#i usually only use my kindle for traveling to cut down on packing weight so it's always harder to judge the length of a book

[supercantaloupe]

finished reading into the wild

[maximoffvizh]

fic: running in the shadows

"I was raiding your campsite when I realized you have no food, do you maybe wanna come with me? I have lots of supplies" Zombie AU - prompted by @visionofscarlet​

The moonlight is silvery and sickly, breaking through the bare branches of the trees, shadowed into claws on the silent ground, and Wanda clutches tighter at the knife in her hand, holding her breath as she runs through the usual mental checklist of her supplies. Water in her backpack, enough for another two days before she has to travel to the river to restock. Food packs, enough for at least another two weeks, more if she’s careful about when and how much she eats. Bullets in the same beaten up matchbox. Gun in the holster at her hip, knife in her hand, another in her boot, another strapped to her thigh. First aid kit running low on bandages, but she scored another jar of anti-bacterial rub in that trade with Quill’s gang. Another gun was a small price to pay for being able to keep her wounds clean.

Cocking her head into the wind, listening, she can’t hear anything shambling in the dark, and dares to look around. By the moonlight, she can see the faint silhouettes of the city behind her, the crumbling buildings waiting for her. Whipping her head around at the small sound in the distance, she sees a faint billow of smoke against the stars, and curls her fingers around her knife, unsheathing it. Some other poor soul stupid enough to light a fire in the middle of the night and signal every smart individual for miles around.

Moving as silent as the shadows, she runs through the skeletal trees, stopping every so often to listen for the sound of shuffling footsteps, and reaches the knot of trees where the smoke is shimmering against the sky. It’s a good location, she has to grudgingly admit that. Downwind, near enough to a small, shallow pond that there might even be a chance of catching fish, and open enough to escape quickly. If only the poor sod wasn’t stupid enough to light a fire and open themselves up to raids.

There’s no one sitting in the camp, and she moves around the fire, enjoying the flickers of warmth over her skin. Making a mental note to search for more clothes, now the winter’s coming. She’ll avoid lighting a fire if it kills her, even the soft crackle of the kindling reminding her of the wild eyes of the creature that tore into the centre of the camp, her shaking hand sending the bullet in a wild curve, Pietro’s hands around an axe suddenly losing their grip, the sickening crack of his head against a rock when the creature tackled him, and her own screams when she watched rotten, yellow teeth rip into her brother’s chest.

Next to the tiny tent is a backpack, a dark blue that blends in with the night, and she unzips it, picking through the weapons inside. A slingshot, a pistol, a knife, and an assortment of rocks. She takes everything, making space in her own pack for it, sure that the slingshot will be useful for hunting, and even if she doesn’t use the knife she can trade it for more bandages the next time she comes across a gang.

The first aid kit is pitifully bare, only a few band-aids and a bottle of ibuprofen that chokes up a scant few pills inside. It seems almost too cruel to take so little, and she sets it aside, picking through the pack for food. Finding nothing, a few crumbs clinging to the lining, an empty can of beans, the silver edge jagged, probably cut open by a knife. Not a single piece of food, or any water bottle.

Her body seems to sense the sound before she hears the snap of a twig, and she pulls out a knife and spins to hold it at the throat of the man behind her. He drops his armful of twigs with a cry of shock, his eyes wide and trying to focus on her hand, and she pulls out the gun and presses it to his stomach. “Not a sound,” she hisses, and he nods, eyes gleaming with the threat of tears. “Who are you?”

“I...I...”

“Hurry up, tell me who you are and what you’re doing here, or I slit your throat and take over this lovely little campsite,” she snaps, and he lets out a whimper when she presses the blade harder into his throat. “Who are you?”

“I’m Vision,” he whispers, blinking at her, a tear spilling over and leaving a silvery trail down his cheek. “Who are you? Why are you here?”

“What does it look like?” she asks, and he shakes his head, fear in his eyes. “I’m raiding your camp, princess. You’re pitifully unprepared. A slingshot, a few band-aids, and no food?”

“I got attacked by a gang last night,” he says. “Some big guys with guns. They took most of my weapons and all my food. I tried to scavenge the store in the last town, but there were...” He shudders, and says, “those things. I just found some stale crackers right by the door and ran.”

“Are you travelling alone?” she asks, releasing some of her grip on the knife, a thin line of red left behind on his pale skin. He’s too thin, she can tell just by looking, even though he’s wearing plenty of layers. “And tell the truth. Is there someone out there pointing a gun at me?”

“I’m alone,” he says, voice hitching over the syllables in emotion. “Are you?”

“I make a point of travelling alone,” she says, and lowers the gun, though she keeps the knife pointed at him. “Why aren’t you in a group? Seems like you’re not doing that great by yourself.”

