16 hours after the fact, and I still remember the dream. Two snippets, actually.

In the first, I was riding to my brother and his wife's place for a party (in reality, he's not married, he's divorced from his first marriage and is currently engaged). They were living in Fort Lee, New Jersey, right about where my parents' office is.

Cut to inside their home, no one else was there, and I was in a candle-lit room, and it dawned on me that he was married to Amina, ex-love-of-my-life from college. This didn't shock me, because I must have known about it, so I shouldn't have been shocked by it. If it was a shock, it would have happened before, so I wasn't shocked, I thought to myself.

But it was hard looking at the pictures of her on the wall and wondered if any were ones that I had taken of her. I thought, "of course not", and of course none of them were.

In reality, I have only two extant photos of her. My advice is that if you know someone is the love of your life, don't go throwing photos away in a fit of passion. I've done it twice. Regret both. I might have some negatives, though.

In the second snippet, we were just lying in a bed together, in a white room, lit by daylight, with white sheets, just as friends, flirting a little maybe, happy, comfortable, but it was clear that was all. The snippet ended with the room glowing golden.

Maybe I remember the snippets because I couldn't get back to sleep right away. I've been having trouble with my sleep patterns. At one point, slideshowing memories of Amina, I thought, "well, that was all over and done with 10 years ago".

Then I realized late December 1992? That was when it began. In fact, it might have been exactly 10 years ago that we decided to kill our perfect friendship, and engage in a relationship which we would continue to beat to a pulp for a whole fucking 'nother year. Why do people do this to each other? I don't think I've instigated a fight in a relationship since Amina.

"Adaptation":
I know I've written before how I carried Amina around with me for years after she cut contact, until I realized that if I met her now, she would be a completely different person than the one I knew and was in love with. I know I'm a completely different person than she knew.

The chemistry that fueled that love in that friendship didn't exist anymore. We hadn't maintained it. What I still loved about her had nothing to do with the reality of her existing on this planet somewhere now, but what she brought out in me. She had changed my life and how I look at the world. Which I admit in college is not hard to do, but this isn't about that.

And that's how I knew that love was real. And I hate when Hollywood co-opts my ideas. Bastards. What Hollywood didn't co-opt is that 10 years later, you realize it is/was a lot more complex than that.

OK, how much does this suck:

"Results of your Goldberg Depression Questionnaire
You scored a total of 64.

You appear to be suffering from severe depressive symptoms commonly associated with serious depressive disorders, such as major depressive disorder, bipolar disorder or dysthymia. These symptoms appear to be causing you some serious impairment and distress in your normal, everyday functioning. You would likely benefit from the immediate attention of your physician or a trained mental health professional for further evaluation and a more accurate diagnosis and treatment.

You should not take this score to represent a mental disorder diagnosis or any type of behavioral healthcare treatment recommendation. Always consult with a trained mental health professional if you are experiencing depressive feelings and/or difficulties in your daily functioning that cause you anxiety or worry".

Friggin' A. That all is just wrong, yo. Let's see what it says next week.

I tell myself I'm not going to do this again, I'm not going to go through this again next year. Not another year.

But I'm doing it this year, I'm going through it this year, and why? It doesn't matter why, I am. That's all that matters, whether I am or am not. And I am. Next year, I will, no doubt, do it again and go through it again.

Inshah'allah, it will be in the deserts of Tucson, where maybe I will be wearing short sleeves watching a sunset, and anyone I might see or be with is someone I didn't know existed a year ago. I will need a sweatshirt soon, as night temps in the desert go pretty low.

San Francisco and its rain and weeks of drear and mean pretension will be far away. New Jersey and its family and empty meaninglessness and dead of Winter will be far away.

In college, I used to tell myself that a suicide attempt (gesture really) was necessary every once in a while. Push myself so far down that the only way to go is up.

Perhaps the new paradigm is to pick up and move to a new city every once in a while. But Tucson is for some reason very specific. It has the same population as San Jose, so I'm not going to a smaller city. San Diego is desert, why not San Diego? Maybe because I'm romanticizing Tucson? I need to go visit Tucson. It might be just another crummy U.S. city.

