Leaving hotel calafornix

I bought 150 bucks worth of Royal Jelly packed in wildflower honey (The best in the word from Edgewater), Indian River Fruit honey, pollen, peanuts, beef jerky, juice and 1 small pecan sugar roll. Wow, they’re sinfully delicious (not as good as the other stuff though). I’ve got a serious sweet tooth. He was God in a new skinsuit, for sure. If you thought about it, the heavens getting emptied out on the surface, where would he be? Operating the top, still in private hands, fruit stand in Florida with his two cute daughters, at the intersection of the turnpike, I-95, Okeechobee and the Kissimmee River. I’d wager he’d always suspected he was God in a new skinsuit and after he talked to me he knew it for sure, cause I told him in no uncertain terms.
LIVESTOCK SLAUGHTER

This was to be my last appearance (until I return to Fl) at “Boston on the Beach’s” Monday reggae night. The “Rhythm Nation” band which has been expertly pumping out the same 30 or 40 cover songs for over 20 years played a song that they created themselves, this was a first. The song was obviously written for me, “The Jackrabbit”, and was the best tune they ever played, I really boogied to this tune.

I spent the night in my van at Lloyd’s auto electric and explained again to Bob that due to my Dodge Chrysler’s continued computer meltdown I was experiencing bizarre electrical conditions that resulted in a seemingly infinite # of problems. I was leaving on a road trip, was there anything he could do about it? Bob, my automobile electrician since I began to drive said, “No”. Bob you know me man, every vehicle I’ve ever owned I’ve disintegrated the hotwire into black dust. Bob, you keep exceptional notes at your establishment. Has anyone else ever turned their hotwire into black powder, ever? “Nope, just you.” I’m the only one huh? “Yep.” I ask you Bob, cause I’m experiencing all kinds of strange electrical “stuff” in addition to the auto electric problems, and I know you keep good notes. We talked about this.

I left town heading north, I packed up my stuff in Krismiss giving my kayak to a father and son, carefully loading my gear for the worst. I put the nonlangforth beehive on the roof rigged to splinter into a thousand pieces alongside my bicycle I rigged so I could roll the vehicle and still ride the bike away from the accident. I slept out near a cow pasture outside of Gainesville and the next day drove north through Georgia on the “old road” 441 and Georgia’s “Technology Highway”. I stopped in most every town at the likely watering hole/convenience store putting forth my end the dam still water/free river idea wrapped around a search for “bubbly water”. No, I don’t want that Canada Dry junk benzoate or any other kind of preservative, just plain bubbly water. In every town I stopped, no luck. Eventually, while slowly rolling north, I found a place with what I was looking for. I found the store clerk nervously pulling every bottle off the shelf as fast as she could. You mind if I get one of those? The clerk said, “No, you can’t have one”. Why not? “The distributor just called and ordered a total recall.” How bizarre, this is what it is like to be me.

Later that night as my eye lids started to get heavy I pulled over on a dirt road that was under repair and considering it was early Sunday morning figured I could lay down on the ground next to my van and take a snooze, it was either that or I was going to fall asleep at the wheel. I’d just closed my eyes and two sheriffs showed up. “What are you doing here?”, one of the sheriffs asked somewhat nervously as the other hung back in a covering position. I was about to fall asleep at the wheel and I pulled over to be safe. “No, I mean why are you here?” Well, actually I’m here to end the dam ages, force the collection of that which falls from the heavens and replace the flush toilet with thE manuel fertilizer machine. A look of concern crept across the deputy’s face. I’m here to undam the planet. “Why are you at this particular site?” It looked like a good place to stop? They told me to leave. As I drove away it became apparent I’d stopped behind Georgia’s Dept. of Ag. next to some kind of dam and ditch water control structure, a “hot” spot, especially for me. I can’t get away from it. The next day while filling up at a gas station the pump attendant called the police on me and I almost got arrested for?

I made it to NC and was using an old map to check out old graveyards. Cemeteries are interesting, I don’t recommend them unless one uses a tree in place of a headstone (still too much digging). There was supposedly two close together, one on the western side of a small road and one (the Fergusons) on the east. I’ve become an expert on the root or latin meaning of names and have found that some names indicate a person very likely to be an ally or agreeable to the infinity project idea and others with names that usually hate me, my appearance and life’s idea. Of these cemeteries one was the Ferguson’s (like a fir tree, likely to be able to add it up and not shave his forehead, and whose place I was heading towards) and the other a name I recognized as an antagonist to the idea. Keep in mind this is not absolute but it’s consistently dependable. This gave me an opportunity to study the idea as I could quickly walk through both and take note of who decided to “lay down” next to a likely ally and who buried themselves with a likely foe to life. Both cemeteries were gone, apparently but where they should have been I found two businesses. The Ferguson’s graveyard was occupied by a bakery with the most attractive agreeable aware Vietnamese girl serving the best fresh hot out of the oven bread I ever ate. Over the dam road was a gas station, where they weren’t very nice. I told Mr. Ferguson this story later and he appreciated it.

