Let's see how many times I'll end up saying "hobo" in my entry. Not counting what I've just said.

I really, really, really need to somehow conjure up morning- or afternoon-times when I can write, because this night owl nonsense is driving me to insanity. Insanity! It's like I'm creating my own writer's block. Aaaaaarrghhh.

I suppose it'd be expected of me to start off with the story of our collective temporary hobo-ism. Here is the series of settings: Ashland, the train tracks, a rural area, and the reservoir. Incidentally, train tracks can be somewhat irritating to walk on for a long period of time. But since we were being hobos, we didn't care all that much. I did not have my pack on a stick over my shoulder, as did some of our company; I simply balanced it on a hip the entire time. Once, I balanced it on my head. And by "balanced" I mean, "briefly and precariously held it there whilst swaying to and fro on account of my wobbly balance."



You probably wouldn't be surprised to know that our fellowship passed several trash heaps, fascinating items, boring items, and items that induced a grunt of WTF. We stumbled upon a suitcase of a grandmotherly floral pattern, and Trevor adopted it. He doesn't still have the suitcase because he was forced to abandon it. Most of what we found by the railroad were trash heaps, all with a looming hobo-ness about them. There were old ratty clothes, washed-out books, food containers, etc etc etc, all strewn in the weeds by the tracks. Every time I saw one of these abandoned congresses of crap, I imagined a throng of hobos brutally tossing the contents of their own packs onto the ground, cheering, and sauntering away. It's quite an odd image.

Then, we had a very warm night in our log cabins on the clear, clean shores of the reservoir. And by "very warm night" I mean "long-ass night that was icy cold as frig," and by "log cabins" I mean "tarp spread out on a million weeds and burs," and by "clear, clean shores" I mean "sandy mudslides that swallowed feet for their own personal amusement." Oh, and we found a muddy car key.

I don't feel like talking about the hobo story anymore, but I guess it is a writer's duty to conclude her own story. Here's the ending: "This morning, we woke up. We walked back. Then we weren't hobos anymore, the end."

I spent the remainder of today exploring Ashland a little. Please observe some pumpkins and a huge, hulking squash thing.



I bet that thing could feed a small country. Of squirrels.

To the possible interest of my peeps back home, Ashland's food co-op is a lot like Pittsburgh's. Just so you know. I know you were dying to know.

A photography walk also occurred, during which I photographed with my photograph machine. Behold the lovely Emily!



Besides all of this, I dunno what else to tell you. Scram.

Gruelingly,
Amber