Funny. I watched the sitcom "Greetings from Tucson" last night and Tucson looks like every other U.S. city. Imagine that. But with a misogynistic, abusive, Latino father figure. Yea, that's funny.

current soundtrack: Tara Jane O'Neil - "Peregrine"

idealistic

Move through life.

In the end, it's not about what anybody else has done or what anybody else has done to you. In the end, it's only about what you have done, and what you have done to the people who have crossed your path.

On the micro level, justice is not about courts and laws and society, it's about one's own actions. If someone wrongs you and doesn't make it right, that's about them. If someone wrongs you and you wish harm or retaliation upon them, that's about you.

If you wrong someone, it is your responsibility to make them right. If someone wrongs you, it is still your responsibility to not make it difficult for them to make things right. If they continue to wrong you, then it is their karma, and their karma does not concern you.

This applies to each and every person who crosses one's path. This, I believe, is part of basic human law. Social law, where courts come in, is when two parties cannot agree, and both believe that they are right.

Passion should never overcome compassion.

A rights-based society without responsibility leads to rampant self-righteousness.

And my vulnerability has nothing to do with anyone else.

"We've played this game of just imagine long enough" 

Last month, I bought some cycling magazine and there was a blurb about a mountain in Tucson, AZ, where Lance Armstrong used to train in Winter, and my first thought was, "hm, I'd like to try that mountain", and I thought about roadtripping. 

Then today I got a magazine which had an article about Tucson. And now I'm thinking, "Tucson?" 

<daydream>So now I'm doing mad research on Tucson to see what kind of place it is and whether I can live there, maybe go for the MLK long weekend to check out the vibe.  

It just seems like it might be the perfect place to live next. Somewhere that never even registered on my radar screen, somewhere I wouldn't seem to fit in and might stick out like a sore thumb, somewhere totally unfamiliar and didn't know a soul, somewhere where I'd have to check my entire prior life at the city limits for all the relevance it would have, somewhere not so intense or pretentious, somewhere from where I couldn't fly anywhere without having to change flights (yup, no direct flights from San Francisco, I just checked). 

As far as Arizona cities seem, it looks pretty artsy. University of Arizona. And, holy cow, desert? I went to Joshua Tree last year and I was all Drusilla with delight just at the feel of the desert air. Arizona is known to be pretty conservative, but it's not like my political ideology is pouring out of my sleeves. </daydream> 

Let's see how I feel about this tomorrow. I'm even spelling it right!! (although I wasn't when I started writing this) 

current soundtrack: Hajime Chitose - "Hainumikaze"

"Computer, end program" 

As I stepped into the shower, the words "strength to live" went through my mind, and like a faint glowing ember awakening, I understood what it meant to have "strength to live" and that I do have that strength. 

But we all know what happens when a glowing ember gets stuck under a shower.

"Strength to live" is already a bias, a judgment, implying to not live is weak. To live is brave, to leave is cowardly. And a wooden plank struck the metal core of my being and resonated that I do not believe that. 

I do believe that we have a soul that is beyond our physical manifestations of who we are. I do believe in reincarnation. I do believe that our souls exist in a pure, albeit unenlightened, form between one death and another rebirth. 

I do believe this soul is of an existence that we in our physical manifestations do not comprehend. Not a conscious form, but a form that is just fact. And that pure form of our soul "decides", going into a new life, what challenges await and need to be overcome. 

Yes, my friends, I believe that our my lives life on earth are is basically . . . a Star Trek holodeck. It is something I entered to experience what I otherwise could not, live out a fantasy, experience being, test one's mettle, to challenge one's constitution, to dream, to live, to test out ideas and theories, to play . . . and most importantly, to program. 

I do think that I am an eternal optimist, and not because of what I like to say, <dopey voice>"because if I were a pessimist I'd be dead already"</dopey voice>, but because ultimately I do not believe that the life experience, the highest level of hell, the lowest level of heaven, the nexus between the two where individuals have the opportunity to choose "good" and "evil", is negative. 