I got on I-40 headed for exit 15 drafting tractor trailers and speeding like a stock car racer. I pulled off at Fines Creek and met at the intersection what I call the “intergalactic money truck”, the biggest finest armored “valuables” transport vehicle I’ve ever seen, interesting timing. What was I doing? I was just looking for a place to park the van and get off the dam road. I stopped at Mr. Ruggerio’s and Ms. Faulkner’s place, they had ordered the other spring on their property dammed into a wishing well. She didn’t seem happy to see me so I left.

Went to the Fergusons’s General Store and got some goods along with some snuff. I’d never tried any snuff, or powdered tobacco and went up the hill a ways experimenting with the local creek water seeing if I could drink it without getting sick. It was potable. Later, before I got too far away from the store I figured I’d return, get some more cream and a few other things and head up to a spot I knew and park it. I snorted a pinch of snuff up my nose, like I seen the French guys do in the movies. Don’t ever do this, supposedly one should just put a pinch next to one’s cheek. I drove down to the store wacked out on snuff.

Just before I got to the store the road dips down a hill and my van sped up. At the bottom of the hill there is a small game trail coming in on the right under the barbwire fence. A “Jack” rabbit decided to run out in front of my van. I saw the rabbit and swerved to miss it as I was going to hit it with my right rear tire. I just barely got my left tires off the road. At this spot there is no shoulder, the side of the road is practically a cave that goes under the road. I avoided driving into the “hole” but maintained control of the vehicle as I exited the paved surface. I had a good line and was driving across the hillside along an old locust post barbwire fence, breaking through the fence posts with no problem. I didn’t touch the brakes. Pop, pop, pop… then I hit the corner post which barely cracked the plastic of my front bumper, it didn’t even ding the metal part. The airbag inflated, separating my hands from the steering wheel, blocking my view, knocking me out, smashing my eye protection and giving me a black eye. The vehicle rolled 2 or 3 times and came to a rest in Rainy Branch Creek which was dry cause it wasn’t raining. I regained consciousness just before the van stopped rolling, upside down in a blizzard of nails and decided to roll out the driver’s side window. I rolled out into a one knee on the ground position showing a “double OK” hand signal. I’m fine, I’m fine… as a late model dark SUV with dark tinted windows drove by. This vehicle was just about as out of place for the area as the super armored truck that met me at the Fines Creek I-40 junction. They were on me, of course “they’re” on me everywhere I go. I doubt they’ve ever seen anyone come rolling out of a triple rollover into a “double OK” kneeling position, smiling and laughing. I found a place to park the Dodge Chrysler.

The state police were there in what seemed like under a minute, and I know I-40 is close but…extremely fast response time. I suspect these guys were all shadowing me. It’s not like I didn’t ask for it. The state police found a bottle of DeKruper’s mint liquor that I was mixing with honey, cream and cold creek water. They asked if I had been drinking. Oh yeah. A local looking/intelligent character, who responded quickly as well, was standing on the top of my upside down van. I think this character relieved me of my coffin shaped wooden pipe and most of my hawks feathers, leaving me 3 on the dashboard. I went to Haywood County and spent the night in the drunk tank with a mean beer drinker who couldn’t stop puking. I got out of jail early the next day after an agreeable breakfast and caught the local Waynesville shuttle way back up to the store for a dollar.

I walked out to Mr. Ruggerio’s picking up plastic trash along Fines Creek (just doing my community service before I even get to court) and he and Ms. Faulkner served me a roasted lamb supper and gave me a lift to the exit 24 Clyde truck stop and rented me a hotel room. The next day I tracked my vehicle down which I could have probably fixed and drove away, but considering the computer was nearly complete toast, wasn’t worth repairing. The story was told when I opened up the back of the van, I consider myself the uni(multi)verse’s cooper, which I am. I told the assembled wrecker yard staff, a few curious locals and Mr. Ruggerio I’d planned the whole thing and had specifically packed my goods for a rollover into a body of water. That’s why I wasn’t wearing my seat belt (which I usually do), so I could quickly exit and swim away from it. I really sold this story when I pulled out my 6’ long framed “King of the Salmon” fish print and the sheet of glass covering it wasn’t cracked. This is hard to do. The result of my cooper packing skill experiment was one cracked mason jar out of about 50. It was the only jar without a rubber sealed lid or plastic sticker affixed. Most of the Mason jars had been full of nails.

