My, Cabbage, you clean up well.

If you can draw a red cabbage cross-section and feel confident that you've done the plant justice, then I want you on my team.

my feelers are out.

Today is Wednesday, but yesterday was Tuesday. Tuesday was in my books as a really good day even before 10:00 AM. I visited Pickards Mountain Eco-Institute in nearby Carrboro, NC. My sister's boss casually mentioned the place over dinner a couple weeks ago, as a place where I might find connections to people who could help me realize my short-term dreams.

I met Megan and Margaret on my visit. Megan made me hot apple cider, and entertained my short biography, while we sat in her breathtaking house. She and her husband, Tim, own the whole place and live there permanently. Margaret, on the other hand, lives in one of these:


It is called a "yome," a clever hybridization of a yurt and a Buckminster Fuller dome. On her table were dozens of origami swans. Margaret is the main gardener, and she gave me a tour of all the animals.

A lot more happened as well, and it was all very interesting to me, which is why I am:
1. going back to tent there for two half-weeks, starting this coming monday
and
2. considering the institute as a potential building site (if I can knock their Crocs off with a kickass idea, and a practical plan to back it up)

That's a photo right off their website. It makes me think that I might feel romantic at a place like this.

I am off-the-wall excited about this opportunity. This could be the break I've been putting off getting a part-time job for. Anyone reading this who might be interested in helping me build a natural building, let me know. The clay in this area is phenomenal, in both its abundance and color (bright red).

I was asking Margaret about cool places to check out in Carrboro on my drive back, and she told me about the Recyclery. From what I understand, it's a place that looks like this:

Where they fix bikes using parts and tools stored in drawers like this:


And one can go there with the intention of learning how to fix bikes, and they will assist you in doing so, and will then allow you to become part of the team, and in the end you can leave with a rock solid bicycle made by you!

The answers always seem to be to the West of me.

Jan's Vans

The photo behind the blog title is the back of a conversion van, owned by a lady in Arlington, Oregon. I want to refer to her as a "crazy lady," but this is solely an opinion, and it is also just an inference based on how crazy I found her sister to be. Additionally, I really do respect her hospitality, as it would have been a particularly dodgy night to set up tent, in terms of wind speed and legality. I forget the lady's name. Pam? Jan? Something of the sort.

After my windiest day of biking on my cross-half-country bike journey, I wound up in Arlington. Not because I wanted to be there, but because I stopped there for lunch and a nap, and then attempted to go further but was completely vanquished by the wind within a mile of leaving on interstate 84. I stopped at a outlook point, pissed off the edge of the cliff (because it wasn't just peeing), and laid my bike down, and then my body, on the concrete. I called my sister, because it seemed right, but she didn't pick up. I could have cried, but instead just whimpered. I even dipped so low as to saunter up to the 18-wheeler, and ask about how far the next town was, hoping that the driver might light up and say "hey kiddo, just pop your bike in the back, and climb in - I'll take you there!" But it was a dude and lady both, filling the cabin, and looking too gaunt and dismal to lay out an offer like that. So I crossed over the highway, and rode the 1 mile back to Arlington. As a disclaimer, finally having a chance to go with the wind made this one of the easiest miles of the whole trip, physically speaking.

Going East to West, in the wind you will end,
But West to East, and the wind is your friend!

Emotionally, it was a rough mile, because it was admitting defeat. And that day was the closest I came to giving up. My journal entry in the back of that van was in fact a list of all the ways I could give up without too much shame. All because of wind. That night the van was shaking. Can you guess why? ...Try again. 60 mph gusts.

So first I started riding up the huge hill, following the RV park signs, hoping to pay whatever was necessary to get a plot of grass at least as big as my tent footprint. All the spots were full, but the owner was very nice, and pointed me to a trailer owned by someone who she thought might let me set up for free in their front yard - right between the reflective spinning pinwheel and the plastic picket fence, I imagined. I said thank you, but knowing in my head that it wasn't a comfortable situation for me. And I demand comfort. So I headed to the motel. The one motel in town. Really fancy-looking. I think even had my hand on my credit card in my pocket as I walked in, ready for pampering. I'm trying to remember what the lady at the desk said to me. It was stupid. It wasn't "sorry, we're full." It was like "oops" or "try again" or "not me, not now." And so I lied. "Oh, that's okay." I turned around back towards the door, next to which is a window, and for the first time noticed the neon sign glowing "try again." I'm glad not to have patronized such a foolish establishment.

At one point I had tried the methodist church; can't remember whether it was pre or post-motel. The door was locked, so I knocked. No one answered, even though there was a car in the parking lot. I peed between the edge of the parking lot and the beginning of the paved entranceway. I had to, and I did. And the only thing that would've made me feel bad about the act would have been if I drowned or burned an ant doing it.

A followed another set of "RV PARK AHEAD" signs to a second site down by the marina. I headed there, and it was full, just like the first one, and the motel, and my bladder again. I found a real bathroom, then ate an orange, and a granola bar. And I thought about what I might do. Next to where I ate my citrus was a bulletin board. On this board were postings about local events and restaurants. Several churches had put up a notice about when services were, and the pastor's number, and groups that met. First I called the Methodist number, and got an answering machine. Technically, I was raised Methodist. And I'm on this bike trip alone, most of the way across the country, emotionally drained, and the Methodist church was closed and now won't pick up the phone. And in all honesty, I would just like to know: in most cases, is the church just good for Sunday stuff?