I exited the shower with the words "strength to leave", and that understanding of "strength to live" evacuated. But an option.

Solitude is my new obsession. Life as a recluse?

the sky is grey 

the sand is grey 

and the ocean is grey 

and i feel right at home 

in this stunning monochrome 

alone in my way 

i smoke and i drink 

and every time i blink 

i have a tiny dream 

but as bad as i am 

i'm proud of the fact 

that i'm worse than i seem 

what kind of paradise am i looking for? 

i've got everything i want and still i want more 

maybe some tiny shiny key will wash up on the shore

 - "grey" (Ani DiFranco)

Tony Levin, bassist extraordinaire, posted pictures from the Peter Gabriel tour on his website. They include a shot of PG doing the upside down "Downside Up" performance, and the giant hamster ball. Me and Meghan probably would not be in the Oakland picture because Tony was set up on the other side of the circular stage :(

I've always gotten the impression that if you're working with Peter Gabriel, you're part of a team and you work hard, but the experience is a lot of fun, magical maybe even. There's a camaraderie and love onstage which comes from offstage, and, I don't know if this explains it, but like they know something you don't. Tony confirms this:

"Ever wonder what a band does on its days off?
Usually they're travel days, but in my experience, when there is a whole day free in one place, nothing particularly exciting goes on. In King Crimson we'd each stay in, often practicing, and maybe a few guys would meet for dinner or a movie. On Seals tour there was more going out to see other bands.
But Peter Gabriel tours are different. In the past, we've bicycled through the Alps, rode Harleys across the Arizona desert to the Grand Canyon, gone white water rafting... and a lot more excursions that didn't work out to be what we'd planned!
Well yesterday we went dog sledding up in the mountains of Colorado!"

*drooling with envy to be part of something*

life carries on in the people i meet
in everyone that's out on the street
in all the dogs and cats
in the flies and rats
in the rot and the rust
in the ashes and the dust
life carries on and on and on and on
life carries on and on and on
"I Grieve" - (Peter Gabriel)

It's been a week since I've supposed to have been "cultivating my mellow". Not easy. Incidents of clawing at my soul trying to get out (dramatique, no?), mixed in with removing myself from myself and looking at myself from the outside and seeing a functional, enabled person. 

I have to admit that whatever strength I'm getting out of me is largely sourced in religious/spiritual/metaphysical excursions from college days. Mind exercises, open channel, and the value of mindful breathing should not be underestimated. 

Mind you, none of that back then had anything to do with survival, and survival is still not my goal. I stole down that path because it looked real and attractive to me. It didn't matter that my "leaving" one of these days was inevitable, there was something objective, away from my subjective, lucid and clear, and regardless of where my subjective might eventually go or not, I had to pursue this clarity, this lucidity. This isn't making any sense, is it? 

My modest goal in life is to touch a bit of clarity, to come to terms with what I really, really deep down think life and reality is. And I'm not doing that clawing at my soul trying to get out. Since I've started working, I've become too much of this world, when I really just need to go mad. So the plan now is to continue this cultivation of mellow, and to extinct craving.

I need to feel your heartbeat heartbeat 

so close it feels like mine, all mine... 

I remember the feeling my hands in your hair 

I remember the feeling of the rhythm we made 

I need to land sometime

"Heartbeat" - (King Crimson)

And sent to me:

FURTHER NOTICE (Philip Whalen)

I can't live in this world
And I refuse to kill myself
Or let you kill me.

The dill plant lives, the airplane
My alarm clock, this ink
I won't go away

I shall be myself -
Free, a genius, an embarrassment
Like the Indian, the buffalo

Like Yellowstone National Park

Sadie came over a couple nights ago, ostensibly to do music, but she didn't bring anything and we had nothing planned.

Eventually the witty banter died down and we were full of pretzel and Bailey's-laced hot chocolate, stuck with nothing left to say, so we stared at each other in uncomfortable silence for some time . . .