“I...we were living up at a farm outside the city,” he says. “I’m not really a fight, but up there...there was a hospital nearby. I was a doctor...before. And we could get medical supplies and grow our own food and I was researching. I thought maybe...there could be a cure. But...two weeks ago the...the creatures came. They killed everyone. I barely got out, and I just kept running.”

“Where are you heading?” she asks, and he glances away from her. “Tell me. Give me a reason to not just leave you out here. That smoke will draw someone else to you before morning.”

“I...I heard about a place in the mountains,” he says. “A fortified compound. And they’re looking for doctors to help. I...I’m trying to get there.”

“I give you until tomorrow night before you wind up dead and left for the creatues,” she says, and he winces. “Maybe I’ll leave you with your slingshot. You need all the help you can get.”

“Where are you going?” he asks, and she can’t help but shiver. Thinking about the times when she had that dream, when she wanted to get to the fortified compound, when Pietro insisted they would make it. Up until he held up his bitten hand, a plea in his eyes, and she raised her gun to his forehead and pulled the trigger.

“Nowhere,” she says, and pulls the knife away from his throat. “I’m just trying to survive.” She sighs, and pulls the slingshot out of her pack again. “Take it. Maybe you can learn to shoot squirrels and get yourself some meat. You’ll die when the cold hits if you don’t put on some weight.”

She starts to walk away, but some twinge of guilt makes her glance back at him. Trying to add the twigs to his fire, sad face lit by the flames, and she sighs and turns back. “I can get you out of the gang territories,” she says, and he looks up at her, eyes suddenly lighting up. “I got a friend who leads one. He’ll trade us in some medicine, maybe some food, if we give him weapons. He’s tough but he never stiffs on a trade.”

“You’d really take me with you?” he asks, awestruck. “But you...you really seem like you know what you’re doing! Are you really offering to...protect me?”

“Gods know why, but yes, I am,” she says, and he smiles. It makes his eyes light up, blue like the summer sky she hasn’t had time to enjoy since she buried her brother and ran before her anger drove her to murder the family they’d been trying to guide. “Put that stupid fire out and get your pack. We can get back to the city borders by morning and sneak in at the guard change.”

“Thank you!” he says, all enthusiastic like they’re not living in the middle of the apocalyse, scrambling all his belongings together. “Oh my goodness, thank you! I know you’ll be able to get me to the compound! Then I can help!”

“Keep dreaming, buddy,” she says, slinging her pack higher up her shoulders. “By the way - my name’s Wanda.”

[vaultsexteen]

It was close to 5 in the morning right now, but it wasn’t like anyone could tell - Alaska was always dark as shit, doubly so when snowstorms blotted out the sky, and Skinny Dick’s eyes were so shot to hell that he had a tough time even when the sun was out. Which was why at Skinny Dick’s Inn, the lights always stayed on, 24/7; it was a beacon for any weary travelers going down the old highways leading up to Fairbanks, and it helped Dick not stumble into any of the stuffed animals when he wanted to go to the old outhouse to take a leak.

Now, as a bartender, he’d seen his fair share of folks who were down and out on their luck: mercs after a job gone bust, people with barely a cap to their name trying to stave off frostbite, that kind of thing. A lot of them came through Skinny Dick’s bar, and most of them got a room at the inn and went away by the next day, off to the next job - or the next bar, if they weren’t so lucky.

He’s been kind of wracking his brain with this latest one, though - a ghoul in a fancy brahmin-leather overcoat and gloves had come in, and she’d rented a room for a whole week. Usually, she’d go out, come back and buy a lot of the hard stuff, go to her room for the night, and return the bottles in the morning. After a few days, it looks like she opted to stay at the bar this time; in fact, she’d been at the bar all day, chatting up the other customers and even getting a bit friendly with a couple of them. Right now, as he was tidying up for the morning, she was sat at the far end of the bar nursing her sixth bottle of Skinny Dick’s Special Hooch, looking like she was gonna burn a hole in the cabin with nothing but her stare. He’d put a few plays on the jukebox, for his sake as much as hers - it was pretty hard to be sad to Let The Good Times Roll, after all.

Positioning himself behind the bar to take stock of whatever spirits he still had left, he figured that he might as well try to check up on the tenant. “Anything else I can get’cha?”

She shakes her head, and smirks. “Nah. You can take this one back,” she said, raising the now-empty bottle triumphantly.

A bottle of Special Hooch was enough to get a ghoul drunk, and six bottles were probably enough to give even a ghoul alcohol poisoning, but she’d gone through all of them like they were water and she didn’t seem any more wasted for it. Skinny Dick didn’t know whether to feel impressed, terrified, or just sad about that; he just nodded and took the bottle, then stashed it under the bar to take back to the still later.

Meanwhile, the tenant had taken out a small, colorful glass pipe and a lighter from her coat, and then lit the pipe. A smell that was something between rubbing alcohol and battery acid began to fill the air as she took a few puffs.