This was interesting/suspicious to the locals cause the last character with a “nail” history in the area was Rudolf, the Olympic nail bomber who was hiding in their backyards somewhere when I hiked through in 97’. He had a million dollar reward for his capture and the locals back then suggested I go find him. They’d said, “If anyone could find him, you could, for sure”. I told them I didn’t want to find him. They wanted to know why I had all the nails. They were old nails, the good ones, as they don’t make em anymore and I rescued them from a trip to the dump. I explained to them I knew I was coming up here to a place with lots of dilapidated wooden structures and while I don’t recommend joining wood together with nails, I recommend joints, I could easily find two falling apart sheds nearby each other and quickly keep one from falling down on top of me by pulling a few boards off the one and fixing the other of them. The beehive splintered perfectly and I could’ve straightened out my bike with the crowbar in the van and pedaled off. I think the locals actually really respected this, a triple rollover with one cracked Mason jar.

When I talked to Mr. Ferguson afterwards, about the idea I was putting forth, in particular the flyer he said, “I see pitchforks”. He sells fried dam catfish sandwiches at his general store and the creek is dammed up behind his place making a catfish pond. I basically explained to him that it was pitchforks for him (actually a cold wet electrified Neptune’s trident more specifically) if he didn’t punch a hole in his dam and restore free flow to the creek on his place. I recommended he employ a local, perhaps a young boy or girl to catch trout and serve local “free river” fish sandwiches, perhaps making them more expensive, but you know.

His whole dam catfish thing is made possible by the cheap dwindling fossil fuel powered old tractor parked next to the heavily maintained dam. He knows, he knows who I am, “The John”. He gets what I’m telling him yet he doesn’t punch a hole in the abortion project behind his place. I suspect it has a lot to do with who operates the cash register at his store, a woman, his wife. They could continue to make money selling trout sandwiches perhaps augmented with Alaskan Pollack or Cod, but it’s more than that isn’t it? They could farm catfish in the cistern from the water collected from the surfaces of the place, they know. It’s as if they want to dam and abort everything, or they’re afraid of the humiliation they might experience from the rest of the human “herd” if they were to “break ranks” with the rest of the dam shit head fool abortionists. At least he’s communicable about the idea, the woman behind the cash register doesn’t even want to hear it, she appears as if she wouldn’t do anything that could lead to being ostracized by others (even though they’re the ones burying their heads in the sand like ostriches). To stick out “trying to undam the planet”, when most are waiting for “Jesus” to come down and save them (though they’ve been commanded to “man up” and fix the problem manually), even though it’s the only sensible thing to do, obviously, isn’t even entertained in her mind. The lemming’s suicide march into the sea, and the leaders of the pack. The horror.

I disseminated my flyer to the truckers at this location, one of the best like it for this. I just simply tucked the flyer into a crack near the diesel pumps and returned every few hours to repeat. I of course recommend others do this, cause it works. That’s why the info is on wordpress, so one can simply hit print and they can easily accomplish this. It doesn’t cost much. One could easily write the http://infinityproject.wordpress.com idea in the shape of a fishhook like I do on the back of a business card, mine also reads “Punch a hole in the dams and have a holy Jolley Christmass this year.”, another good one liner is “Ending the damages, forcing the collection of that which falls from the heavens and/or your ass!” One could put their full name on the front along with a catchy icon like I do (the front or bold half of an atomic or nuclear symbol with a circle through it, it looks like a bug). At present mine reads “Dam Fluidification” which is intended as a double entendre above my name (hand printed) which is above “All Things Considered” which I borrowed from NPR. This NPR show started on May 3^rd (turd). I think it works best in this particular situation if one casually enters the store and buys something every time they visit.

The local diner with a blue Buick Riviera for sale out front was one of the last old style “Mom and Pop” types of places. The extremely irritateing flourisn’t lighting was subdued and waverly flickering. An old man sitting at a booth in the weak window sunlight was beaming me the biggest boyish grin and a “I knew you were gonna show up sun” look greeted me as I entered and sat at the bar. I ordered eggs, grits, sausage, white toast, a glass of water, small OJ, a cup of coffee and gave the small crowd, including an intelligent looking character with a beard sitting next to me, a short version of the infinity project. I called the phone # advertised on the side of the Riviera.

The one sided conversation with an elderly lady was listened to by those assembled. How you doing? My name is John Lawrence Kanazawa Jolley and I’m calling about the Riviera out front of the diner. Yes. It’s for sale isn’t it? Yes. Well, how much do you want for it? 1600? Well, I know it’s in perfect condition, I looked at it. How’s it run? Well, I figured it ran perfect there’s no leaks or nothing, it looks like it’s been professionally maintained for its entire service life. You mind me asking what kind of car you replaced it with? Well, of course you got a new Buick Riviera. Well, what’d’ya get another car for? To stimulate the economy? You’re gonna wish you didn’t try and stimulate this dam economy. Huh? I’m just telling ya, look I called about buying the car, I was travelling through town and my Dodge Chrysler’s service life was ended and the way things are in my life, low and behold, there’s a blue Buick Riviera at the bottom of the hill for sale and I figured it’d cost me $400 to taxi my belongings, pay for storage and travel to my next destination, plus an extra $100 for whatever and I’m spending $50 a night over here at the hotel trying to dry my stuff out before it gets rotten and I figured I could just toss it all in the car, roll the windows down , go for a ride and the stuff’d be dry by the time I got there, so I’m willing to give ya $600 cash for the Riviera. No, I’m not crazy. Well, I just figured I’d offer… She and I ended our conversation.

