Well I ain’t no Olympian but I can get behind anything… Including the original running track/stadium in Olympia, Greece…
Actually, since I lived in Olympia Washington (#OlyWa) for nine (!) years, I guess I’m in Olympian… And yes, attended two Olympic games so there’s that, but still… No gold medals except for that run of first place ribbons in the science fairs in elementary school and the “Mr. Fun” certificate from Boy Scout Camp…
But yes, this is the original Olympic grounds and me in a Greek fisherman’s hat and tunic, you know, going local with my awesome moustache and specs.
Embarking on meandering natural healing journey around Asia, Indian sub-continent, Arabia, Mediterranean, across Canada, US rocky mountain canyons, and to Grateful Dead anniversary shows while emerging from a fog after chronic and complex illness diagnosis resulting in lost years due to prescription meds.
Now, rebuilding after period of de-identification, I’m sharing stories into the world again – plus riffs about upcoming dispatches, other audio/video projects, annoyance about former prosecutors / cops / “carpetbaggers” getting into nascent legal cannabis industry… and hence, the importance of recognizing hemp pioneers.
Background soundscapes from a balcony in Istanbul, trail in Nepal, cafe in Rome, Whiskey Hickon Boys (from Utah) in Chicago and others in Grateful Dead lot + Lazarus by The Black Tories.
And i misspoke saying “Desolation Row” when i obviously meant “When i Paint my Masterpiece” – drrr
His quest for the elusive quarry stalled again, Thor – rather exhausted after six days on a merchant marine ship despite a rather pleasant stateroom – sits on a coil of worn rope on a salty dock to consider his next move. The question: where has the renegade Mr. Lester disappeared to to this time? Lighting at the second last cigar from a box acquired in Sicily, he considers possible directions… Set out towards the Tyrhenian, dropping in on various islands seeking telltale sign? He does have ties to Corsica after all so the direction would be generally useful. Or maybe the Aegean?
“Too many damn islands…” He mutters to the Katakolon seabirds. The leather attache (containing the critical documents seeking validation) still close by his worn boots, he pulls the boiled wool fisherman’s cap down his brow, closer to the wrinkled blue/white striped coarse linen shirt, inhales deeply and concludes to head towards the Bosphorous.
At least he’ll have a hot Turkish bath and beat-down massage on ancient marble before deciding which continent to drift towards next. But first, a tall ouzo and plate of olives to set him on the way.