Jūs Bar

The Hitchhiker

2011-01-26T17:11:00.000-08:00

Last night I was driving home from Wal-mart at midnight. And yes, this is a fairly regular occurrence, unfortunately. At this time of night, Highway 24, an unlit 2-lane rural highway, had almost no traffic. The temperature was about 25 degrees so I had the heater going full blast.

Out of the darkness, I saw a glimpse of someone on the shoulder of the oncoming lane - a man waving his arms for me to stop. At that speed, all I could see was that he was wearing a short-sleeved shirt and what appeared to be shorts.

Instantly the thought crossed my mind - "Oh hell no!" I had images of a crazed hitchhiker with a butcher knife. Or a gun. I thought of every slasher movie set in Texas or some other isolated rural area. This was a no-brainer. Just keep driving.

Then I thought about what he was wearing. It was freezing outside and he had on almost nothing. Was he stranded? We were at least 10 miles from the nearest town. What if he stopped to rest and ended up freezing to death?

As I imagined all the possible outcomes, I let up on the gas. This was turning into a metaphysical crisis. What kind of person did I want to be? As a political junkie, I'm constantly railing against fear-based conservatives and their creative form of domestic terrorism. My basic viewpoint is that conservatives = fear, progressives = hope. But how committed was I to that ideal? Or was that viewpoint relevant at all in this case? I want to be compassionate, I want to follow in the footsteps of saints and angels who dedicate their lives to helping others. Then again, fucking crazy rednecks.

Would I have my compassion squashed by fear? Or would I have the faith to risk an act of kindness and know that I would be ok?

Ultimately it came back to the question - what kind of man did I choose to be? That was the clincher. Whatever the risk, I choose compassion. It's scary. Damn scary. But if it came down to it, I would rather live a short life of compassion than a long life of fear. This one moment was an opportunity to demonstrate that choice.

I pulled onto the shoulder and turned the car around. With my heart pounding, I drove back the way I came. I couldn't remember how far back the guy was, so I drove a little slower and kept an eye out. After what seemed like 10 minutes, I crossed a bridge I'd noted before I saw him, which told me for certain that he'd already been picked up or otherwise found help.

Whew! Relief. I made a choice for compassion AND didn't have to pick him up. Win / Win!

And then I saw him.

This time he was waving his pants at me. Nutjob.

I hit the brakes and pulled over to the side of the road. I could barely swallow. I didn't dare back up for fear of running him over. But it was so dark I couldn't see anything and I was scared of him suddenly appearing in my window. Eventually, I saw him in the rear view mirror, sprinting up behind me, a ghostly image coming out of the dark in the glow of my tail lights.

I rolled down my passenger window. He ran up to it, breathless. The guy was about 25, very cute, and as it turned out, wearing pajama bottoms and carrying his pants. He was also out of breath, and obviously scared. Uh oh. Like a friend said later, this was either the setup for a slasher flick or a porn film. It could go either way.

"What's up?" I asked.

"Do you have a cell phone?"

"Yeah."

"Can I use it? I need to call the sheriff."

"I can make the call for you. What's going on?"

"My girlfriend's husband got home early and he's beating the crap out of her."

Wow. That just said it all right there.

I dialed 911 and put it on speaker phone so the poor guy could explain the situation. After the operator agreed to send a sheriff to meet him, I invited him into the car. Definitely not a slasher flick. The jury was still out on the porn, but probably not that either. Really, I was just worried that the guy was freezing his ass off.

I drove him to a defunct gas station, where he'd parked his truck and asked the sheriff to meet him. Evidently he had a rendezvous with his girlfriend, but the husband decided to quit his truck driving school that night and came home early. In a rage, the husband grabbed his gun. My guy, a sheriff's deputy in another county, had left his gun in his truck. Fortunately, the husband's dad came in and calmed the husband down enough to set the gun down. That's when the stud took off, sans pants. His girlfriend threw his pants and shirt out the window but the guy's truck keys, cell phone, and wallet were still there. I guess the last thing he heard was the woman screaming.