For a very short period of time I talked about the dam free river idea to the bearded intellegent looking character sitting next to me. He asked, “Yeah, well what about the UFO’s”? The next time I see a UFO I’m gonna stick out my thumb as if I was hitching a ride and stick out my two fingers as if hailing a cab and say beam me up bitch, the computer on their ship which likes me more than them will come over and pick me up and I’ll be sitting in the captain’s chair before sunset. “Then what will you do?” Fly around and blow up the dams. The bearded intelligent man just kinda nodded and rolled his head, rotated his thumbs outward exposing his palms and inhaled, as if... of course.

Often times I don’t ask characters such as he, who obviously know, what their experience is with UFO’s. Likely they’ve had their own experiences, talked to others who did, read the reports and did their own research, arriving at the same exact conclusion that I did, G.I.R.L. (Gee, I are ill) Interestingly enough one of the more prevalent reports involving alien to this space (with ships) is extremely noteworthy. Most people can’t think past the act to the likely reason for the act, anal probing specifically, often of hunters or woodsmen, the “victums” having been “out of town” perhaps dietary related, being more likely to have been eating meat, perhaps wild plants and berries, exposure to different kinds of bacteria ingestion and subsequently different digestive tract culture. If the creature that was doing the probing was having a difficult time digesting its food, the likelihood that this is what they would do is extremely high. If there were different kinds of aliens to this space of time the kind that does the anal probing would likely be our best wager for an ally, and more likely to be an alien to the time. They let the “victum” go to tell the tail, their likely continued interest in wild/less processed intestinal bacterial cultures.

In Maggie Valley, NC I stored my stuff in a rent a closet on Wall St. so I could tell everybody everything I owns on Wall Street. I took a greyhound to Cookeville, TN to visit the Bajars. En route the bus pulled into Knoxville for a quick stop. As the bus pulled into the station the driver grimly, somberly, and stoically prophetically deadpanned, “Watch your step, this is Knoxville”. Robert Bajar picked me up and we went to his still wife’s place on Blade and Pistole. We causually went over the whole dam thing on the ride to his place.

When we got to his place Rob said, “John, It’s good to see you man”. Yeah, you to Rob. “What’s it been 10 years since you were last through here?” Yeah about. “John, why did you show up this week? Why’d you show up today?” Oh well, Rob, you know. “Cause I’m a union electrician, and I just finished, I just got done wiring Homeland Security’s new building this week. We just rolled up the plans today, and here you are.” Anything new, or is it the same old shit? I mean you’re the Sargent who ordered the “bucket boys” around, you know every nick in the wire and installation material related fu(k up and you know everybody involved from the bottom of the ladder to the top. “Same old shit.” Nothing new electrically or new about the wiring? “Same old shit.” Cool, cause I got everything that I know of wired. I was just checking, cause I like to know, I know everything intimately, Life just sets me up, plus I actually pursue the knowledge as you can see.

In explanation as to who I am, I often tell people I’m the “John” they warned you about in the Bible, emanuwell or emanuill in a new skin suit, Christ, the Devil or God, depending on what you deserve, but for you Rob (A German Italian Catholic electrician) it’s probably easier for me just to describe myself as agent #23. Rob just looked at me, led me around to the side of his place and to the rear of his union electrician truck. On the back it read, “#23”. See you know (tu sabe).

Later when talking to a larger group including the Duggins, Rob’s brother Todd “the one hit nit wit” firefighter luetenent likely to be captain, and his dad Bob a German retired NYC firefighter I explained I was doing a 9/11 check and showed them my $911.00 U.S. Treasury Department check. I told them what I knew up to the point. Look like Bob easily agreed with my surmise, the others looked kinda dumbfounded or as if maybe I was crazy.

I stayed at Rob’s for a few days, he said he liked to get out of the house. He had a nice vegetable garden out back and was concerned about the unproductive apple tree out front. I explained it was likely the huge wife imposed security light dierectly above it, perhaps a lack of the needed complimentary other apple tree for pollination or lack of pollenators, start with the light. He mentioned his wife’s horses, and her bitch dog out back that slaughtered and ate her own puppies.

