Slurping at the droplets of water that remain in my mustache as I meander down the hallway towards my office at work, I ponder what words my fingers will spill upon this digital page when I arrive. The content is unknown at this point, but what is known, is the fact that the content is not as important as the action of writing. I’ve had this all welling up inside me for the longest time and I feel that if I don’t allow the rhythmic tip-toe tapping across the keys that my brain might implode upon itself in a steaming pile of indiscernible goo.

 Lying with his eyes while his hands are busy working overtime… I need a fix cuz I’m goin’ down, down to the bits that I left uptown.

 My thoughts have been flying at a million miles per hour as of late. Tasks that need completing, orders of operation, the past, the future, the present, social interactions, life changes, tangents of tangents of tangents. When it all gets overwhelming, I find it helpful to jot down a simple to-do list. The quick flick of the pen makes a chicken scratch note that gives my weary mind one less thing to remember.

 -Paint cabinets

-floors?

-tires

-DMV

-take out hamper 

 I’ve been invigorated with this un-ending, burning desire to just DO. To partake in life. Get busy livin’ or get busy dyin’. I’ve finally started to see the results of my planning fall into place. One goal achieved opens the doors to all new possibilities, all new achievements. Little improvements here and there all moving towards a better quality of living. Less bullshit, more life, my way. Feels good man.

This moment in time, 2:22 am, 8/25/11, marks over 60 hours, of which I have slept 12. The most inactive moment of my life in the past few days was likely sitting lakeside with a friend, drinking a sugar-free red bull and a 24 oz can of Tecate. There we sat jabbering like a pair of fools talking for hours about nothing. It was a simple interaction, one that I needed, no doubt, to unwind a little. I look back at it now and feel a little sorry for her, for the abuse her head must have taken trying to make sense of the barrage of words flowing from my mouth. I must’ve sounded like an over-enthusiastic office temp with a caffeine buzz. I might try to find the time to try to apologize for that, perhaps she’ll read this passage and except it as such. But let’s breathe for a moment, inhale, chill out, I need to step back and gather myself. Let’s see if we can’t make some sense of how this all came to be.

 *on a side note, these goddamned pistachios are delicious, it’s like someone spray painted them with salt and pepper

 So, let’s review shall we? Monday morning arrived and at 4 am I was freed from the grasp of the work beast after a 12 hour struggle. A nap in the bus and I was up and at ‘em, roarin’ towards the valley for some face time with a friend that was visiting the Teek from her distant homeland. “Going to p town I’ll be back in a little bit” read the text that awaited me, making it apparent that I’d have time to kill. A quick conversation with my Pa about Burning Man preparation got the ball in my head rolling in that direction. But, “Not now” I thought to myself with the realization that I was in no mood for the tedious tasking that such things entail, after all I was just a few hours into my 44 hour weekend. No no, I was here for social interaction. After some back-and-forthing with a few different prospects, I was out the door for my first of many short gatherings that were to take place that evening. A tall can with Kenny and Bethany over some pointless shit-shooting and off I went again, this time for a couple burgers, another tall can, and on to see the Clinton crew who were congregated in Cody’s garage. For the sake of readability and to minimize the boring hee-hawing, I will sum up the next few hours of the evening as quickly as possible: bullshitting, match throwing, cross-town ramble, Applebee’s, tall Bud and jello shots with a hippitty hop, a pregnant woman and company, stories of near-blows at softball games and times gone by, Johnson residence, Rockband calibration, Monday night celebration, denied invitation, and off to Flick country.

I decided that it was time to stop fucking around and bought two Keystone Light tall cans and a fruit punch Four Loco. The night was filled with familiar nonsensical banter: bus livin’, and uncle relations. Then the majority of the crew decided it was their time to hit the road. I had decided that it was therefore my time too, but the stewing cocktail of booze in my gut, along with a motorcycle being my means of transportation and the invitation of some Budweisers and cowboy killers over a game of cut throat made me think otherwise. After chowin’ down some microwaved noodles with a bit too much hot sauce, the night drew to a close spoonin’ up with a wet dog on the couch round about 3 am. 730 am came around and the boys were up and at it again gatherin’ themselves for a day in the orchards. My first instinct was to roll over and ignore the noise until I’d have the couch to myself and a quiet room to get more sleep. Then came the pivotal moment of the past 72 hours: I decided to say “fuck it” and rolled up off the couch, grabbed a Coors Light from the fridge and a Copenhagen pouch for the road.