So now I had a freezing, scared straight boy in his pajamas sitting in my car. What else could I do - I introduced myself. He told me his full name and we chatted a bit. Then I made sure the husband did NOT know where he'd parked his truck. I found out what town he lived in and a little more about the situation, and casually mentioned that he might want to tell the sheriff that the husband is armed. I tried to keep things light and simple until the sheriff showed up, which he did shortly. My boy tossed his pants on the hood of his truck and talked to the sheriff. After the two of them left together, I stepped out just to make sure I was alone and that I wouldn't run him over when I backed out (the gas station was completely shut down and had no lights - yeah, I know). Then I updated my facebook status and drove home.

This could have had many different outcomes. But in the end it turned out to be a very good thing that I stopped. My only regret is my hesitation. If a woman was being beaten could I have saved her some pain if I had stopped sooner? If my reaction had been more instinctual than methodical?

Hopefully I'll know the end of the story soon enough. Being the son of a well-connected ex-county judge and ex-law enforcement officer has its advantages. My dad knows just about every sheriff in the area. When I told him the story (leaving out the part about how hot the guy was), my dad wrote down his name so he could check with some of his buddies.

I'm glad I'm ok, obviously. But I hope everyone else is, as well.

Saying Goodbye

2009-04-14T23:20:00.001-07:00

I thought I was alone. I knew I had friends, some good friends, some acquaintances. But ultimately I thought I was alone in a city filled with people. Unnoticed, invisible, able to slip in and out without a whisper.

How I was wrong. Once I began telling people of my decision to leave San Francisco, the response was overwhelming. I went on a whirlwind tour of dinners, brunches, coffees, going away parties. People were sad, some visibly so. But most understood. I have a wonderful opportunity waiting for me, a chance to check out for awhile and write in solitude until the economic storm lets up a bit. Still, they were sad.

And that makes me a bit sad. What a missed opportunity, to have brilliant, creative, sophisticated, engaging, kind-hearted people in my life and yet sit alone in the corner feeling sorry for myself. And yet what a revelation.

I spoke with a friend recently who related the story of her ex, who's gone a bit, shall we say, "off". Amongst the stories he's telling himself is that he has no friends, no one to hang out with or turn to. As we talked about how sad it was that he was so delusional and self-destructive, I had to bite my tongue. I understand this. It's a strange veil of occlusion, pulled down by a hand of habits. Some of us habituate depression. When we falter in coping with a major disappointment, we revert not to anger or defensiveness but the stance of failure. We use the disappointment as ammunition to say that yes, in fact we are weak / clumsy / stupid / a failure. It's a delusion. But that delusion begins to spread and infect the truer, brighter moments of our lives.

I think it's common to see ourselves as alone in our misery. In addition to being grateful for all the amazing friends I have in San Francisco, I'm grateful for cracking open that delusion in time to appreciate what I have, if only for a few days. That I can see this and still feel right about my decision to go tells me I'm on the right path. I'll miss many, many things about this city. But one thing I'll take with me is the knowledge that the party starts right here. All I have to do is ask people to join it.

And in moments of darkness, no matter how lonely I feel, I'm never truly alone.

Transitions

2009-03-21T13:33:00.000-07:00

This is my life today. I'm sitting in Coffee to the People at the corner of Masonic and Haight, San Francisco. One block to the east is my home, next door to the former residence of Jimi Hendrix. One block to the west is the famed Ashbury part of Haight and Ashbury, a street corner immortalized by a single rowdy summer and mountains of press. I still don't quite understand why that corner in particular - Masonic is much more of a happening street. And Central, where I live, is at the edge of "Hippie Hill", aka Buena Vista Park.

In any case, it's a pretty mellow day. Not packed, like usual, possibly because of a light drizzle outside. Tourists trickle in, sit for awhile with local shopping bags, have some coffee or one of the exciting and unusual espresso drinks, plan their next excursion, then trickle out again. A few of us are regulars. I recognize the others and they recognize me. Sometimes, if we've had a particularly meaningful encounter, we may acknowledge that recognition with a nod. Otherwise, we pretend the other doesn't exist.