Then she noticed Cool Edit Pro open on my computer screen and she pointed and said, "What's that?".

It happened to be a song snippet I had, just three minutes of a bass groove over an up-tempo drum loop. I suggested she put a guitar track on it and she agreed. She strapped on my guitar, put on headphones, went through it a couple times and slapped down a guitar part.

I liked what she did and heard a second part in my head so I took a crack at it and put down a second guitar. Then we agreed to separately come up with vocal tracks and pool them together before she left for vacation on Thursday.


Undated and original lost in computer crash - 20th St. and Potrero

And a post for seeing Peter Gabriel at Oakland Arena with Meghan.

Walking through the undergrowth to the house in the woods 

The deeper I go, the darker it gets 

I peer through the window, knock at the door 

And the monster I was so afraid of 

Lies curled up on the floor 

Is curled up on the floor just like a baby boy 

I cry until I laugh

"Darkness"

Digging in the dirt, stay with me I need support 

I'm digging in the dirt to find the places I got hurt 

Open up the places I got hurt

"Digging In the Dirt"

My ghost like to travel so far in the unknown 

My ghost likes to travel so deep into your space

"Growing Up"

When illusion spin her net 

I'm never where I want to be 

And liberty she pirouette 

When I think that I am free 

Watched by empty silhouettes 

Who close their eyes but still can see 

No one taught them etiquette 

I will show another me

"Solsbury Hill"

When the flood calls 

You have no home, you have no walls 

In the thunder crash 

You're a thousand minds, within a flash 

Don't be afraid to cry at what you see 

The actor's gone, there's only you and me 

And if we break before the dawn 

They'll use up what we used to be

"Here Comes the Flood"

I'm trying to remember the last time I went on a ride, or a run, or a hike, or a drive, or some whatever thing I'd decided to do and realized I did not have the strength, motivation or desire to continue much further.

Rainy day outside my apartment door.

December 14, 2002; 1:24 P.M. - standing at the front door of my apartment on a rainy day in San Francisco.

It is a gray, gloomy, rainy, "Winter" morning in San Francisco.

Today has the personality of a small gray room with one small window too high to look out of, a metal frame institution bed, maybe a sink, and sitting on the floor in the corner singing, "Bum, bum, bumble-bee, bumble-bee tuna/I love bumble-bee, bumble-bee tuna".

Staring out the 12th floor office window at work at the rainsoaked sidewalk below, watching all the people rushing by with their umbrellas, I thought to myself isn't my life exactly where I want it to be at this point?

It is absolutely nowhere and, yes, that is exactly where I want it to be. I don't want far future responsibility or committment to this life, so whatever is getting me down, I just need to stop. For the next several weeks, I'm going to cultivate my mellow.

Because I'm easy come, easy go/Little high, little low/Anyway the wind blows, doesn't really matter to me

The irony of it all, I got hit by an SUV in front of the UPS dispatch center, where I'd always assumed I'd get hit by a UPS truck.

I'm fine, just a few cuts and scratches. My left thigh is pretty sore but I told the paramedics I felt no pain since I didn't want them looking at my left thigh. He saw enough when he asked me to roll up my sleeve to take my blood pressure. I saw him pause when he saw my arm, but he was professional about it and didn't say anything about it once he discerned it wasn't related to the accident. An even bigger irony is the UPS workers asking if I was OK.

The last time I went down was almost exactly a year ago. That was my fault, slipping on wet Muni tracks, and it was potentially far worse because I hit my head. This time, I went limp, rolled, and protected my head. I remember everything.

Last year's crash, I remember feeling my back wheel slip, I remember the sharp impact of the back of my head hitting the ground, and then the next thing I remember was struggling to push myself off the ground, facing down, and hearing voices.

Which probably means I blacked out and rolled. Which would also explain the PG&E guy who saw me go down saying that I went down pretty hard, because at that time I didn't feel like I went down hard. But from the point of impact to hearing people running to me to see if I was OK, I estimate I was out for 30 seconds to maybe a minute. Not long.