“What’s that, there?” he asked, mostly curious. No way in hell it could be tobacco, and if it was some kind of mutated strain of weed, it was really mutated.

The acid smoke formed a small cloud around her as she laughed. “Got the recipe from out west,” she says, “from a bunch of ghouls in… where was it?” She turns the pipe over, and smiles. “Mexico, I think. Yanks call it smooch.”

“Smells like an energy cell shit itself,” he chuckles. “Jesus, what’s in that?”

Her smile widens. “Hey, irradiated cave fungus and Abraxo can do wonders. You should try it for yourself,” she says, holding out the pipe.

Well, if Skinny Dick stands for anything, it’s that everything ought to be tried at least once. And if he drops dead, it’ll at least have been in the spirit of exploration - so he takes the pipe, takes a hit, and waits to become the first ghoul ever launched into space. It doesn’t happen, but he does feel a bit lighter, just like how he remembers how a reefer used to make him feel. Plenty impressive, he’ll give it that.

“Good, huh?” she says, looking the most at ease he’s ever seen her. “And there was only a drop of the stuff in that kindling. It’s plenty potent - so I wouldn’t recommend it for humans.” She takes the pipe back, and takes another puff. “Tends to turn ‘em into vegetables. Makes a killing in the ghoul market, though.”

He leans over the bar, the old wood creaking under his weight. “Say, you wouldn’t happen to know where anybody could get a dealer for that stuff, wouldja?” he whispers, though there’s no real need to. “A fella might be looking to buy some real soon.”

Her smile only grew bigger. “You lookin’ at ‘er.” She lets the pipe hang around her mouth as she extends a hand. “Chives Chen, independent trader, at your service.”

“Skinny Dick,” he says, taking her hand in his own, “owner and proprietor of Skinny Dick’s.”

“Committed to the brand.” Chives nods once. “I like that.” Pulling her hand away, she rests her elbows on the bar and cradles her head in her other hand. “Listen, Dick, can I talk to you on the level?”

He shrugs. “Shoot. We’re talkin’ now, right?”

“Right…” She sits up straight, and folds her hands like she’s playing poker, without the cards. “Listen, my company is interested in expanding our routes, see, and I heard from a little birdie that the Alaskan frontier might be in the market for some Brahma.”

“Y’ heard right. Always willing to trade for more meat around these parts.” He finds himself nodding along - so far, he likes the cut of her jib. “Not a lot of grazing ‘round here, see, and folks need all the grub they can get. Hard enough to keep everybody halfway fed in here, so I could use a steady line of beef.”

She raises her brows, then. “My good Dick,” she says, hint of a laugh tinting her voice, “I think you misunderstood me. I never said I was selling any meat.”

“What d’you got, then? Leather? Horns?” He pauses. “Glue...?”

“Keep going. Maybe you’ll even get it.”

“Don’t make me guess, ma’am,” he groans, throwing his hands up. “I feel like I’m on an episode of Red Tag, over here!” He can’t help but laugh at his own joke, even if there was no way in hell anyone would’ve cared about remembering old game shows.

She takes the pipe out of her mouth and takes a long drag - the smell of the weird smoke doesn’t really get any better with time, especially not when it was being blown in your face. “That was the one Johnny Collins hosted, right?”

“Right, right.” He takes out his own leather pouch of hand-rolled tobacco from his apron, and strikes a match. “Y’know, he’d say somethin’ like, ‘you’re it, America!’, and he’d ask people these fuckin’ impossible questions while they did these challenges…” He lights the cigarette, then takes a long, deep breath.

“Yeah, swimming through jello and trying to hit an apple on some guy’s head,” she adds, laughing. “You could win shit like, what, a voucher for one week’s worth of gas? A whole case of smokes?”

“If you were lucky, you could win a trip to Hawaii or something.” He takes an ashtray out from behind the bar, and taps some ash into it. “Say, you ever been there?”

Chives shakes her head. “Lots of places under the sun I ain’t been to yet, Dick, and that includes most of The Last Frontier.” She dumps out some acidic-smelling ash from her pipe onto the ashtray, and sighs. “I’ll cut right past the fat of it, man. I got a lot of people out in California who have a lot of jet to sell. You want in, or what?”

“...Oh,” he says, halfway into putting the cig near his lipless mouth, “oh, that was it.” He leans back, crossing his arms. “Yeah - nah. Not that I don’t like jet, but… look, you’re not gonna find much buyers for that ‘round here.” He takes a drag and adds, “Down south in Anchorage, though, I hear they eat jet for breakfast, so you might wanna take a look-see for your friends over there.” He taps his chin, then, as he struggles to remember something else. “Some other folks, too… damn, what was it called again? Psykerjet? Ah, I dunno exactly, but they like that shit.”