This is my life in San Francisco for the most part. I don't exist. To 99% of the people I see in a day, the thousands of people I press up against on the bus or the subway or pass walking down the sidewalk, I'm an anonymous biomass taking up space. Just as they are to me. Now, after about 4 years in the city and 9 years in the area, I understand that hard shell that forms around the soul to protect it from the sheer crush of chaos, insanity, and life. It's with a mix of relief and regret that I've formed one myself. A shell, perhaps a toughness, perhaps simply a surrender. Whatever it is, it allows me to stand firm while unwashed schizophrenics dash themselves against me and bounce off. It allows me to step over a pile of dog crap, human crap, stale lunch, someone's leg, without breaking stride. I can walk down the sidewalk checking email on my iPhone and barely register the half a dozen homeless, pushing shopping carts while screaming at invisible demons, that I pass en route to my next appointment. Did I say half a dozen? Make that a dozen. Two dozen.

The music at the cafe today is lazy, grungy, distorted. It fits my mood. They added new food to the menu a couple of days ago. I tried the breakfast burrito. I can't really afford it but I won't be here much longer and thought I'd indulge. Now I'm sipping my quadruple cappuccino. My external hard drive sits on the table next to my iPhone and is plugged into my computer so I can continue editing some dance footage I should've finished two months ago.

I didn't finish because I've been looking for work. Scrambling to earn a few bucks here and there in between bidding on projects, sending out resumes. It's been nine months since I quit my "job" as a consultant/journalist. It was killing me. Seriously. I'd reached the point at which the work was dead to me. It wasn't what I wanted to do, wasn't what I was meant to do. And that knowledge, no matter how buried, bubbled to the surface in toxic belches of incompetence. I was beginning to fail, frequently and in rapid succession. The failures, the pressure, the vain attempts to cram 30-hour days into 24 hours, the broken relationship, the neverending stream of disappointed and frustrated clients, the cat who kept shitting on my bed - all sent me into a death spiral of depression. Every night I would go to sleep wishing I had the strength to end it once and for all. So when I finished my last assignment, I said no more, cashed the paychecks, and coasted for a couple of months with a renewed sense of purpose and redirected ambitions. Then the economy went to shit. And when it was time to work again, there was no work to be had. Since then I've sent out well over 100 resumes and out of those got about 10 or so acknowledgements that my resume had been received. And out of those got about 3 phone screenings. And out of those got 2 in-person interviews. And out of those got 0 jobs. I've been to two job fairs, standing in line for multiple hours with multiple hundreds of other people competing for less than 10 jobs in the entire room. I've bid on at least a dozen coding projects and lost them all, some of them mere moments before signing the contract. Maybe someone with more fortitude, or self-delusion, could push through and restart an abandoned career. But it's just not in me. New Agers would say, "You can create anything you want." And that's true. And I don't want this - not tech work, not really. But the things I do want take time to develop. And how can you develop and nurture a new career when you're scrambling to subsist? It's a no-win situation.

Time to make a change. This isn't where I want to be. Broke, indebted, unemployable, hardened, callous, shut off from humanity and my own spirit. Something is broken. I have so much more potential than this.

Fortunately I also have something that few other people have, something for which I'm more grateful than I can put into words. I have a family who loves me and a wide circle of friends, some here in San Francisco, but many, many more in Texas. And I have an opportunity. My dad wants me to take over his job managing a storage rental facility in East Texas in exchange for free housing and a small income to cover monthly expenses. When I say it's in the middle of nowhere, I mean it - it's in the smallest county in Texas and the nearest community is two miles away and has a population of less than 200. The entire county has just over 5000 people and the county seat, my official residence, has just over 2000 of them. Dallas is one and a half hours away, though. A morning commute in Silicon Valley.

In other words: it's a writer's dream. It's my chance to check out for awhile, focus on my writing, get reacquainted with myself. There are huge downsides, of course - small towns tend to inbreed astonishing ignorance. It's also one of the few counties to become MORE red in the last election, primarily because the alternative was to elect a black man. As a whole, the people are racist, homophobic, xenophobic, and ultra religious. Shooting animals is considered pleasurable, a concept I have never understood, while selling alcohol is still illegal, a holdover from the Prohibition.