His buddy “The Horseman” came over who I really like and respect. His daughter was named Cindy. She was swinging back and forth on his trucks driver’s side door. I admonished her. If you keep it up, you’ll destroy the door. He looked at me and said, “Yeah, we know all about it, I just had to replace that door last week”! Later, he told me how there was many different kinds of bits for riding horses but explained there was basically 2 different kinds, one for regular horsing around and rodeoing then another kind of bit for really riding. I think he was trying to tell me to get ready to ride difficult horses in tough conditions when the products got to be delivered, and how to do it. Like I tell people, man, I know all the right people in all the right places and they tell me how to do what it is I do or I’m about to do if need be. Sometimes one needs a really “tricked out” double bit to really “get it”, or else one won’t be able to ride the horse properly or correctly as needed.

Later Rob explained “I had to go”. While he didn’t mind if I stayed as long as I wanted his wife couldn’t stand having me at the place. Before I left I gave Rob a slightly worn Stetson beaver felt hat that didn’t fit me anymore but fit him perfectly, and my old pair of Danner Boots modeled after WWI English paratrooper boots with nearly desinigrated uppers for a set of size 13 Chinese boots barely worn. This was the “inside secrete information” exchange.

After I talked to his brother in law about the local tractor trailer container transportation industry and our need to transport goods in the containers Rob and I went out back behind his mom’s house. At the bird feeder was a bag of bird feed labeled “Not for birds in cages”. I asked Rob what was the first reason he could think of why not to feed the seed to birds in cages. He said he couldn’t think of any reason why. The first thing I think of, considering the situation at large on this planet is cause it’ll kill the caged bird and you’d be aware of it. What time of year is it? “Spring Time.” Do you see any birds? “No.” Where are they? Where are the pollenators? Do you see any of them? “No.” Rob I suspect humans are deliberately trying to make it “quick and painless”, their exit, or a complete surface wide planetary ecosystem takeover by another organism or both. Humans don’t seem like they’re intelligent enough to try the former, but stupid enough to fall for a “suck job” like the latter, and facilitate their own doom. Wouldn’t it be fitting for a creature like Homo sapiens, that’s farming the planet to death for some stupid “nix”, nothing idea to get farmed itself? That’s why I’m here, just in time. Snap out of it man, don’t silently get led to slaughter. The only way to fix the problem is to get the dams off the rivers first. Rob dropped me off at the bus stop.

WHYTHEVILLE

AUSTINVILLE, GROUNDHOG MT, SHOT TOWER, JACKSON FERRY

Wearing a winter outfit in the middle of summer including a quadruple oversize Delf hoody jacket, red white and blue snow skis and size 13 Chinese insulated boots I approached my Boynton Beach, Fl Chase (Manhattan) bank. I was here to cash $911 U.S. Treasury tax return check, cashing the check for 9/11 and what I’d discovered over the last years of my investigation and several months literally with a 911 check. I used to be with Washington Mutual before it was overtaken by Chase (there’s one under every eave). The lobby was empty of other patrons, just me and the bank employees.

They didn’t want to cash the check and questioned its validity. I’ll admit it’s unusual to keep a tax return check in your back pocket and carry it around for several months. Most people cash or deposit them immediately. Back when the place was Washington Mutual the tellers knew me and I didn’t even need an I.D., Chase slowly fired the old knowing staff and replaced them with almost digital stooges, young men and women, supposedly, from Jamaica, the Bahamas, Canada and England with foreign accents I wasn’t familiar with. They sounded off. They pretended to be normal strangers. At any rate it didn’t look like they were going to cash the check.

A menopausal woman entered the bank. Coincideingly she too had a U.S. Treasury Department Check she wanted to cash. The Chase employees used her check to verify the authenticity of my check. All I want to know was how much her check is for. “1776”, replied the annoyed teller. Do you find it interesting that I’ve got one for 9/11 and she’s got one for seventeen seventy six? “No.” Are you familiar with American History, the revolution in particular, and the fact history repeats itself? Perhaps a different slant of the same thing, dressing up like Indians and throwing the tea in the harbor, the twin towers, basically the two front teeth of the NY skyline, thrown in the harbor, again. A takeover by colonial minded colonists, that’s what I‘d figured was going on. The #’s added up, a product destroying opening gambit/smokescreen.

I’d hiked up to the A.T. with approximately 120 lbs. of stuff including a Wagner cast iron skillet. The police met me at the trail head. This was the 2^nd or 3^rd time I’d talked to the police today, first time for the state police. Both of them looked like the type who’d barely got out of school with a diploma and their lives, and decided to get a badge to protect and serve themselves. Apparently they got the call. Upon request I gave them my I.D., although I wasn’t sure they could read it. They wanted to know what I was doing. I’m sitting here at the Appalachian Trail head with a backpack, 2 suitcases and hiking boots and they want to know what I’m doing. These two need to surrender their badges. I asked them if this was the A.T. They didn’t seem like they were really sure even though the sign I was standing next to said it was. I asked if it was legal to hike on the A.T., it looked like they weren’t sure, they were exchanging those weird glances I’ve come to find means they’re sizing me up for the mental hospital. Finally they left after searching the Samsonite case full of food and herbs.