Chives doesn’t look disappointed by the news; in fact, there’s a new glint in her eye that would’ve been easy to miss, but he’s seen it before. “Alright. Thanks for the tip, Dick.” She puts her pipe back in her coat, pulls out a single cap, and she sets it on the bar as gently as can be. Then she gets up, and walks off in the direction of the rooms. “You’ve been a big help.”

“No prob,” he says, but she’s soon out of sight. He takes the time to inspect the cap she set down; an old, relatively unbent Sunset Sarsaparilla bottle-cap. He thought there was nothing special about it besides the fact that Sunset caps were pretty rare around these parts, until he turned it around - there, someone had painted a shiny, blue star in the middle.

When he came back from the outhouse to do his usual morning rounds at the rooms, he saw that the room Chives had rented was pretty tidy already. He takes a final look around - she hadn’t moved much stuff around or hid anything in the floorboards, which was fine and dandy with him. Skinny Dick supposed that she’d packed her bags and moved on to the next job - or the next bar, if it came down to that - but he found himself rooting for her all the same.

[wolfsgravity]

aaaaaa semi-coherent self-insert stuff below. watch me be unable to keep a tense throughout because I have dumb bitch disease and don’t feel like heavily editing

A number of years has passed since the fall of Demise, and the Surface... no, Hyrule, I must remember that name now... is a beautiful, prosperous land. I am of the first generation born in this newly reinhabited land; my parents hailed from Skyloft which sits above the highest clouds. I can’t imagine such a world. I enjoy the land beneath my feet. My parents, now advanced in age, often speak fondly of giant birds and endless sky, but I feel fond of the wildlife and the forest around me. Stories say that Hyrule stretches into far mountains and vast desert, but I’ve never traveled too far out of my village. It’s small, right on the edge of the forest proper, and everyone has a role to fulfil. I act as a fill-in for tasks that require more hands on any given day. I’m not the best at many manual tasks, in fact I’ve been shooed away from farmlands when offering my help, but people do enjoy my company for the sake of talking. I’ve been told I have a heart with the kindness of Hylia herself, and I’ve chastised many who have said so. I do not wish to be compared to the Goddess or Zelda, I’m just a simple Hylian that likes to lend an ear and a hand wherever I go. Maybe the storied history of this land wouldn’t be so fraught with danger if more beings were so compassionate.

Today, I am searching the brush in the forest for tinder in order to kindle fires. I am on my own for this one, having decided with my friend that more land covered would bring more firewood. We separated early in the morning, and now the sun was near its zenith. I had no way to tell how far I’d gone into the woods, and the voice of reason in my head told me I should be wary. The land was still half-wild, and I was not the most fit for battle or survival in a pinch. But a whisper in the wind told me to keep moving. A darker thicket lay ahead of me and, with only a ember of fear in my heart, I headed towards it. Denser trees meant more fallen branches, I reasoned.

I squeezed through a pair of trees, silently bemoaning my size as my tunic got caught on some bark. My village was plentiful with food, and I never could turn down a kind invitation for a shared meal. Most Hylians were pretty slim, I had to admit, but nobody seemed to treat me differently for my size, except to comment how popular I must be to share in so many meals. It was always in good faith. Carefully, I un-snagged my clothes from the tree so as not to tear them. 

It was then that my ears, attuned as they were, heard something unusual. It sounded like a groan, maybe? It didn’t sound like an animal, it sounded like a person in pain. I wasn’t sure who would be out this far into the forest, but my mind’s eye imagined a neighboring Hylian having lost a battle, or an intelligent surface species in pain, so I rushed forward without hesitation, not taking note that the trees that had been so tightly packed suddenly spaced out to a much more open configuration merely steps into the thicket.

Within minutes, I reached a concave section of otherwise flat land, curving down to... I wasn’t sure what to think of what, or rather, who I saw.

I quickly took note of several things at once; this at least looked like a person, with skin like alabastor for most of what I could see, but they were curled up with their knees to their chest. On the side they laid on, their hair partially covered their face, obscuring their eyes and nose with just a hint of their even paler lips peeking out. As I was approaching the crater, my soft shoes made little noise, but I brushed against some dried leaves near the mouth of the hole.

Like a wounded beast, the person in the center shot to alertness. With astonishing quickness, they stood to full height, eyes sharply taking me in. I was frozen.

“Who dares approach the Demon Lord Ghirahim?” the being, I would assume being Ghirahim himself, asked. Cold rushed into my limbs-- demons had been driven out after Demise, hadn’t they? My mind went into reflexive mode. 

“Remee. Remee is my n-name.”

The demon’s dark eyes, black in the shade of the trees, took me in with both cold calculation and fiery determination. He was silent, and I looked away from his face to get a good look at what might be the last being I saw. 