It's December. The darkness and the season has been getting to me. My job has been getting to me, my social life has been getting to me. And this doesn't help.

Why is it that I feel this . . . this, I don't know . . . anger? This does not matter. Physically, I'm fine. A few cuts, scratches and bruises, I've done worse to myself. Even if I got nothing in return for my damaged bike, I'd be fine – new cranks, new rims maybe, at most. The rims just might need to be trued. It was a broadside, and there was no structural impact to the frame.

But still this feeling. Why? I don't feel violated, I don't feel assaulted, I don't feel wronged. On a purely karmic level, I should just let this go. On a social level, the driver should feel some sting because he was negligent and dangerous, and if he feels like he got away with something and continues to drive negligently, that's my bad. Socially.

But no, that's not it. So I got hit, nothing about it really matters, but I still have this feeling and it's not directed at the driver, it's not directed at me, it just exists, and the closest thing I can identify to it is anger. What the hell am I angry about?

Anger is the emotion I feel most comfortable with. I don't express it, I don't show it, I just have it and hold it.

Growing up, I never got depressed. The feeling that other people may have had which could be identified as depression, I may have had, but I always channeled it into something else. Mostly anger, mostly anger towards my parents, but I never got depressed.

I never felt depressed until I was committed, and that's when I learned depression, because I would have that feeling, but locked up I wasn't able to channel or direct it into anger.

And then came the unilateral reconciliation with my parents, and I stopped directing anger towards them. I don't hate them anymore, I'm not angry at them anymore.

There is no object of my anger. In fact, the feeling may be nothing that anyone else would put in their hands, turn around and examine and call anger. It's just this thing, a resonant vibration that I have in me. It used to be hate, it used to be anger, it used to be harm.

But if you hate, you have to hate something, and I don't. If you're angry, you have to be angry at something, and I'm not. And to harm, you need to have intent, and I don't.

But it's still part of the basic energy of my being. When I ride, I ride hard, and the source is that energy, that vibration. Same when I run, same when I play guitar, same when I play bass, and definitely the same when I played drums because, well, OK, you'd have to see the pictures, but I look pretty darned mad at something. But that's why I consider running and riding a form of expression, not just an activity. It's also probably why I prefer to do them solo.

And this is probably why I need to be torn down, to have my self-control stripped away, to be exposed and forced to confront depression, hate, and anger, or otherwise I can continue with my smug satisfaction that I don't need or even want to be here. Personally, I prefer that latter.

So I don't know what compelled me. I'm not even sure how long it's been since I lost contact with Pasha – six? seven? ten years? If I had to line up the most significant people to me during college, it'd be Pasha, Myung Soo, and Amina, not in that order. 

He was incredibly intelligent, and he was always asking me questions. That's because he also had a wide open mind, and asking questions was his MO. He lived to soak in other people's perspectives, and he loved to debate and argue, but never to convince someone else of his perspective. 

Like I said, I don't know what compelled me, but after returning from visiting Madoka I asked someone for Pasha's address and two days later I had it in my inbox. I waited another couple days to write the carefully composed reconciliatory e-mail: 

 -----Original Message----- 

From: K 

Sent: Saturday, December 07, 2002 3:53 PM 

To: Ish P Mahmood 

Subject: 

Hello Pasha, 

I do not know if you remember me. My name is Fairud and I met you at Au Bon Pain in Boston at a meeting. I am just writing to remind you that you still owe me money. 

Sincerely, 

Fairud 

 ----- Original Message ----- 

From: "Ish P Mahmood" 

To: K 

Sent: Saturday, December 07, 2002 11:38 AM 

Subject: RE: 

Hi Fairud, 

I remember two Fairuds. I owed money to both. But which one are you? Are you the Fairud with the ponytale, or are you the Fairud with different snickers on different feet. 