The next poster was for the Church of the Nazarene. There were actually only two church posters. So this was my second and last chance. The pastor answered and was very nice. He explained that he lived 15 miles away on a ranch, and so he wasn't of much use, but that he would call around town to try and find someone to put me up for the night. After much work, and many back and forth calls that I genuinely am thankful for, he came through with this three-letter-named woman (Pam or Jan). I called her, and she explained that usually she would give me a bed in the house, but that her 87-year-old father was dying in her house, and so her whole family was over, and it was a small house to start with, and now packed with people, and she didn't want to make anyone in there feel uncomfortable, and would it be okay if I just slept in her van, and she's slept in it once before and it was good for her. Yea, that's awesome.

So I went back up the hill that I had ascended to get to the first RV park - essentially I traversed the entire town of Arlington, from the marina (low point), to Jan's mountain home (the high point) - and followed her directions to her corner house with the car-dealership-looking driveway, packed full of her relatives' automobiles. In the middle was the aforementioned van. And in the van were two woman madly trying to convert the back seats into a level sleepspot. Together, we prevailed. Then they went inside, and Jan's sister, whose name I also cannot remember, put together a hamburger and chips and some sunny D, and brought me dinner-in-van. Which was all very nice. However, she didn't then again go back inside. She chose instead to stay and ask me the dreaded question "So... are you a believer?" I believe in a lot of things, and a lot of good things for that matter; I'm not clear about my religious beliefs, and I'm not sure I ever want to be clear, but one thing I am clear about not believing in is her whackass version of religion. She started in with her father's story. How he went his whole life without the light, and he just recently found God a couple months ago, and now he's set free and everything makes sense, and he's not afraid of death. You might think that I'm wrong in putting this potentially nice and happy topic in a negative light. But I'm confident now in how scared I was then. At the beginning we were chatting through the open sliding door, but it wasn't long before the wind made this less than ideal, and she invited herself into the front seat (fair enough, not my van). She kept up the talk about her father, and tears were streaming down her face, as she looked upward into the proverbial sky of fluffy clouds and muted sun rays. She went on to talk about all the prophecies in the Bible. At this point I was thinking "I should have just confidently said 'yes, I'm a believer' in the beginning." The prophecies are woven so intricately into a book so beautiful that it could have been imagined by none other than a God-like figure. They are all coming true. Soon the western, civilized nations will join forces one last time and march on the middle east. At this point, God will send down a bolt of something to destroy the middle eastern nations (because the civilized westerners need a little help?). And then the world as we know it will transcend into... what the hell lady? Are you crazy? Do you really think I want to sit in your sister's van and discuss this with you? Would you even listen to me if I brought up any counter-points, or wanted to discuss any of these prophecies critically? The answer is no, you wouldn't listen. Because you stated earlier something bogus like "God doesn't want us to be intellectuals. God likes us the way we were. We are supposed to just be ourselves and take the Bible for what it says. He doesn't expect more of us." These are not her exact quotes, but I'd bet a pretty penny that she voted for Bush.

Finally I told her that I was thinking about packing in for the night and doing some reading before bed.

"Oh, what are you going to read?"
"This book I brought about the building technique I'll be learning about this summer. I have to finish it before my course starts."
"Do you have a Bible with you?"
"No. I just have one book. I packed as light as I could."
"Do you want me to go inside and get a Bible?"
"No, thanks."
"Do you own a Bible?"
"Yes, it's at home."
"What version do you have?"
"...the St. James version."
"You mean the KING James translation?"

I know it's still light out lady, but let me go to bed, let me go to bed, let me go to bed. But she had one more thing.

"Sorry, but we've been talking all this time, and I didn't get your name."
"Hehe, your right. It's Greg."
"Well, Greg. I will pray for you."
"Okay... thank you."

I took some pictures after she left of how I would have chatted with her in a world with no repercussions or chivalry.


I set my alarm for 5:00 AM to ensure that I was up and gone before seeing them again. I wrote a very nice thank you note, and left in on the floor next to my paper plate. And like the wind, I was gone.

lamaze breathing

I cannot recall an exact time or place, but I am very sure that at some point in time I have uttered the opinion: "blogs are stupid." I suppose I must take this back.

This blog is a journal that is always open to read. I can state with certainty that it is less satisfying to look at a screen and type, rather than enjoying all the gestures associated with writing with pen on paper. However, this is more efficient, more connected to the people who I would want to read it, and I'm much more likely to keep up with it.

This is my North Carolina journal. I am living at my sister's house, but not because I'm a loser. Rather, I'm an uncle. And I'm trading uncle duties and various cooking/cleaning duties for this roof over my head and pink walls around my head. I'm here on a mission to build a cob cottage, very appropriate considering that I recently completed an apprenticeship at the Cob Cottage Company, in Oregon.

I'm in a new place, with solid skills, an easy living situation, no snow, a lot of clay, a dashing nephew, and the mindset to do/build/make something beautiful. And craigslist. I have no idea how long I will be here, except it will at least be as long as it takes me to accomplish what I wish to accomplish.

Hence the title: an indefinite stay of limitless potential. I write it here lower case, because this is how I prefer it. It's about this moment, which is the beginning, new, little, and ready to grow. Really this particular chain of words could describe any moment. Opening your eyes in the morning. Starting college. Going on a hike. Opening a cabinet. Getting married. Sitting on the toilet.

And so it begins.