I carried my gear back a ¼ mile north bound on the trail and scoped out the area. There was a huge blackberry patch with about 1/3 of the berries ripe (which is plenty considering the size of the patch), an apple tree to thicken the pie, and if I walked a mile north, the trail followed a shady creek thick with delicious stinging nettles, I’m here. I was enthusiastically picking blackberries early one day and a large dark bearded man began walking up the trail from the road. He didn’t have a pack or anything and it looked like he was seeing what it was like away from the lawns of Virginia in what he probably thought was “the wild”. I was standing there off the side of the trail aways picking berries to stretch out my oatmeal, sipping on coffee and smoking a cigarette. He didn’t see me and I watched as he cautiously made his way into “the wilds”. He was about 40 yards away when I decided to pick berries from the bushes on the other side of the trail. He saw me, panicked and fled. For such a big guy he ran away from me fast. It was odd to see a bigger man, he even looked “tough” flee in terror from a guy with a container of blackberries in one hand and a cup of coffee and a cigarette in the other.

A few days later I was sitting on the side of the trail when a hiker with a machete strapped transversely quick draw style to the top of his backpack walked by. I offered him some of the stinging nettles I had cooking and he was likely using his machete to cut a trail through and asked if he’d ever tried them. He hadn’t and didn’t want to. He told me he’d killed a rattlesnake with his machete and eaten it though. I told him he should have kept the skin it made a great hat band especially with eagle talons attached.

I began hiking south, picked up a dozen eggs, butter and cream at the store and headed towards Damascus. I found several black cherry trees that had just dropped their load and picked a few gallons eating black cherry chocolate pancakes with a thick slice of butter. They’re like ice cream sandwiches. A bear showed up and I politely explained the goods were in a Samsonite suitcase. Didn’t you see the commercial on T.V.? It’s bear proof. In addition this spot had dwarf blackberry bushes just a few inches tall that produced the best blackberries I ever ate.

I continued south and came upon a bunch of apple trees that were loaded with ripe apples. The trail began to follow a creek that was full of crawdads and another place with a huge windfall of black cherries before I got to a shelter. It looked like it was going to rain. I decided to unload my backpack and descend the hill back to the apple tree a couple of miles away and load up on apples, black cherries and crawdads. I had a coat hanger and an old handkerchief that I fashioned into a crawdad dipping net. I put a bunch of empty containers in the back and began catching crawdads while wearing flip flops. The crawdads were pretty good size, some bigger around than my thumb with eating sized pinchers. I got about a ¼ gallon of them while moseying back to the apple tree where I practically filled the K2 with 50 to 60 pounds of apples.

There was a road here and someone had scattered several bags of trash around that I picked up and burned. On the way back to the shelter I picked a couple gallons of black cherries off the ground. In particular one tree had dropped a large amount of fruit. It was on a barbed wire fence line, which I of course climbed over to get at the fruit. An older guy in his 50’s riding a motorcycle came up the dirt road. He gave me the biggest most awful scowl he could muster and circled around giving me the evil eye for picking cherries off the ground. It looked like it was his tree and he wanted the fruit wasted. He looked like the kind of creep that would chop down the cherry tree so no one could have fruit. Also, there was a trash can here that someone had thrown away a bag of dam potato chips in, I got em.

When I got back to the shelter it started to rain. There was a dead tree that had fallen down nearby and I stacked dry wood under the shelter and set about making coffee, black cherry pies, blackberry sparkling wine, black cherry syrup, jelly, apple sauce, fried apple pancakes, and generally peeling apples, cutting them into slices and drying them. It rained for 2 or 3 days while I worked on the food processing and 8 to 10 hikers came through every day in groups of 2 to 4. I was sitting there in my straw colored linen suit making apple pies on the Appalachian Trail casually “selling” the infinity project idea to passersby. I had intended on spending the summer doing just this to a crowd that I’d figured would be more receptive to the idea, in a location where I could legally slowly hike around without running into the cops every day. I was glad to get off the dam road.

It was interesting to find the hikers didn’t have anything to say about what they’d seen walking through the woods or what was going on out in the real world. It looked like they were shocked and terrified to find me serving up slices of fresh pie and cups of hot coffee in the middle of nowhere. They were all empty handed, they had nothing, travelling extremely light. The ones who stayed for the night had no dinner or breakfast. They all refused the food I’d prepared. The typical scenario included a mixed sex group straggling to the shelter in a light drizzle and finding me enjoying a sautéed apple crawdad pasta entre, with a side of stinging nettles steamed in fried pork belly with black cherry pie, cold black cherry drinks and coffee just before the sun set. I’d regal them with tales of river enterprise and the general intrigue of my quest to end the dam ages with plenty of food to share with everyone. The people freaked, not one of them would even try the food. The black cherry pie was the best I’d ever had.

