July 31, 2003; 4:56 P.M. - The Holding Company, Embarcadero Center. Drinks for ex-coworker leaving the job. I've kept up with the drink crowd and they let me know whenever someone bites the dust.

My six month hiatus is almost up. Soon I have to decide what to do. To me it's obvious, but that's not reality. To reality, I have to decide whether to look for a job, or seriously figure out moving to either Tucson or Portland. It will probably come down to Tucson.

What will I do there? These are human, practical concerns, not existential ones. They are stressful for human, practical reasons, not existential ones. If I pack my stuff and move to Tucson, I need to do that and find a job. Period. Simple.

I've actually been lightly perusing job boards here, and I can't motivate myself to consider what I "want" to do. More legal assistant work? There's not much else that I'm qualified for. There's nothing that I "want" to do to earn a living.

Earn a living: I need to make money to pay rent, to pay for food, to pay bills, and I do this . . . why? To ride my bike, to go out for drinks, to hang out with friends, to buy DVDs and watch them.

To engage in the mating dance, to consider buying property to call my own, to consider starting a family? To accept the aging process and getting old, to set sights on retirement 30 years from now? To wake up in the morning, to continue my body processes, to continue living in the now? Why? Because these things make me happy. These things are living.

Why do I think I'm so special, so much better than everyone else, that I don't have to do what everyone else does for the reasons they have? What right do I have to be different, to have a different paradigm? I can't even come up with one of my own, one that allows me to stay alive.

If I can't even do that, I don't deserve to think of myself as different. So just live on. Get your fucking job and pay your fucking bills like everyone else. Let all those questions you have sink to the bottom of the fish tank that you'll buy once you've accepted that you have to live.

It's OK to be miserable living a life, even if you question the very existence of it. Life is suffering, it's the first noble truth of Mahayana Buddhism. If I can't accept that life is suffering, then I can't accept even the first noble truth.

I can walk myself through the logic, it still escapes me.


July 29, 2003; 7:29 P.M. - Default shot outside my front door. Corner of Hampshire and 19th Streets.

The Way of the World
Searching for a new paradigm. The sky is blue. Brilliant. That's how you can negate cultural relativism and the diversity of human experience, by pointing out that the sky is blue. If there is this one immutable, incontrovertible fact, this universal truth, then there must be others. And as long as the sky is blue, I can say that I am right and you are wrong.

I am right.

You are wrong.

What? You are right, and I am wrong?

Sorry, you're wrong. I am right, and you are wrong.

It's brilliant because we can agree that the sky is blue and you can impose that fact on every little, tiny, furry living creature on this planet, but we can't agree that the sky is even there, or on the nature of the sky.

What is the sky? Look up, and it is blue. But it's really just a concept, an illusion, it's atmosphere, gases absorbing sunlight, at least all of the colors that make up sunlight, except blue, which is scattered. Or that's how science explains it.

What is the sky? The only change is sunlight. Add sunlight, you get blue, remove sunlight, you get nothing, transparence, stars billyuns and billyuns of light years away. Is the night sky the same thing as the sky you are calling blue?

But it's true, this is all irrelevant, it's a totally different question. I didn't ask you to look up and contemplate the nature of the sky. I just asked you to look up at the sky and tell me what color it is. It's blue.

So you are right, and I am wrong; your paradigm sucks. My so-called "paradigm" is reality, it only sucks because you're wrong. I don't subscribe to it, if I'm wrong, it's only because you assume I'm in it. You don't have a choice whether you can subscribe to reality or not. That is something we can both agree on, I'm not choosing to not subscribe to it, I just don't. Whatever.

NB: This rant references a past conversation, but really has nothing to do with it.

I received a mix Meghan sent me today and I could have cried, but I couldn't. So I watched the second half of "West Side Story" and that put me over.

I was fortunate to have been exposed to "West Side Story" at a pretty early age, being told it was an American masterpiece. I feel sorry for anyone who is so jaded by modernity that they can't see the brilliance in that film and can't let themselves be folded into the story.

Meghan isn't making things easy, as it's perfectly within her realm to not make things easy. As it was with Sadie's email a few days ago, the message was so hard to read. It's so hard to accept positive emotions from anyone, positive affirmation. I'm the silhouetted decrepit skeleton of some sunken Spanish galleon. I don't mean anything to anyone anymore, and even if I do, and now I know I do, what does that mean?