His skin was mostly a light grey, but his arms were pitch black. Jagged lines of the same darkness seemed to reach across the exposed regions of his body, like some sort of spreading disease. He was dressed very strangely, the white clothing was tight to his skin and exposed enough to almost be indecent by Hylian standards. There was something at least a little beautiful about his outlandish appearance.

“You’re lucky to get so much of a glimpse at my radiance,” he stated, making me tear my eyes back up to his face. He looked torn, but between what I couldn’t tell. “You were polite enough to answer my question, which gave me pause. I should have slaughtered you on sight.” I gulped, the cold fear in my arms and legs spreading futher into me. “You’re one of those...” he snarled his next words, malice dripping from his tone, “sky inhabitants.”

I shook my head before I could reasonably stop myself. Why was I trying to argue with a demon? But Ghirahim’s malice shifted very slightly into curiosity, head tilted. His eyes shot from my eyes to my pointed ears back to my eyes. “You have similar characteristics to the sky maiden.”

“Well, I mean, Zelda--” he let out a growl at the name, making my stomach turn, “er, uh, sorry, sh-she did come from the sky, like my parents a long while ago. B-but I was born on the Surface, a couple decades ago, and there’s quite a few like me.”

I watched Ghirahim shift his weight and take a step up from the center of the hole, just one step towards me. “If you aren’t sky inhabitants, what are you to be called?”

“H.....Hylians.”

I bowed my head as I saw fierce anger flash across his eyes. “Oh really, must you all take your name after your precious GODDESS--” he slammed a foot on the ground, startling me to look back up. He was a handful of steps closer, and in my right mind I would have backed up. There was still distance between us, but his temperament should have pushed me back. “--who caused my MASTER’S UNTIMELY END, not once, but TWICE?”

His hands raised, and for a second I feared for some sort of magic attack. I flinched. When a moment passed without my feeling anything, I opened my eyes.

In front of me, now almost within arm’s reach, stood Ghirahim. The decline of the land still kept him a few inches shorter than me, but had he been on even ground he would have been taller. His hands were gripped in his hair, the pitch skin contrasting with the sheer white. The cracks of darkness seemed to have grown across his chest and up into his neck and face. His eyes were wild, darting this way and that, a manic sort of desperation seen in the dim light. And though he could kill me, probably would kill me... I felt my heart shatter a little.

A Demon Lord without any master or suboordinates. Alone, lying in a pit in the ground, unaware of the world around him.

“I’m sorry.”

The words seemed to ring out in the tense silence. Ghirahim froze, his eyes swivelling to look me in the eye. I could almost see his mind come back into focus as he stared me down.

“You’re... what?” his voice came out as a whisper, with no real tone or inflection.

“I-I said I’m sorry. You’re hurt--” he made a sound, neither dismissive or affirmative, maybe surprised? “--I just... I dunno, I hate to see...”

“... Hah... What could you possibly gain...” as though in slow motion, his arms returned to his sides, “...from showing... softness at a time like this...?” Then, almost to himself, he said, “I could kill you now. I could seek out and destroy every last one of your kind. Yet... you apologized... to me....”

I felt an icy grip on my heart. I knew he wasn’t just grandstanding, and for a few beats I felt I had possibly doomed Hyrule. I heard him huff out a breath through his nose.

“I’ll let you live. Conditionally.” He tapped a finger to his chin, mulling something over. “You’ve appeased me. Do not take this as a kindness. You will serve a purpose yet. Come back to this place in a few day’s time, and I will spare you. If you don’t I will assume you as fair game and hunt you down. I happen to be very tenacious when I need to be.” The demon looked around, as though taking in his surroundings for the first time. Then, turning on his heels, he waved his hand. “You are dismissed. Do not disappoint me.”

I slowly backed out of the thicket, squeezing back through the dense trees at the perimeter. On my way back to the village, I used a knife I usually saved for cutting loose branches or chopping through tall foliage, marking the way to Ghirahim’s den in a way that I would remember without giving him away to the rest of the village. I wasn’t sure who I felt I was protecting from whom at this point, but I knew that, for now, it’d be best to do as the demon said. 

[nookishposts]

Keepers

I decided many years ago not to have children. I love kids and love spending time with other people’s kids. Children’s choirs with those reedy innocent voices never fail to move me to tears. I was a summer camp theatre arts teacher for a number of years, and I am often the first one to get down on the rug with a wee one learning to crawl. The smell of baby, especially a sleepy one nestled against my chest is the breath of heaven. My choice has nothing to do with kids themselves and everything to do with me. I come from a swamp of family health issues: cancer, heart disease, diabetes and far too many incidents of serious mental illness resulting in a lot of suicides. I felt neither prepared nor compelled to parent , especially given the possible inheritances, and because I had so much growing up of my own to do. At 58, I have no regrets about this. My sister also chose not to have kids for her own reasons. So, effectively our parents contributions to the gene pool will die when we do. If I have any regret at all it’s that my Mum didn’t get the pleasure of grand-parenting, but thankfully she fully supports our choices. I have friends and acquaintances in this world who are absolutely awesome parents, raising kids who will definitely make this world a better one. I am delighted to support those efforts in any way they ask.