Is this a good move? An upgrade? Downgrade? Lateral move? I feel like I'm traveling between dimensions. I wonder if San Francisco will still seem real or if my memories will take the tone of a strange but distant dream. Regardless, it's the right move. Of that I'm sure. I've asked the hard questions, looked for the signs, done my research, and undergone all the contemplation I need to feel comfortable. It's a strange decision, completely out of character. This is not about "going home" - East Texas has never been my home, despite the fact that every single member of my immediate and extended family, without exception, lives or has lived there. I'm an anomaly in every sense of the word. An outsider.

But for whatever reason, I feel that East Texas is where I need to be right now. My work here is done. I've tried to hang on but God, the Universe, What Have You, is nudging me a little further down my path. Everything has lined up too perfectly to be other than destiny. The stick behind me, the carrot in front. And my true desire, to live a contemplative life of solitude and writing, looms despite every effort to deny it.

The line here is getting longer, both tourists and locals queueing for their fix. The employees are scurrying - one on food, one on register, one on espresso machine. They all know me, the employees, and I know them. I've been to their parties. I've been coming here two years and I've almost got their names down. They know mine. They know all the regulars. We say hi and we say bye and in between sometimes we chat about things. It's always a little stilted, like co-workers at a water cooler who don't really know each other or want to but are familiar enough to be friendly. When I stop coming here they won't notice. A couple months from now someone will ask "I haven't seen Justin in awhile, have you?" And the other person will respond, "Who?" And the first person will answer, "That tall guy with a beard? Filmmaker? Kinda nerdy?" "Oh yeah, no, I haven't seen him. Double cappuccino!" Or maybe I won't come up. Maybe they won't even think of me.

But then, I won't think of them, either.

This is my life today. An outsider. Alone, tribeless. And this is my life tomorrow.

And I'm ok with that.

Happiness is a State of...ah, whatever.

2008-08-14T12:50:00.000-07:00

Yesterday the black dog was looking for a sit again. As someone who was practicing The Secret before The Secret ever came out and knows it to be true and effective, I started thinking about what I needed in my life to be happy, really and truly Happy. But I kept circling back to the fact that happiness is just a state of mind blah blah blah. It's not a thing or person or job or accomplishment or reputation or dessert or body image. No amount of getting back in shape will bring me peace. No amount of work will do it. No amount of success. Or pie. So what will, exactly? What's it going to take?

I decided to re-focus those reality-warping dream-manifesting powers of actualization on something else this time. In the past I've used visualization quite successfully to bring in work, relationships, even my cat. For example I once realized, sitting at a cafe, that I needed an income again. So I focused on it, did my thing (I have techniques), and literally 30 minutes later got a call from a total stranger, a referral, who wanted to throw money my way for an easy tech job. After that came another job, and another, and another. So it goes.

But what to focus on this time? At some point in the day I realized I needed to take a step back, or out, and look at the issue from a broader perspective. What are the causes of Happiness? What are its roots? Why do some people have it while others, in equally bearable or unbearable circumstances, become overwhelmed by the dark cloud? I need to understand this thing a little better. Then I can go about identifying action items and putting a plan into place. So yesterday I shifted my focus from Things to Concepts. I focused on: "What do I need to learn? Help me understand this. Bring me the experiences that will help me understand the nature of Happiness." I broadcast that out to the ethers and let it go.

Last night I got home and checked the mail. I found one and only one thing - a flyer, not addressed to me, for a conference titled "Happiness and its Causes."

So there you go.

I wonder if China...

2008-08-07T18:09:00.000-07:00

is secretly poisoning American consumers as part of a plot to destroy us from the inside out?

Blocking Pleasure Causes Depression

2008-04-23T11:29:00.000-07:00

There's a new type of pill out that blocks pleasure, literally. These pills block the pleasure pathways in the brain. The idea is, you get people to stop smoking by blocking the pleasure they get from smoking. Same thing with eating. If you over-eat because it's fun, then take the fun out of it.