My eyes glaze and I skim over the words. I have to force myself to stop, slow down, and read each word and take them in. No, it's not easy. It's not easy when people tell you point blank that they love you, that you are special. I can accept it intellectually, I don't have esteem/confidence issues, but looking at the monolith of my being, being special to another human being is just no longer a part of it.

No, Meghan isn't making anything easier. Sadie, with access, when accessed, isn't making anything easier. Delphine, who has no idea whatsoever, does not make things easier.

No, this isn't the first time that Meghan has made me grip my computer keyboard until I realized I was about to break off several letters which would not be a good thing. In my experience with the English language, you really need all 26 letters. Eksept maybe 'x'. The 'w' and the '1' were most often the likely victims. But the core of my being, this mortal coil, shimmering and glowing, can't help but want to explode.

Weird space. So much going on in the mundanity.

After doing laundry, I did a 42 mile ride, crossing the Golden Gate Bridge and climbing Mt. Tam. Mt. Tam was a bitch, but I'm starting to feel slightly back in condition on climbs. Coming down, I passed someone which was odd since I consider myself pretty scared on downhills.

My top speed on the day was 38.5 mph, and I don't think I hit that on the Mt. Tam descent! It was a beautiful day in Marin, and a beautiful ride. The worst part was crossing the Golden Gate Bridge, which was totally fogged in, and on the return trip I felt like I was riding in a storm, hanging onto dear life to keep from being blown over. Condensation from the fog falling like rain.

I got home (back in the sunlight) to a message from Delphine asking me if I wanted to go to Bottom of the Hill since she had a plus one for the Earlimart/Elefant show, neither bands I knew anything about. At first I thought no way after that ride, but I ended up going and enjoying her company. I'm driving down to Orange County with her in a couple weeks for her friend's wedding. Somewhere along the line, Delphine and I have become comfortable friends.

All so normal. But I will hold the line. Not wanting to leave is just more reason why I should.

It actually makes me smile. It's also really hard. The detachment and attachment struggle against each other, but it's an academic struggle. It's a visceral struggle. This going through daily life, this going through normalcy, infused with a mental cancer no science will recognize. No, not mental, this existential cancer.

When I lie in bed every night, my thoughts are bombarded with this. Every morning, I awake to an emotional gripping despair that I don't want to go. Fear is the only thing stopping me. And if fear ultimately stops me, what am I worth? It would be the biggest self-betrayal possible. What would I be worth, and what would I do about it? Live my life?


July 23, 2003; 1:08 P.M. - Morning Glories. Valencia Street, Mission District, San Francisco.

The image in the last month is running, running, running. Running through a sunny meadow, running through a sunlight speckled forest, running through foreign urban streets, but then feeling my feet sticking, the feeling of getting bogged down. Feet getting stuck with the beauty of it all. More and more effort needed to pull my feet out of the miracle of the physical world, the manifest world, the fake world.

I love burritos, I love sushi, I love sunlight, I love air, I love warmth, I love who I love, I love fabric; suddenly the separation between my skin and the world is not so obscure. I am here. I am being. I am alive.

That's OK, I need to go through these feelings, just to make sure. I think it helps having this "public" expression. It's a similar thing as going to visit Tucson because that's what I told everyone I was going to do. Now it's a matter of credibility, of crying wolf. Credibility still counts for something, doesn't it?

Several weeks ago I was bemoaning the lack of angst and despair I'm going through should I decide to snuff it, which really isn't a "decision" at all. The inconvenience and bother I'd be causing would not seem to match what I was going through to cause that inconvenience and bother. I felt kinda guilty.

But, no, I think it's here, just in a weird form. I've already gone through all that and nothing ever really resolved. It's all been sublimated into the fabric of my being. It's here, hidden, and it's the basis of my existence to not exist.

It's not cavalier, or random. I'm not tortured about it because I've already gone through that. The decision was made a long time ago. The execution is just a manifestation of that decision, and the only factor is when. Not 'why?'. So when? Why now? That's the only question. That answer is personal only to me.

The decision having been made, I contemplate the fact every day now. It's just a fact now, no dramatics. Just resolve. And goddam, it's not a big deal, life goes on. There will be some moments of extreme shock for a limited few, but that fades, and after a while it's just something for people to contemplate and maybe "feel bad" about. I should have left a long time ago, and it's not like I haven't enriched lives since then, but life would have gone on. And it will.

I asked myself what I would do if I found out that I was terminally ill and had about a month to live. I thought I'd probably kill myself. Hmmmmmmmm.

How boring this all would be if nothing happened. And how much all of this will make sense when something does.


July 17, 2003; 9:59 P.M. - Valencia and 16th Street, Mission District, San Francisco.