Part of the mid-life reflection involves considering legacy; I think some of us will admit to wondering what effect our lives have had, if any at all. Will we be remembered or will our brief tenure on the planet quickly disappear into the ether? We are just minute pinpricks on the greater pointillist picture of Time anyway, so what does it matter?

What got me thinking about this was the process of packing to sell a house, stuff in storage for 3 months and then unpacking it at our final destination. We had done what we thought was a major purge before squirrelling things away, but as we unpacked I found myself thinking : why the heck did I keep this? We all seem to retain some momentos of special times in our lives and that’s understandable, but I came across an awful lot of boxes that had not been opened since we moved to Winnipeg in 2009...for 10 years they’ve just been hauled around next to the necessities of pots and pans and winter boots. Why keep them at all? Watching a bit of Marie Kondo with My Beloved, didn’t help, in fact I found her downright annoying which is not usually like me at all. I guess it felt like she challenged things I wasn’t ready to face.

Some of those boxes I know for sure I will never let go of; the one with the Fair Isle sweater my Grandma made for me, my Grandpa’s service medals, and the first piece of jewelry gifted by a family friend when I was born (Does anybody even remember Sarah Coventry bracelets?)

There are boxes pertaining to my former schools and places of work and trips I’ve enjoyed, volunteers gigs that were impactful, bits of inherited china that I don’t imagine I will ever use: I can admire fine bone china tea cups and saucers, but since I have muscley massage and gardening paws (whereas my sister’s hands are slender and delicate despite being hardworking ) I tend to drop things. My klutziness is legendary. Every one who knows me has a story of how graceless they’ve seen me be. Not everyone you know can achieve a paper cut on their tongue licking a Christmas Card envelope. But I digress.

It is dawning on me that in a way, those boxes validate the person I was becoming. High school year books are full of sentimental awe and angst; look at those hairstyles and remember how we were sure we were “all that” and then some. Achingly fond memories of dances and all night conversations, cheering from the stands wearing school colours with great sense of belonging, the first terrifying day of Grade Nine weighed against walking across the graduation stage such a few years later. Same with college and university; who was that passionate being with boundless energy for learning,who slipped so easily and with such ferocious idealism into 30 years of feminist marches and human rights campaigns? What happened to that young woman who in spite of hating airplanes flew by herself all the way to Australia and back looking to answer some big questions? Or the crazy theater student who performed street mime and Shakespeare, dressing from the second-hand store in androgynous suits  carrying a guitar everywhere, hitch-hiking between small -town pubs. Or the one who took a summer to hike the entirety of the Bruce Trail from end to end. It turns out she’s in boxes among the t-shirts and the handbills and the polaroid photos. She in the boxes from the YWCA as Aquatic Director, WUM as a Housing Counsellor, Gomorrah’s as a bookstore employee, The AIDS Network as Director of Volunteers. And in the endless boxes of books; about massage and gardening, and eco-living, and spirituality and cooking and favourite novels by authors whose stories generated both laughter and sense.

But what do I do with it all?

My Beloved and I were laying in bed recently, chatting sleepily as we recounted our day. One of the questions I keep hearing lately in social media is : “What would you do if you weren’t afraid?”  Both of us admitted that we would take only what could fit in a knapsack and travel the World. Which, given that we have spent 11 years looking for the right place to settle down, and have finally found it, is deeply ironic. 

I could not fit all of those boxes into my knapsack. The weight of it would crush me. So why, as an armchair traveller am I holding on to them now? I am not a hoarder by a long stretch. But I suspect I have to a need to prove to myself the existence of my being. People with children see themselves looking back at them through the eyes and hair and mannerisms of their offspring, even those not biologically born to them. Grandchildren increase that evidence exponentially and carry the torch forward casting their light into those generations to come. No boxes required. Perpetuating existence proves itself. The stories will survive.

My task now is to decide if I need to hold onto momentos that prove the moments that made me. When I managed a thrift store, I used to wonder at the treasures that came through the doors when somebody decided to clean out an attic. Wartime photos, first edition books, delicate china and silver engraved with initials, diaries, wedding dresses, inscribed jewelry....the sale of those special pieces helped keep the doors of a food bank open and the kids after school programs running, but sometimes it felt sad to me to be putting a thrift store price on something that had once been so precious to someone else. We are collectors, but we inevitably outgrow those collections and the kids and grandkids may not see the same value in what we’ve saved as we did when we carefully boxed things away. 