I just kept peeling apples and baking pies, cobblers, and apple fritters… One evening two men about 50 hiked up from the north in a heavy downpour. They were soaking wet. One of them wore a ball cap with the word JESUS on the front. I just kept peeling apples. Boy I’ll bet you guys are glad to get out of that rain. There’s plenty of dry wood stacked up under the shelter. Want a slice of pie and a cherry spritzer or a cup of coffee? Plenty of pie and coffee. They strung up a line and hung up there soaking wet socks. They weren’t interested in pie or coffee. Sure is a shame about those dams on the rivers, huh? An Obama nation of desolation for sure now, don’t ya think?

Their cell phone rang. One of em’s wife called and said she was walking her dog and the dog drug her down to the ground. She thought she’d broke her hip or something, said she needed to go to the hospital. They hung up and the man related the news. They decided they were gonna return. What? It’s getting dark, it’s raining cats and dogs, two hour hike to the truck, in the daylight, another two hour drive to your house you said. Why not just let the ambulance get her and see her about lunch time tomorrow? No, they had to go. There’s no sense in hiking back there with that can of chucky soup. They took the soup with them.

The next morning at the crack of dawn I woke up to a Mt. Rodgers Forest Ranger and Smith County Sheriff with bullet proof vests and firearms. You guys wanna slice of pie and a cup of coffee? “Nope”, they said they’d gotten reports I was up here threatening people with a machete. The guy with the machete? He hiked through here heading north few days ago. I don’t have a machete. They wanted to search me and found a marijuana cigarette. They told me that I’d have to accompany them back to… On the hike down the hill and the drive to… I told them about the dams being the foundation of the problems that we face environmentally and how collecting the rain with the surfaces we build along with replacing the flush toilet with a fertilizer machine was the solution to the largest of the problems, the dam shetty problem.

Considering I was talking to a Mt. Rodgers U.S. Forestry Super I told him about a relevant idea to his industry. I pointed out that roads are dams or canals or both. The U.S. Forestry Service while it looked like they were in the business of harvesting trees was actually more involved with the building of dam roads considering the energy involved. Also the roads were usually built where the biggest trees grew in the most productive areas. It was the nature of their business. The dam roads went through the places with the best trees. Often times the roads were somewhat maintained between harvests. Just think how many more trees we could grow if we didn’t have the roads, plus we’d save the energy involved in putting in and maintaining the roads, and the roads are often along the rivers and creeks which is bad for water quality. Also there is a lot more produced in a forest than just trees. We’ve got bushes, groundcovers, grasses, insects and other flora and fauna that aren’t even being harvested yet are destroyed by all the roads, trucks, tractors and skidders involved in the present method of harvesting.

I suggested the best thing to do was harvest the trees with helicopters, replace the large concentrated mills with minimills, more like someone’s barn. Process the forestry products in more, smaller locations lessening the impact environmentally of the big mills and returning more power to the individual. From the research I’d done it looked like the machine toilet worked better with an additional carbon source to the fecal material and the locally produced sawdust from the minimill might work great. I thought he was actually listening to me.

When we got to the cop shop they wrote me a nearly $350 ticket for packing a doobie on the trail. Then they took me to the hospital “To make sure I was all right”. I’d hiked off the trail with over 100 lbs. of gear, obviously I wasn’t having any physical problems. It was as if now that they’d made a few hundred dollars they wanted to spread the wealth around. They instructed me to lie down on a hospital gurney in front of a T.V. “That 70’s Show” was on and Adam Kushner was getting onto a hospital gurney at the exact same time I was. I pointed this out to the officers and its significance, they thought I was nuts or something.

I began telling them my story about how I drove the getaway car for the largest heist ever seen in the universe, when I was Mr. Madoff’s valet. The 70’s Show ended and the next program was about the 65 (66.6) billion dollar “Bernie” Madoff pyramid scheme. I finished relating my story as the same played on T.V. They decided I was crazy. I pointed out that they were the ones determining my sanity in front of a television. They took me to the South Western Virginia Regional Mental Hospital for…nothing? or to make a bunch of money for their town. I recommend capital punishment for those involved with this decision to give me a chemical lobotomy.