People

So close, so close, so close. It's so strange.

Amy got back from Portland today with Lisa, and I picked them up from the airport. Afterwards, Amy and I went to Kezar Pub because I found on Craig's List that they would be showing coverage of the Tour de France. We ended up staying until past midnight even though she has work tomorrow. Amy, Amy, Amy, becoming friends so close to her leaving this city.

And with Delphine, we're closer and in August we might roadtrip together to Orange County, share a hotel room. Next month, too close! Am I being irresponsible? No, I can't think that way. We do what we do, and whoever is close to me at whatever point in my life . . . things happen.

I've been here before, letting external factors distract me. It won't happen this time. This time, it's just temptation, just a test. Amy and Delphine will get over it, despite the contact we've had; their current closeness is irrelevant.

I met blog-acquaintance Tiffany for the first time in person this weekend and she didn't seem exactly interested. I had no expectations, so I rolled with the punches. I'm not disappointed at all. I liked her writing and her expression, but you really cannot know a person through their blog writing. We were better off not meeting up in person. From the moment I knocked on her door, she just didn't seem interested or curious about who this was with whom she'd been in weblog contact for a year.

Allowing that maybe she took time to warm up to strangers, by the end of the weekend I felt like I was imposing. She was extremely gracious in letting me crash at her place for two nights and she was a super host, but whenever I decided to leave was alright by her.

In contrast, I would not reverse meeting Meghan through weblogs for anything. Sure, we haven't had enough exposure to each other to find out where our disagreements may lie, but I can't express how much I value the limited ways our lives have touched and intersected. It's always a risk meeting strangers where there might be preconceived notions. But with Meghan, in the three times we've met face to face, we did our best to put it behind us that we weren't all that well acquainted face to face.

It's a lie to say I didn't expect anything with Tiffany. I expected some minimal connection. The extent to which "I didn't expect anything" is manifested by the fact that I wasn't disappointed when there wasn't. It's OK that there wasn't.

So close, so close, so close. About a month, more or less, ideally. People. Sadie? Our close connection fell apart somewhere along the line. Sadie and I connected just fine, but when "Sadie" came to equal "Sadie and Bob", well it just doesn't sit to tell someone that their significant other is a drag. I should watch it, though. I gave Sadie the url of this weblog when we first met, and even though she doesn't come here, or else shouldn't, she might after the fact.

I also gave Madoka the url before I realized that it isn't cool to let close acquaintances and friends know too much, which occured about two weeks ago, and she, too, might come here after the fact. But no, I'm glad Madoka will have access to this after the fact, if nothing just to let her know I loved her. Which she should have known all along.

I'm sure there's more of this to come.

WordsCharactersReading time

I came straight home from Portland. I've been wondering why, why abort the extended roadtrip, why not Seattle, why not Yellowstone, why not plunging south through Colorado, New Mexico, and through Tucson again? Why drive all the way up to Portland, only to drive right back down to San Francisco? 

I decided it's just that I'm tired of the solo journey thing. There's no point to it. I love the driving, I love the scenery flying by, but once you've done the solo journeying thing, continuing to do it is all kind of the same. You get to a destination, but then so what? 

I hate to admit it, but a lot of the journey is the company, and I'm through with company, I'm through with hooking up, only to cycle and recycle through people. The journey is supposed to be fun, the journey is fun, but when you reach any particular destination, any particular accomplishment or plateau, there's something about sharing the experience. Funny hearing this out of my loner, non-social mouth. 

I aborted the extended journey because I could. No one else was attached to it. No one else was part of the planning. No one else was expecting anything or was invested. 

While I was in Portland, I hooked up with Amy and Lisa who flew up on Friday and are flying back down tomorrow. Why didn't I ask if I could join them, be a part of their plan? Make the trip about helping Amy find an apartment. No, I just had to have my own separate plan. It seems silly. But that's what it is. And it's too late or I'm too tired to try anything new or different. That's why I decided to go home.

July 13, 2003; 5:19 P.M. - Giant beaver dam. They have huge-ass beavers in Oregon. Yes, be afraid. Be very afraid. Hey! No beaver jokes.


July 13, 2003; 4:22 P.M. - Reverse shot, the Columbia River's view of Amy and Lisa.


July 13, 2003; 4:22 P.M. - View of the Columbia River.


July 13, 2003; 3:34 P.M. - After a late start, we went hiking some place down the Columbia River Highway (I-84). This graffiti speaks for itself.