Nobody else is going to want keepsakes from my schools, my travels and my jobs, and they are of no practical use to me now except perhaps as kindling for a bonfire on a starry night. Better they be incinerated in a communal act of warmth and light, perhaps with storytelling, than go into a landfill. There are family heirlooms I will eventually find other homes for among my cousins and their kids I suppose, as they aren’t really wholly mine to dispose of.There are lots of other things that will never mean anything to anybody but me. And as long as I can remember to tell the stories, I suppose those will pack nicely into the knapsack as I travel into this next phase of life as a self-sustaining steward of the Planet. When I can no longer remember the stories, the reminders won’t matter anymore anyway. Best they be dispersed now to do whatever good they might for someone else. Or is that an excuse to just hand off the responsibility? I’m not completely sure. 

I am too old to really need the proof that I have lived, and there’s a lot of living yet to do. The accumulation of non-practical stuff needs to stop, and space for new experience needs to be cleared. The garage attached to our home has been converted into a very large workshop space, insulated and heated, with windows and outlets everywhere. The previous owner had amazing tools in there and created amazing things. But we have filled it with boxes. There are 3 giant Tupperware bins of music CDs alone. At least 6 of books. We have more duplicates of tools than we know what to do with. More artwork than we have wall space for. Camping gear that may have reached redundancy now that we live surrounded by woods and 3 minutes from a lake. Things don’t define a person, they never have. But I lulled myself into thinking I needed validation through proof. I have no children or grandchildren to inherit the proof of anything. My ancestors stories will continue through the rest of the family and I can help by  being one of the ones committed to writing them down.  Electronic storage takes up way less space and is more accessible than a box in an attic. It’s an easier inheritance to manage.

Of course there will be those things I will choose to keep simply because they please me. I’ve a collection of small indigenous carvings of animal spirits that give me great joy to handle. I still have my massage table because I can still do that work if called upon. I will likely get rid of most of the linens that supported it as a business, maybe  see if a young masseuse might like some of the books and tools to help set up their own practice. Inevitably, certain things will end up in the bins of a thrift store. The workroom will get emptied and become once more a place of creation; shelves for things we’ve grown and preserved in our gardens, space for my Beloved to set up her loom and spinning wheel. A corner for my desk and a designated spot to see if I can put my money where my mouth is as a writer, to finish a novel and assemble a collection of musings. There needs to be space for Marie Kondo’s idea of “sparking joy” to come from within and take form. Who knows how much travelling we will do, and the various forms that might take. We’ve spent 11 years coming to this place with a very specific way of living in mind and the incredible joy in being here will carry us forward. Joy need not be a collection of inheritances or things amassed; I think I have decided joy can be an acronym for Just Open Yourself. It will not matter if I existed after I am gone, only that I lived in a way that honours the opportunities while I am here now. Those boxes are filled with reminders of amazing past moments, but I hope I am the distillation of those formative gifts, including all of the people and places that challenged me to shed one more layer of shell in order to grow. There is nothing to prove. There’s only what the sum of yesterday can offer today, and if I’m lucky, a series of tomorrows. It all fits in a knapsack.

[ricktoportland-blog]

RTP #111 – bike gear list (in grams/pounds)

grams matter.

grams matter a lot.

below is the list of what I plan to carry on Soma; sorted by weight, in grams & pounds.

following the list, if you want to geek-out on the gear-talk that happens in the background, you’ll see an email thread that I had tonight with two friends who are helping me to explore even more options to make the load lighter. Jonah McDonald is an expert on backpacking and camping as he leads groups on excursions (and is available for hire if you are looking for a cool experience) and my friend Andy Dressel (from my Cheshire HS days) is an accomplished bike-packer/Ironman as he rode down from upstate New York to Decatur to visit me on a bike about a dozen years ago.

additional weight-saving ideas from all of you are welcome…

(and for a kicker, there’s a list of things that I’ve either moved off Soma for now, as well as an initial list of what will be moving along in ‘drift boxes’ for resupply)

Jonah & Andy,

think this is close to the final list. would appreciate it if you'd look it over for any suggested adds/deletes.

(especially Jonah for the camping and Andy for the cycling)

would be glad to send additional info like brand names if you need it.

thanks again for the help

rick

THEIR REPLIES BELOW:

Andy had some initial comments, so here are also my replies to his notes:

shoe covers vs rain pants: I guess everyone has their own feelings about what to keep dry 

I've got issues with my feet getting cramps - I'll likely use these only early on when it's potentially chilly - I got new Bontrager shoes that are neon yellow

2 shirts & 2 pants: Anne and I usually bring 3 in case things don't dry for a day. Sucks to ride in dirty shorts. Maybe you're not counting the clothes on your body 

I keep going back and forth on this - may switch to 3 fairly quickly

I much prefer straps to bungee cords. Won't stretch and lighter I got itty-bitty bungees, but won't have much outside the panniers (Andy, it was you who taught me in high school to have a "clean pack" with not a lot of stuff dangling off of it (eg. shoes, cups, anything that makes a noise)

