Dec 7 2008

The plentiful multitudes-of-examples of human condition and behavioral manifestations' varieties in folks who populated my recognition of them—and now, my recollection of—allowed my maybe overly-active thinker of a mind to evaluate these many differing personalities that I 'saw' in others, into only two or maybe three categories. For purposes of feeling well-informed enough, as to what to probably expect from one or the other of these types of human creatures of the mid-20^th cent. USA.; and that so that I could effect a sensible discrimination about whether or not to let myself become engaged with this person or that. Identifying those types whose interests or mindsets disallowed any fruitful engagement 'taught' me to steer clear. A sailor's term: Steer clear! Usually hollered by the captain to the man doing the steering to avoid potential hazards or compromising situations; but damn appropriate an expression when I say to myself—because I am both the captain and the crew—steer clear of this person or that. And there were many many folks that I consciously decided to stay distant from in my wanderings; probably some of whom had more than an interesting story or about their lives; and more than willing to blab away at me if I so chose to stay and drink his (or her) whiskey or shoot their hard drugs, or whatever. It was mostly just the alcoholics and overeating-of-food-addicted types I left to their own whirling whirl of devices; but also the hard core druggies, as a rule. I had spent enough time in their parlors to sense the non-progressive taint lingering in the 'air,' and scram, post haste. 'Darn,' I would think to myself, 'another waste of space.'Experimentation has always held the intrigue associated with it. I can confidently state my boast about never having dove deep enough into that more-sour and sickening aspect of such places like these that I've stumbled upon over the decades of wanderings through the waterfront areas of Sausalito and the gates. The bumfire pit at the rear of the parking areas out front of the four story high, hundred and seventy feet long hulk of the Charles van Damme auto ferryboat that had been hauled by two tractors on shore, into a pond they had previously dug into the bank toward the railroad tracks with Bridgeway Avenue directly behind that . . . the bumfire pit introduced probably thousands to our other-side-of-the-track's variety of the 'spices' of life, no doubt. With acid and pot and probably every other sort of then-popular stimulant or depressants of those days pretty much readily available for those who may have looked or acted as cool as cool had to appear for one or another of the firepit regulars to take their money and run down the docks into the foggy drizzly night, or even in broad daylight sometimes. The salt slime smelly methane-laced muddy slop of where the tide came up and down in every day, usually kept the more fastidious of folks from venturing forth into our domain. Our, as in that community of like-minded water rats and ratresses whose shacks and shops and stores were on or in boats or barges in one form or another. People I have consciously ignored since those times I lived in 'the street', albeit a semi-floating one, are: Those whose consumption habits I judged as too expensive to try to partner up in assisting in however manner or fashion they may have visualized me assisting them in their pursuits after stuff that I had no desire to be pursuing. Of the dozens of different 'bosses' I worked under, there were hardly a half-dozen that I remember empathizing with them and they, somehow, with me or my spirit, or whatever. But the bulk of those boss types and wannabe boss types of my many dozen day jobs were, in my considered opinion, going about it 'all wrong'. Of course: It was me who was (mostly, but not) all wrong. And: But of course: I hadn't very much clue yet during those waterborne years. I had to shake the boat habit before I even had any chance to figure out all the stuff I had previously been ignoring as superfluous to a water-based life and livelihood. And still, due to continuing vicissitudes-of-life and their multitudinous over-supply of distractive materials, it was to be nearly another decade and more before I think I have sorted enough of this type of personal rumination as to have delivered a peace-filled graciousness to the soul of my spirit's essences as to be quite happy—and somewhat surprised—to have found this elusive rare space for me and my freely felt freedom-of movement, thought, lack of, or disregard for to exercise (or not) my gawd-given right to be freely-associative, and such. Experimentation probably should be reserved for until after maturity occurs; but . . . but