The only problem is, these pills also drive people into a suicidal depression.

Does anyone else see approximately a thousand things wrong with all of this?

The world according to Betty Burks

2008-04-21T16:23:00.000-07:00

I have no idea who this woman is but she's got something special going on.

I want to create an imaginary character and post totally random Amazon reviews that chronicle my imaginary life in a disjointed yet uplifting way. Betty Burks, I salute you.

Re: Fwd: FW: Pictures from London ~ this is beyond scary..

2008-03-10T03:08:00.000-07:00

Hi there,

In reference to the mass email you just forwarded to me showing placard-bearing muslim extremists (which can also be seen on snopes: http://www.snopes.com/photos/politics/muslimprotest.asp), thank you for showing us yet more evil muslims to justify yet more wars against large groups of people. I agree that these signs are pretty extreme. But I have four problems with the premise of this email:

1. It selects a small, vocal sample to represent the whole. Did you know that there's a small "christian" family in Topeka, Kansas that uses similar signs in the name of God? They insist that God hates America and will destroy it for being evil. Yet these few people are considered nutjobs, extremists, and in no way representative of Christianity as a whole, right? Nor do "christian" terrorists like Eric Rudolph and Timothy McVeigh (and many others) represent Christianity. So why does this small, sick but small, group of people stand in for an entire religion that, on the whole, IS peace-loving and reverential of life and freedom?

2. The purpose of this email is to incite hatred and violence against a group of people. Presumably, the point is that we should go out and slaughter every man, woman, and child who is Muslim. What Christian honestly believes that's what Jesus would do?

3. It ends with a classic call-to-arms against the "liberal media". This has become nothing more than a silly punchline. Not only does it further enflame tensions between progressives and conservatives (the LAST thing this country needs more of), but it's a meaningless cliche. Fox News is in no way liberal. Nor is CNN. Nor is every other major network (in other words ALL of them) that cave to corporate interests. When your news channel is run by a food company that is only interested in profit and ads, do you really think you're going to get honest, quality news?

4. But worse, that last remark about not seeing these pictures in Canada or the US is an outright lie. I don't know about Canadian coverage but the US actually covered this event extensively, as well as similar events all over the world. See, here's the trick, and why I find this kind of inflammatory email so deceitful and appalling - these pictures are from a London protest over Danish political cartoons in February of 2006 (over a year ago, not "recent"). Every country with a large Muslim population experienced the same thing. If you go back to papers of the time, you'll no doubt see some of these pictures. In fact, Jon Stewart did a great bit on The Daily Show about Muslim extremists protesting their depiction as violent reactives by...bombing embassies.

Obviously, these are some dangerous people. And yes, many people who call themselves Muslims are hell-bent on destroying Christians, democracies, and Americans in particular. But is declaring war on an entire religion the answer? What are we going to do, round up the Muslims and send them to concentration camps? Nuke their countries into oblivion? Do you really think that's what God wants His children to do to one another? Is that really what Jesus was teaching on the Mount?

The problem is, neither can you just invite them over for tea to work it out. They're not going to join you in counseling. And I suspect giving them fresh-baked cookies as a lure to bring them to church will not ultimately lead to their conversion.

So what's the solution? Yes, there's a problem. What's the solution? Ridicule liberals? That doesn't seem to be getting us anywhere. Elect another cowboy? Looks like that just made things about a zillion times worse. I think we've seen that for every "terrorist" we kill, we inspire a hundred of his friends and relatives to take up the cause against us. So what's the solution?

You might want to research a woman named Imaculee Ilibagiza. To start, here's a small description: "Imaculee Ilibagiza is a Rwandan woman hunted by her friends and neighbors during the Tutsi genocide in 1994. She lived for 91 days in a 3x6 bathroom with 6 other women and never made a sound. Her family was massacred in the most horrible way by people she knew and trusted."

