I've been havin' some hard travelin', I thought you knowed
I've been havin' some hard travelin', way down the road
I've been havin' some hard travelin', hard ramblin', hard gamblin'
I've been havin' some hard travelin', lord

                                        Woodrow 'Woody' Guthrie



It has become a very Marxist, a very Woody Guthrie, a very 1930’s kind of time.

My traveling is usually not as low to the ground as Woody’s were. I
have learned how to live, to thrive on very little. That’s a big part
about how I have enough.

And yet, I’m always seeing the things he saw. I’m always hearing his
lyrics, hearing his song.

The new normal of the Human Condition is more and more people being
homeless, totally destitute, not only in their material circumstances,
in spirit also. If they’re not homeless, destitute now, they’re not
too far away from it. If poverty of spirit hasn’t made them psychotic,
insane, they’re not too far away from it.

When the sun sets, the homeless, the destitute, the psychotic, the
insane seize the night.

I left San Francisco, as the city was in the choreographed throes of
Superbowl madness. I arrived in downtown San Diego by Amtrak train at 1 a.m.
This was after the trolley car public transportation system had shut
down. This meant there was going to be no easy, timely way of getting
to San Ysidro and the Mexican border.

It was an unusually cold night in San Diego.

I walked two miles with about 60 lbs. of luggage to the Greyhound Bus
Station. There appeared to be nobody there. And then two ‘security’
men appeared. They laughed scornfully at my expectation that buses
would be running - anywhere, let alone places in Mexico.

I waited in that cold San Diego night in the rough fellowship of the
homeless, the destitute, the psychotic and the totally fucking insane.
And it was all cheelo. It was all cool in the rough fellowship of the
Human Condition.

At 5 a.m. I jumped on the first trolley to the border. It was good to
be on my way. And then I began to hear these noises.

It was not the kind of sounds you expect a Human Being to make. It was
the sound of a demon in hell who was really pissed off about being a
demon in hell. The sounds came from what appeared to be a large, muscled,
man considerably younger than me who was staring at me from the other
side of the trolley car with the fury of the totally, fucking insane.

I avoided eye contact with him. I knew that if I were to make eye
contact with him we would have to fight until one of us was dead. And
yet, my avoiding eye contact made him, even more furious.

Incoherently ranting, and making those sounds, he charged at me from
the far side of the trolley car. He stopped short and retreated to the
other side of the trolley car.

Still I didn't make direct eye contact with him.

He charged at me a second time. He came closer. And yet, again he
retreated to the far side of the trolley car.

Still I didn't make eye contact with him.

And then he came at me the third time.  And I knew that this was IT.

My eyes locked on to his and immediately I was brought to a grotesque,
hellish, violent place. And yet, with a feeling of gratitude I
observed, as if from afar, my training taking over.

Everything went into slow motion. I went into the tai chi raised hands
position and then prepared to do 'box ears'. I took a step backwards,
and readied to meet the madman's charge with my right knee smashing
into his groin, and my two fists striking his temples - all
simultaneously. I was instructed to use 'box ears' only if I was ready
to kill.

And the readiness is all.

And then the doors of the trolley opened. I stepped aside, grabbed and
swung my lugguage, knocking the fucking lunatic aside. Then I ran. I
ran very fast.

And that's how I crossed into Mexico.

It was a long, hard, 48-hour, bus ride to Morelia. Somewhere in there
my seven harmonicas were stolen from my backpack.

And yet, the universe giveth and the universe taketh away.

Morelia is the perfect place to find your new musical instruments (see
'narrative of the voyage of the bloody, snake chariot -
libbyhome.blogspot.com.). It's a city of music where music professors
and music students walk the beautifully crafted, cobble stone streets
with their instruments.

And yet, it is also a city of murder, extortion, cartel and Mexican
police violence.
The pope is coming, Wednesday, to say something about this.

And yet, its good to be back. I am in the company of musician friends,
and music. I have two new harmonicas in the keys of G and A.

These are very Marxist, very Woody Guthrie, very 1930’s kind of time.
And yet, there is a way of traveling, there is a way of living in
which the
kingdom of heaven covers the earth