Back to Manteca, I grabbed a bacon hobo scramble, hash browns and coffee at Chubby’s. I knew I’d need the calories runnin’ on such little sleep. Somewhere on the road between Ripon and Manteca, a weird culmination of the past 24 hours was jostling around inside my martini shaker of a head. The vibrations of the six hundred and fifty cubic centimeter engine ripping down the road at 80 miles per hour below me and the remnants of alcohol must’ve shaken something loose. It was suddenly clear as day to me that in two days, on Thursday, I was to leave the bay area in my bus bound for Black Rock City and the madness that is Burning Man.

Holy FUCK! There is so much to do and so little time in which to do it all! How the fuck am I going to pull this one off? How did I let myself get into this situation? I started running through the to-do lists in my head, organizing and prioritizing the tasks. I decided that the most important step would be to get my ass to the DMV to get started on registering and insuring the bus. Then I’d have to get it running, cleaned up, packed up and road worthy for the 628 mile journey. All in 48 hours, would it be possible?

I sucked down my breakfast and hit the road bound for the garage where the pink slip and other such documents for the bus were stored and then on back to the DMV in Concord. It first occurred to me that my head had become cloudy as I sat in the DMV waiting for my number to be called. I was texting Marjorie and between my conversation with her and the stress of planning out how I would conquer this massive obstacle that lay in front of me, I realized that I was having some difficulty organizing my thoughts.

Why is high blood pressure a bad thing? Doesn’t that just mean that you heart is strong as fuck? “You get your ass down that artery whether you like it not blood!” …seems like it’d be for the better. 

It wasn’t until I left the DMV headed for Wal-Mart to buy a cell phone charger that I started to piece together that I had it all wrong. I started to remember that instead of just 2 days to prepare I had a week and 2 days. Still not a ton of time all things considered, but a hell of a lot more than 2 days. After what turned out to be a far simpler process than I had imagined, the bus was registered and I was starting to spiral down off my morning coffee buzz. I decided that a few more beers and a meal would be a good idea as it was now creeping into the late afternoon / early evening. Somehow in all the activity that was going on around the shop, only a couple beers were consumed. I would detail for you what was happening, but I honestly cannot recall.

 I am an artist please god forgive me, I am an artist please don’t revere me, I am an artist please don’t respect me, I am an artist feel free to correct me. But I’m just a kid and maybe I’ll grow out of it

 So here I sit, after days of going on at the same pace described above. It is now 6:37 am, I am at work, as I will be for the next 5 hours. The bus is now insured, registered, driving, and cleaned out, just waiting to get packed full of shit bound for the dust storms of the playa.

 You see, I don’t have to work so hard cuz I’ve got a gal in the rich folks yard. And she’s up there workin’ cuz I’m down here sleepin’, dreamin’ about her…mnnn her and 7 other women

 My brain is a railroad steam engine, each task completed, each to-do checked off the list, each goal achieved, each new realization is another chunk of coal thrown in the fire. More heat, more steam, more speed, more crazy bullshit thoughts overloading my reality; more chunks of coal, more chaos. I wonder if this train will ever reach a destination where if will finally slow its roll and enjoy the scenery, or if it is destined to go up in a fiery explosion. Only time shall tell…  

 Hopefully this reading experience has given you some sort of an idea of what it must be like to live the ridiculously hectic, yet totally responsibility-free existence that is the life of Cash Peters. and now realize that this jumbled mess of absolute nothingness is the best I could do to bring it all together into something that could have some sort of recognizable structure and could possibly even be defined as readable.

“Jesus Christ,” one must think “…how can it be done?”