July 12, 2003; 9:22 P.M. - Amy @ The Good Foot, Portland, Oregon.


July 12, 2003; 7:07 P.M. - Shop window, Portland, Oregon.


July 12, 2003; 6:04 P.M. - Lisa and Amy in Portland.

July 11, 2003; 11:13 A.M. - Wizard Island, Crater Lake, from the other side. Pausing while on the way out, continuing to Portland.


July 11, 2003; 10:17 A.M. - The mirror reflection of Crater Lake. I spent the morning trying to ride around Crater Lake, but I went no more than 10 of the 33 mile road before I realized I couldn't make it. Maybe it was the altitude, maybe I didn't have enough fuel, but the ride back after abandoning was grueling. The last bit up to Rim Village was an excrutiating climb of maybe about 1000ft.


July 11, 2003; 5:47 A.M. - Crater Lake, Oregon. Yea, I think it actually was this bright at 6 in the morning, maybe because of the altitude? I slept in my car with six or seven mosquitos, none of which bit me, and after waking up, I went for a short hike.

Driving up to Portland to visit Amy. The first day of the drive, I drove to Crater Lake.


July 10, 2003; 8:40 P.M. - Sunset at Crater Lake with a pinpoint of Venus shining if you look carefully.


July 10, 2003; 7:30 P.M. - Crater Lake.

I rented the DVD of Auto Focus, directed by Paul Schrader, from Netflix. 

I love DVDs for the commentary tracks since I love the behind the scene perspectives into the creative process. Usually, I'll watch a DVD once, watch it once with the commentary track, and then watch the movie again before I send it back. The problem with the "Auto Focus" DVD is that it includes three (3) different commentary tracks (director, writer/producers, actors). To minimize the number of times I ran the DVD, I decided to watch all the commentary tracks before viewing the actual movie. 

It was fascinating. The DVD also includes a documentary on the Bob Crane murder, which adds a totally different dimension to the movie. Needless to say, I got pretty immersed in the work and the somewhat minor legend of the Bob Crane murder. Paul Schrader did a great job portraying Crane's decline into the circumstance that "led" to his murder. The progressively dark tone and sense of mental decline really got to me. 

I wouldn't mind being found dead in my bed. I wish I had some dark secret or something sordid about me that would partly explain everything to everyone. The evidence I leave wouldn't be very juicy or informative or interesting. I suspect the most deviant aspects of my life still fall within a comfortable range of "normal", given the proper contexts. And cutting has been demystified and is a fairly well-known and documented behavior by now, no shocks there. 

They say that when you're dying, your life flashes before your eyes like a movie. I want to get it right. I think mine will follow the basic contour of Auto Focus of a decline. The third act with washed out colors and shaky hand-held camera, almost revelatory. All the threads that held things precariously together coming apart. 

The difference being that Crane was murdered at a crux where he wanted to pull his life together, and that Crane maintained his "best friend", the lead suspect in his murder, John Carpenter, to the end. 

My movie will have me isolated and solitary, with even the most important people in my life being non-interactive, non-engaged except in my mind. And again, my movie will focus on the psychological decline, rather than the consequences of socially "deviant" behavior.

 

July 7, 2003; 1:17 P.M. - Potrero Hill, San Francisco. Don't take the 41 Union bus if you have somewhere you want to get to. Although many might say that's true for all Muni lines.

Dear life, you have no idea how surreal you have become, do you? You have no idea how big you've become, how many moulds you can fit. You do, however, realize how lucky you are and how wonderful it all is, don't you?

If my life were a movie, it would be a psychological drama, a la "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest" or "Girl Interrupted". But, there isn't anything yet I can identify to make the story compelling; nothing to make my character uniquely sympathetic. I could just fade out into the sunset, a la "Ghost World", or my entire life can just fade to white like "The Unbearable Lightness of Being".

I'm still working through the layers and layers of letting go of people. Intellectually, I'm OK with my parents, they need this, but emotionally I still feel bad. Good, I should. I don't doubt that there will be pain involved. My brothers will also feel it, but they'll let it go as an unsolved mystery without delving into it. My long term friends and acquaintances don't matter. It's just something natural for them to process, death is a part of life, they couldn't have done anything.

So who would be the most affected? Whose lives intersect mine most critically? The short list turns out to be pretty darned short.

But nothing is solid. I just have nothing concrete ahead right now. I have no date set. I just want a warm date in August, give or take a month to make sure nothing is imminent enough for committal. Tucson is still in the running. Portland is still in the running. I'm really not saying anything right now.