Quick history lesson: by 1994 Rwanda was divided into two ethnic groups, Tutsis (the minority) and Hutus (majority). They'd had a history of war and tension, which escalated into a full-on genocide in April of 1994, in which millions of Hutus, armed with machetes, hacked to pieces every Tutsi they could hunt down, whether neighbor, friend, or family, man, woman, or child. No one in America noticed because, just a few months later, we were all glued to the tv as OJ Simpson drove a white bronco down the 405. And the Clinton Administration (lest anyone think I revere them in any way, which I don't) did absolutely nothing about the situation. You read that right - despite declaring ourselves the global police when it comes to oil-soaked dictatorships, we did absolutely nothing to stop Hutus from hacking the limbs off of small children or murdering their parents in front of their eyes. It wasn't until France, yes France, sent troops in did the genocide finally stop.

After Imaculee Ilibagiza's family was slaughtered, she convinced a local priest to hide her in his bathroom with 6 other women. He covered the door with furniture and didn't even tell his own family. For 91 days, they flushed only when he flushed in another room. They ate only what crumbs and scraps he could shove under the door when no one was looking. They slept propped up against one another, covered in filth. Again and again, they could see Hutus through the cracks searching the house for them, calling out to them, singing hunting songs, holding their machetes inches away from the hidden door.

So what did she do? Did she jump out, guns blazing, and mow down everyone in sight? No. Did she pass the time plotting her revenge? No. Did she send out mass emails convincing all her friends to bomb the bad guys? No. So what sustained her? How did she survive?

In her words, it was an unshakeable connection with God. A profound, intense connection so strong that she knew, beyond any doubt, that no harm would come to them. That faith sustained her for 91 days until the FRENCH (!) military finally intervened and set up safe zones. By the time she limped out of that bathroom, she weighed only 65 pounds.

But the ordeal wasn't over. Just a few hundred yards away from freedom, the women were surrounded by machete-armed Hutus determined to finish the job.

But here's the important part. This fragile woman could barely walk, much less fight back. Yet when a man stood directly in front of her and raised his machete, a man who had massacred dozens, if not hundreds of defenseless men, women, and children, you want to know what she did?

She loved him. She looked directly at him and loved him. And in her love, she forgave him.

So great was the power of her faith in God, so great was her connection with God, and so overpowering was the love that poured from her that she stopped this man in his tracks. Whatever look she gave him, whatever force she pointed in his direction, his response was to lower his hand and drop his machete, then stand aside and let them pass in peace.

THAT is how we'll end this violence. THAT is how we'll stop this insanity before millions more get killed and maimed by our hands or the hands of extremists. By letting God's love work through us and overwhelm those who would do us harm.

Frankly, I'm no longer interested in how the "liberal media" is hiding the truth, or how democrats or republicans are destroying our country. I'm not interested in stirring each other up with inflammatory emails, declaring war on other religions, or inciting hate and violence against people we don't know.

I'm interested in inciting a genuine connection with God. I'm interested in being inspired. I'm interested in loving my enemies so powerfully that they can no longer even conceive of doing me harm. I'm interested in pictures that remind me that God is at work in our lives. And that he doesn't pick sides. Most of all, I'm interested in remembering why America is great - because through our bounty and freedom we have the privilege of evolving in the truest sense of the word. We're not cavemen who can only stop someone by beating them into submission. We're better than that. We have great, great power. I'm interested in ways we can use that power to serve. And how to inspire our enemies to lay down their arms in peace, WITHOUT holding a gun or a nuke to their heads.

I see so many mass emails, like this one, that try to inspire violence and hatred against other human beings. And then mock or demonize anyone who thinks it's wrong to kill. I wonder if every person who forwards those emails has the courage to forward a call for compassion as well. Or is that more "liberal hooey"? I can think of one long-haired Jewish hippy who didn't think so. Since mass emails end with a challenge, here's one for you: choose your side. Hatred and violence? Or love and forgiveness? It starts with you.

