes back into the bus wet, trailing dirt, mud, sticks, brush, matted hair, a virtual nightmare for a clean freak which, gratefully, I am not.

So I’m back in Olympia for a five-day stretch, through my birthday, run some errands, buy a couple things I need, enjoy slightly better weather.  Here’s the thing about Ocean Shores: there are no physical barriers to block any part of a storm when it comes barreling in from the Pacific. The last ten days I was there, we had four days when gale force winds were predicted, accurately I might add. And when it rains, we are not talking gentle rain falling vertically from the heavens; we are talking about a shrieking banshee, horizontal in nature, wind howling, sand blasting me in the face, rain drenching me before I take five steps out of the bus.

No way, Jose, would I last an entire winter there. I would be a candidate for a straight jacket by Christmas.

So, five days here, then five more in Ocean Shores to finish some work the owner wants done, and then back to Olympia. I have decided that five days is pretty much my limit in Ocean Shores.

IN SEARCH OF HAPPINESS

If I’m being totally honest with you all, the aforementioned search is futile.

How’s that for an opening statement.

I talked about this in my memoir; not sure if I mentioned it anywhere in this travel journal; but the black and white of it is this . . . I am melancholy by nature, and happiness, and I mean over the moon giddier than hell happiness, has eluded me most of my adult life.

The best I can hope for, and I mean winning the Lotto best case scenario, is that I find, and maintain, peace of mind and heart.

Just being real here, folks.

I learned, early on, to act happy when the situation called for it. I was a chameleon. I knew how I was supposed to appear, so I appeared that way.  But I knew, deep down in the marrow of my being, that it was an act, and the older I have gotten, the more I have come to realize that happiness is the brass ring which may just elude me.

And it’s all right! I have lived one hell of a life, when I wasn’t trying to sabotage it, and when I allowed it to continue without my interference.  For a blind kid who started out in an orphanage, this has been as good a life as I could have hoped for.  Even saying that supports my claim, because if anyone has a right to be happy, it’s me.

But that ingredient, in the cake that is Bill Holland, is missing.

And so, I travel the backroads, experiencing, soaking it all up, learning about people, and sucking the marrow out of life for as long as I can, appreciating it all, marveling at it all, and declaring my thanks to the gods for it all . . . just don’t expect me to do handstands of joy.

BUT MY WORDS, LIKE SILENT RAINDROPS, FELL

Anybody? Where are those words from?

If you said “The Sound of Silence,” by Simon & Garfunkel, you would be correct.

I began my life as a freelance writer back in 2010. For thirteen years I’ve been within reach of my laptop, and as time allowed I have pounded out hundreds of articles, nine novels, six novellas, two nonfictions, and enough blog entries to sink the Titanic all over again.

I would estimate that for the first two years, maybe three, I entertained the idea that I would write a bestselling novel, and that my name would be a household name, known by millions of readers the world round.  Slowly I have had to scale back those expectations as the reality set in that, in terms of sales and readership, I would be lucky if I was known, for my writing, by a thousand people.  And once that realization sinks in, it is not a far leap to the realization that most of what I write is glanced at, by maybe a dozen people, daily, and that might be a gross exaggeration of the numbers.

This blog entry, the one I’m working on at this moment, might be read by ten people . . . if it’s a good day.

So, why in the hell do I do it? Why keep torturing myself with hopes that many will read my work? Why live with the delusion that one day my writing will matter?

Simply because I believe self-expression is important, just as I believe all of the Arts are important, just as I think any sliver of a person’s legacy is important. I have found a comfortable place within me, like a favorite, overstuffed easy chair, where I can sit down, sigh as my old body hits the cushions, and enjoy the comfort of a job well done, a task completed, a response to a calling which came from deep within me.  Writing is an important portion of my whole. It is not who I am, but it is a percentage of who I am, and I am placing that percentage of me on the internet, for all to see, for all to know, the quiet introvert risking ridicule and judgement and self-debasement because, well, I think it’s important that I do so.  Truth be told, I think it’s important that we all do so, that we do not embrace the sound of silence but rather stand in the church steeple and ring the bell for all of our might.

My story is important.

Your story is important.

RANDOM THOUGHTS AS I WATCH THE SUN SET

I have no idea how your mind works, but I can give you a peek at mine.

If reincarnation is for real, and I’m not saying one way or another, and if everyone comes back, after death, as another person, why don’t we have like fifty-billion people on the planet right now instead of seven-point-three billion? Just askin’ for a friend!  The math doesn’t add up for this logical mind of mine.

And yet, my logical mind can look above, thinking about eternal energy, and wonder if my father is passing through that cumulus cloud overhead, and if my mom has touched the rings of Saturn during her travels?  And I will always wonder why so many people fear death, Christians included, no wiggling off the hook on this one, for if there is an afterlife, how cool would that be? No matter the nature of that afterlife, I’m just thinking it would be mind-blowing to feel your life force ebb, only to have it regenerate and wake up as a Cheetah or a Roadrunner, beep-beep.

I mentioned on Facebook today that I thought it would be cooler than cool to live on a houseboat.  Mind you, I didn’t say I was buying one, just that I thought it would be cool.  I swear to Daffy Duck, five people immediately chimed in with negative crap about how expensive that would be, how cold it would be in the winter, how there would be no permanent moorings, how many repairs one would have to pay for.

WTF? Why do people do that? Why not just let me daydream in peace? Why climb on and ruin a peaceful moment of conjecture?  Ignore, for a moment, the hypocrisy of what they are saying, all of them homeowners, and ignore the fact that they managed to forget I was living in a friggin’ bus; they just felt the need to go negative immediately.

It saddened me momentarily, until I wondered what my sister looks like with drops of Jupiter in her hair, and what my best buddy Frank thought when he saw the sunrise over the horizon of Venus.

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