By "tire change clamps" do you mean "tire levers"? 

yep...was using layman terms

Hi Rick,

Here are some notes:

I'm not a fan of the wisp disposable toothbrushes. Saves a tiny amount of weight but is not as good for the environment. Personally, I'd just carry a simple toothbrush like at home, and a small travel tube of paste. Or this: https://www.amazon.com/Eco-Dent-Baking-Powder-Toothpowder-Original/dp/B000OLE96G. This is an interesting light-weight idea for a toothbrush, too: https://www.amazon.com/Safety-1st-Fingertip-Toothbrush-Case/dp/B00CMR1QNE Haven't tried this, but I have seen lots of backpackers use them. This doesn't change your pack weight much, but thought I'd throw in my 2 cents. 

I've already bought Wisps, but will cut over when I run out (also to be conscious of the environment)

On my longer bike tours, I've always carried 2-3 replacement spokes and a spoke wrench. I've broken spokes on both of my 500+ mile tours and was able to fix and ride another 100 miles to the next bike shop. Won't add much weight and is (to me) easier than a temp spoke kit.  

I do have two extra spokes on the bike but need to get a spoke wrench

I'd recommend the CO2 cartridge-style emergency pump. Lighter than a pump and works very well in a pinch. Likely you'll be staying places where there's a floor pump often. Save 1/2 pound. you are right about the pump 

I think I can lessen the weight because there's a bracket I don't need (I've never used cartridges, but may learn over the course of the ride)

I read on my phone using the Kindle app. Reading is super important on a trip like this, but if you want to save 1/2 lb you could leave the Kindle behind and use your phone. 

good idea - I'll start with that option (just downloaded the app)

If you are going to carry chain links, does your multi-tool have a chain tool? 

no...so I probably don't need them after all

I wish there was a lighter option for your bike lock. But don't want to skimp here. Mostly you'll be able to park your bike inside your hotel room or next to your tent. But would be horrible to skimp on the bike lock and have your Soma stolen. Maybe Andrew has an idea. 

I've struggled with this one. last week we tried to pry apart a "Tile" to hide in the tube, but it screwed up the electronics. we will see if I can move to a lighter option as I ride along

What's in your 1st aid kit? 

Might be able to reduce weight here. here's the link to what's in the kit

https://www.rei.com/product/800721/adventure-medical-kits-ultralight-watertight-3-first-aid-kit

I'd probably just carry one extra tube and have one in my bounce box. Most flats can be patched and it's unlikely to blow both tires at the same time. Could save 1/4 lb. 

early on I'll have an extra, but as I get better at repairing I'll likely drop down to one tube

What panniers are you using? Salsa (I considered Ortlieb but went with them due to the recc from my bike shop

http://www.jensonusa.com/!4j2OjtQecyfwpSCXy8!l7A!/Salsa-Touring-Pannier?utm_source=FRGL&utm_medium=organic&pt_source=googleads&pt_medium=cpc&pt_campaign=shopping_us&pt_keyword=&gclid=CjwKEAiAuc_FBRD7_JCM3NSY92wSJABbVoxBK8JCEpS2JH4-pXT2Ru1Y3OusVTYXpm8BEu9MkRwoBxoCHw7w_wcB

I usually carry 2 pairs of underwear so can be washing one in the sink and let it dry on my bike the next day. 

I'll carry a 2nd

What stove are you using? Good weight so probably no need to switch.

SnowPeak GigaPower Auto Stove

Sleeping bag is a place you can save 1 lb or more if you're willing to shell out the money. It will cost $300-400 to upgrade. Is that worth it? What brand is your current one and what is its temp rating? 

Kelty Cosmic Down 20 (what would you suggest as an alternative?)

https://www.rei.com/product/896029/kelty-cosmic-down-20-sleeping-bag-mens

Sleeping pad might also be a place to save 1/2 lb. What brand and model? 

just swapped out for a new pad last week and I think the new one is the ThermaRest EvoLite Plus

What batteries are you carrying and why? energizer, triple-A, 

probably don't need after all since I just got new blinkers that are lighter w/ smaller batteries (this was originally due to a different light under my seat

What are your dry-sacks for? Could the same purpose be accomplished with regular stuff sacks lined with trash bags? Don't know if this would save weight. mainly for compression, and to make it easier to sort through stuff once I get to places 

I may ditch these after I learn my system better

I hope this is helpful! 

super, super helpful  - Thanks Jonah & Andy

Jonah

Founder & Lead Guide Sure Foot Adventures 404-373-8036 jonah@surefootadventures.com www.surefootadventures.com —————————————————————————– Your Adventure. Our Expertise. Hiking, Camping, Backpacking, & Outdoors Education

T-minus 11 days…

rick