Justin

freshly burned

2005-09-14T15:24:00.000-07:00

Back from Burning Man 2005. Strange year. Much fun, but also much frustration. The law was out in force, rounding up those "damn hippies" and conducting their annual fundraiser by fining anyone who looked at them funny. At the same time, I had an absolutely wonderful, furry, playful, magical time in the Astropups camp. And boy do they have pictures.

My experience this year was in many ways similar to last year's - Remembering Connection. Something about being in a harsh climate with 35,000 astonishingly creative souls really opens up my heart. The defenses fall away and I realize that it's safe to risk smiling, hugging, flirting, or even just being kind to someone else. Interestingly, the repeating gong of the Message From Above came after I returned to the city, when I made the effort to stay connected with pups off the playa. I had some one-on-one time with two travelers who said SF was an easy place to meet lots of new friends. And someone else, a long-term resident, mentioned he could walk in anywhere and know people. It all made me wonder why I haven't made a lot of friends here. A few buddies I hang out with on occasion and several dozen casual acquaintances who flit away like wisps in the night, never to remember my name or face again. It's not like I'm a loner - in Dallas *I* was the one who knew someone everywhere I went, who had dozens of friends, who could organize a party and have 50 or 60 people show up.

Ultimately, it has to do with me, of course. Here, I keep to myself. Out of fear, mostly. Or simplicity. No friends means no pesky phone calls or movie dates or coffee chats, which means more time to myself to play computer games or write or just sit and think (and wonder why I'm so lonely). If I don't make eye contact and smile, then I don't open the door to some broken soul who just wants money, or meds, or bizarre sex, or even just a kind soul to latch onto and suck the life out of. This definitely ain't Dallas.

But the playa reminds me that it's ok to take risks. If I shut everyone out for fear of a few bad encounters, then I shut out the beautiful ones, as well.

So I'm trying a few new tricks. Affection without sex, friendship without fear, smiling at strangers, being open to meeting new people. A casual fuck is far too easy in this city. I'm ready for something for more exciting and dangerous - emotional intimacy. Perhaps this will finally lead to a fulfilling relationship. Perhaps not. No matter. The risk of opening up is worth the journey, regardless of where it ends.

Random Encounter

2005-04-20T15:39:00.000-07:00

I sit at Café Flora distracting myself as much as possible from the task of writing. I’m wearing $9 Wal-Mart jeans, a Blue Man’s Group t-shirt I got in Vegas, and a vintage tan leather jacket I got from the back of my dad’s closet last xmas.

A guy walks by, styling, obviously fucked up from the squinting redness of his eyes. I can barely look at them without my own starting to water. His bleach-streaked banks fall down to his nose in opposing curves and shake with the constant twitch of his head. Every few seconds, he brushes them aside so I can see those eyes. Even still, he’s constantly on the move. He speaks with the refined, loopy pace of someone educated and articulate, with one foot on the other side of this reality. I saw him earlier and was grateful to escape his notice. But from across the room, he sees my little keyboard and saunters over.

“I love that jacket. 1972,” he says.

“Um. Thanks.”

“David Bowie wore these pants in 1978. You’re a writer?” He takes a seat across from me and puts his hand out for me to shake. I’m too nice to do anything but grin awkwardly and comply, wondering what that hand has been touching.

“What do you think of T—m-- -a—te?” I can’t quite hear above the din.

“I don’t know the name.” A look of shock. It clicks. “Oh. Truman Capote? Um.”

“He sucked my cock in New York from 1982 to 1985. He died in 1989. If you were in New York and could meet any writer, just sit across the table from him with a big fat jug of wine, who would it be?”

“Um.” For the life of me, I can’t think of a writer from New York.

“Come on, anybody.” He leans forward. A sly red-eye peaks through his streaked bangs. “You never know, I may just be able to make it happen.”

“Uh…well, Stephen King would be great. But he doesn’t live in New York.”

“Stephen King lives in Vermont,” he says with disgust. “I saw him in Kennenbunkport, getting drunk at the finest restaurants. He’s not very intelligent. Come on, give me a writer.”

I think some more. It occurs to me that I might be able to drive him away with my pedestrian taste. “Um…Anne Rice? But she lives in New Orleans.”