I treated the S.W.V.R.M.H staff to my deluxe dam pharmicuticle farmoresuetokill rendition of the way things are. They didn’t like the truth and ordered phsyciatrick (the pills) treatment, to keep me quiet about it. I refused treatment. The judge (magistrate) ordered it done. I gave him the law man’s version of the dam shetty truth. He told me he was taking away my right to bear firearms. I’ve asked a lot of law enforcement officers if the “computer” says anything about me not being able to carry firearms since and they always say there is nothing about it on record. What a stupid dam fool judge to take away my right to do anything for getting caught on the Appalachian Trail making apple pies. My state appointed “defender” just wanted me to “hush”. As if being quiet about the dam horse shit would make it go away.

The staff was full of obese gray haired “Nurse Ratshit” types bent on control. That which they controlled largely revolved around the medication that they made sound as desirous as possible when they announced “medication”. As if you were going on a vacation in the Mederterrainian, all expense paid. The food however was the “showcase” of that which they plied one with. The not so subtle power trip they exhibited as they lined the patients up and marched em a ¼ mile across the facility 3 times a day for the dam and ditch, drain the well dry, GMO devils food of the gods they insisted we were so fortunate to eat. After all, they insinuated, what would we do without them? They constantly reinforced the idea that we were helpless without them. One had to see these despicably unhealthy looking and acting Virginia matrons lord over mass. It was putrid. They seemed to think that because I ate the stuff I must have really liked it. This food gave me ulcers.

Just to finish off the food idea, cause I’m not out of S.W.V.R.M.H. yet, but the last week I was there I requested double portions for a few reasons. I wanted to gain weight so as to hit the dam streets running, also I wanted to experiment and see what would happen if I did. The fat mums were overjoyed I was eating more and as a result of getting nearly twice as much food sometimes I couldn’t finish it all and threw food away, which I can’t stand. The massive overbearing mums seemed to be pleased with this waste of food, it was bizarre. The staff could have easily set up a situation where a food item that was easy to serve, and kept well, could have been made available to the patients such as pickled eggs or pie or whatever and then if we wanted another bite to eat we could’ve got one without wasting food. Of course then the patient would have been in control or taking care of themselves. They didn’t want that, obviously. They liked it better when they were in absolute control of everything, even if it resulted in throwing everything away. It seemed they were particularly delighted with this waste for no reason.

Most of the patients at the facility were male as usual, as if there were more “crazy” men than women. This says a lot about what is really going on though. One of the female patients said she was John Gotti’s grandniece or cousin or something. As a reader you might think, sure she was, but I talked to her and she wasn’t insane at all, kinda slow maybe, but from what she said, she didn’t glorify it or anything, I figure she probably was. She wore a T shirt with a picture of Scarface. A very sexy young blonde girl came in a pair of short shorts, very very short, the way her blonde hairs on her posterior kind of guided one’s eyes in there visually was exciting. She didn’t display any sikeosis or neurosis at all. Seemed like she may have been steamed about the way things are, for sure, but who could blame her? She was all over me. The staff did not like this at all. “Mental” patients are not allowed to fraternize with each other, they’re really on the watch for this. It’s a big no no. They over doped the nice, vibrant young girl and the next thing you know she was sitting on the couch with a string of drool pouring out of her mouth, barely cognizant enough to line up for food, and nearly unable to sit on a toilet.

Me? I was suffering from a zombie like brain, a weird tense/numb feeling in my

extremities, ulcers, and a limp penis. I couldn’t get an erection. The staff seemed pleased with these side effects, as if I deserved it for what I’d done. They always asked about my side effects. I told them but they seemed to be looking for other side effects. I just stayed in bed, basically, the whole time studying an antique book on the history of the railroads and another compilation of Mark Twain’s lessor known works that I’d found in the library.

They took notes during the installation of the railroads and one thing that really stuck out was the health or life expectancy of the railroad installation crew. There was no waste treatment infrastructure and the gang mostly just walked out of sight and relieved themselves. This didn’t really cause any problems as long as the installation was relatively straightforward. The gang proceeded along and thus avoided the associated health problems from not “bearing a shit”, in effect they were just by walking outside of camp and continually moving camp along. The most glaring horrific problems developed at the sites of the tunnel installations. It took a while to build a tunnel and after about a month and a half, depending on mostly the local environmental conditions, doom and disease would set upon them. Those people who were sentenced to work the tunnel work site stood a 50/50 chance of debilitating disease or death, it was almost a death sentence to be put on the tunnel gang for lack of appropriate fecal material treatment. It wasn’t just the dysentery and other diseases. Poor health in general causes many other problems, too much dynamite in the hole, poorly built support structures…

As this relates to undamming the planet those towns dependent on dam water to flush would have about that long to “get a grip”. In the USA suburban areas this would be pretty easy to accomplish. Take useless privacy fence and make a portable privy or “outhouse”, dig a hole, move privy every month and plant fruit trees on top. Set up a public manuel fertilizer machine perhaps every other block first, than get to work with the private bathroom remodeling jobs.

Casey Jones apparently disregarded, ignored or didn’t see