Julie and Delphine at Julie's house in San Jose.

I don't know what I was talking about with the "downward spiraling" this weblog. That may be one aspect of what's going on, but equally valid is the aspect that there is no "spiral", there is no "downward". This just is.

But that downward spiral, that pushing my head and holding it under water, may also be a necessary part of this process, the hard, emotional part of the process that I've been denying.

OK, they are both part of it. I need the feeling of the downward spiral, because that's the nature of what this is, but I also need the cold objective "this is just the natural progression of my life" to make sure I'm not doing anything rash. And believe me, after 15+ years, there is nothing "rash" going on in here.

It is different this time. Before, I could always at least envision a life attractive enough to continue. But now, even best case scenarios, and things have been looking up, won't do it. People can touch this skin, touch these scars, get under my skin, and nothing makes me want to be in this skin or be in this head or behind these eyes anymore.

In a best case scenario, I've been selling myself short in believing that my actions will keep me locked in the cycle of rebirths, when really all the things I've experienced and learned have really liberated me and this is my last physical life on earth. It doesn't matter what I do, I've cut through the veil without even knowing it. I haven't.

One of my fave zen stories is the one where the master announces so-and-so monk had attained enlightenment. All the other monks rush to him and gather around and ask what it feels like to be enlightened. The monk replies, "As miserable as ever."

In a best case scenario, someone falls in love with me and helps me appreciate my life for what it is. No.

In a best case scenario, I win the lottery. No?

In a best case scenario, I'm committed and have my freedom completely stripped away.

In a best case scenario, I give up all my worldly possessions and wander and seek. I'm not brave enough.

In a best case scenario, we just fall in love unconditionally and we just live our lives day to day, getting through what each day to day brings. In the sea of love, there are no shores, all you can do is drown.

It is July. I am brave.

So, oh yea, what I was getting at last night.

I was walking home thinking about the huge inconvenience suicide creates for unrelated people, like my landlord. That must just be a huge pain in the ass. Then with my usual obsession with irrelevant details, should-be irrelevant details, I thought about what happens to my stuff, my bank accounts, bills, etc. Crikey, it's all irrelevant. Someone comes and claims the stuff or sells it or carts it away. Yes, please, cart it all away, erase me. Put it all out on the street and give it away for free.

And whoever has to deal with the aftermath (not a body though, I won't leave one of those for someone to clean up) might reflect on the tragedy, the despair, the misery I must have gone through, and . . . I didn't, I don't think.

That kinda made me feel bad, like whoever might reflect on it would be gypped because I wasn't tormented when I dud gone done it. But then this does tie in to what I wrote already, that I don't have any idea what's going on, something is compelling me here, so I'm sure . . . you know what? I don't like writing about this so open and forthrightly. I'm gonna stop. Back to the thin veil.

*sigh* but it is July already, maybe I should make a concerted effort to downward spiral this weblog and put every fucking thing out on the table, confessional style. I think I need to do that since nothing matters anymore.


July 1, 2003; 6:58 P.M. - Peavey Predator, early version when it was a strat copy. Later versions looked different. Excellent guitar, especially at the price I got it for, which I remember as a little over $200, but that can't right for a guitar I was so satisfied with. It must have been a little over $300. Still a great price.


July 1, 2003; 2:12 P.M. - First Tuesday of the month: free day at SFMoma. Important fact for the unemployed.

Suicide is so much theory and concept to me. That's not normal. Where's the despair? Where's the misery? I've cleaned it up, scrubbed it anti-septic, made it logical (to me), gave it reason (to me), justified it (to me), and claim that it isn't an emotional decision or issue to me. But suicide is an inherently emotional issue, it's an act of desperation, of despair. So if suicide is still an issue for me, then those elements necessarily must still be in here somewhere, right?

I spent the evening searching out mental health/cutting blogs and found a bunch. Some people can be so honest. In one, it seems that everyone around her knows about her. Blows me away. And everyone who knows, cares and can express it.

I try to keep secret from most people. Some people know about me, but they can't talk about it. I know they care but I won't let them express it. But I can't even be honest with myself. I can't write with the self-awareness that she has because I don't know what's going on or what's driving it. Even writing this now, I'm not quite sure exactly which issue I'm talking about! I have one in mind, but it bleeds into the at least two other issues.

I don't know if any of this is relevant anymore. I just need to hold things together just a little longer. Holding things together is irrelevant. A little longer is irrelevant. Resistance is futile. I am BORG.

I'm not sure if I completed this posting with the intended thought I started out with. May need to continue it later.