Best, 

Pasha 

-----Original Message----- 

From: K 

Sent: Sunday, December 08, 2002 5:09 AM 

To: Ish P Mahmood 

Subject: Re: 

Woohoo!! Yes you remember, I am both! So you owe me double the money! I accept check, money order, major credit card or paypal. 

Sincerely, 

Fairud-d 

"Snickers?" Who does he think he is? A Bangladeshi Ricky Ricardo?

I woke up out of a dream where my luggage was being checked on the Japan side. The officer wasn't really doing anything. I moved a pair of shoes from one part of my luggage to another. Next I was in a car driving away from the counter. I wasn't driving. I looked at my luggage, which was a random assortment of shit lying in the back, and wondered whether I couldn't travel more compact. Then I realized I probably shouldn't be driving away from the counter, I should've been heading towards the gates.

I had slept an incredible 11 hours. I woke up feeling incredibly empty. Maybe it's the weather, maybe it's the season, maybe it's not having been in a relationship in four years, maybe it's post-visiting-great-friend depression, maybe it's post-sickie depression . . . empty.

I remembered that I have to go to a birthday party tonight and didn't want to. Empty.

I stumbled outside my front door and soaked in the afternoon sunlight for a few seconds and stumbled back into my kitchen to make coffee. Empty.

And then I paused and thought, "STOP!!". And I did. And I didn't feel empty anymore. It's that easy and it isn't. Story of my life.

current soundtrack: Smashing Pumpkins - "Siamese Dream"

Never thought you'd habit:
I think maybe I'm showing my first signs of physical addiction to alcohol. I don't addict easily. It took me 15 years to get addicted to caffeine. I won't say how much alcohol I drink lest I sound like bragging, but since I've been sick, I've been trying to sleep sober.

Saturday night required sleeping pills. Sunday night was no problem but I was pretty far gone as it was. Then Monday night I couldn't sleep and called in sick Tuesday. Tuesday night I couldn't sleep and stopped functioning the next day at work around 3:00. Then last night I went to sleep at 10:00, woke up after midnight and couldn't fall back to sleep, and then it dawned on me what might be going on.

So for the first time, I forced myself to drink even though I didn't want to, even though I knew it would taste really bitter, even though I knew that my cells would feel like bursting and I'd break out in a hot sweat and my lung passages would constrict more. I was right about all of that. My feelings were mixed when it was my alarm that awoke me in the morning.

It's not that I need alcohol to sleep. After I called in sick on Tuesday, I slept soundly until after 1:00. My problem is that I cannot sleep according to current habit without alcohol. It's conditioning. The solution, of course, is to quit my job so I don't have to sleep according to habit.

I'm sick. I've never had one before, but this sure feels like it might accurately be called a bronchial infection. I spent half the night coughing myself awake, woke up with my alarm just to call in sick and then slept until after 1:00 again. My mother used to clear-cut rainforests in a previous life. 

My parents, this is a dream, folks, had rented a vacation house somewhere in upstate New York, and we had all just arrived and we were cleaning it and the yard up. For some reason there was one of those big yellow Cat construction thingies . . . a backhoe, I think, and my mother got in it and went to work with it. It didn't occur to me to wonder how my mother knew how to operate one of those things. Of course, this is a dream, folks. Not before long, it started raining so we stopped, and me and one of my brothers were horrified to see that she had been stripping the trees of their branches, some halfway up the lengths of their trunks! We made her stop and began lecturing her about what she was doing, she was quietly indignant, but stopped. As it rained, they went under a tree for cover, I ran inside. 

I don't recommend lying awake all night sick if you can avoid it. Especially if your thoughts inevitably wander to how much your life has sucked and what a rotten person you've been and what a waste you've made of your life.

     

I do this thing where I think I'm real sick 

But I won't go to the doctor to find out about it 

Cause they make you stay real still in a real small space 

As they chart up your insides and put them on display 

They'd see all of it, all of me, all of it 

All of the good that won't come out of me 

And all the stupid lies I hide behind 

It's such a big mistake, lying here in your warm embrace 

"The Good That Won't Come Out" (Rilo Kiley)