The look on his face says it’s working. “Anne Rice lives in Paris. That house in New Orleans? She hasn’t lived there in years. Come on, they’re not even writers. Anne Rice? Stephen King? They’re entertainers.”

“But that’s what writing’s all about. To entertain.”

Bulls-eye. He’s really disgusted now. Perhaps he’ll leave. “What about JD Salinger?” He shakes my hand at the mention of Salinger’s name. “Or F. Scott Fizgerald?”

“But he’s not around anymore.”

“Well…”

For a brief moment, I’m concerned about the implication that he can help me meet dead authors. “Dickens. I’d love to meet Dickens.”

It slipped out. I’d just been reading Oliver Twist and had fallen in love with Dickens. Evidently, it was the right thing to say. He appraises me as an equal and shakes my hand again. “Now there’s a genius. Miss Havisham? Who can forget that scene in Great Expectations when he first meets Miss Havisham. The rats scurrying across the table. The old lace wedding gown. ‘Is that cobweb she wears?’ You can see the camera rising.” He makes the director’s square with his fingers to show an image on screen, rising up from the floor. “It’s cinematic. Before anything in the 20th—what is this—the 21st century?”

“Yeah.”

“Before any technology, he made movies. You can see them in your head. Or Anna Kerinina. Leo Tolstoy. When the train hits her in the head. Bam!” He smacks his hand against his head. Bangs fly. I notice the gap in his front teeth as he grins.

“She throws herself from the train and it hits her in the head. Bam! Then again, Bam! And she says, ‘But I have made a mistake. I want to live.’ And it hits her a third time, Bam!” He’s into it now. I’m worried about him. “He gives us three times. Three. To realize the truth.” He stands to leave. “That’s brilliant.”

He shakes my hand again. Not knowing what else to say, I lift my latte and call out “Cheers” as he walks away in his David Bowie pants. And I’m left sitting at my keyboard, with its blinking cursor, thinking “What the hell was that about?”

Make Something Beautiful

2005-03-07T01:50:00.000-08:00

A friend took me to a concert tonight. Keep in mind that my primary purpose for going was to hang out with my friend. I'm not that into live music, believe it or not (perhaps it reminds me that I'm not performing, myself). So I didn't have particularly high hopes. Also consider that I have a bad inner ear infection and am feeling drained and generally discombobulated.

On top of that, we met for drinks, then dinner, beforehand. So just before the concert, I had copious amounts of Thai food, stuffed myself silly with chicken curry, and wanted nothing more than to curl up for a nap afterwards. Then I sat through about 2 hours of at time quirky, usually lethargic, jazz-ish ensemble music.

I never anticipated how I would feel afterwards. Everything conspired to put me to sleep. And at times, that's almost what I did. But not quite. For two hours, I lingered in that last stage of consciousness before going under, that state where I just floated like in a mineral bath. That state where I could not only hear, but also feel the music. With sleepy, lidded eyes, I could see the glow around the performers, see when it swelled or spiked. I could tap into the energy of the music itself, ride that wave along with the musicians, feel the interplay between instruments and vocalists. Their improv became just an expression of what we all felt was already there.

The leader of the band had taken the words of Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass, and put them to music. Then he brought together a collection of accomplished performers he'd worked with before - trumpet, trombone, sax, reed (a little of everything), percussion, bass, cello (hottie), male and female vocals, and the composer on grand piano. Because of my state of mind and the receptivity it put me in, I felt like the words and music slipped right into my subconscious and throughout my body. What it did there, I don't know. I couldn’t even tell you what the words were. But something magical happened.

As I write this, hours later, I'm still in a mellow state of bliss. I'm wide awake, at peace for the first time in days, and I feel incredible. On top of that, the infection on my ear has gone down. I can tell because it's stopped bubbling - before, it felt like it had water in it, at the same time that the ear canal itself had swollen completely shut, impairing my hearing. Now, the water feeling has gone away and the canal is opening up.

Regardless of what's going on with the ear, the most important thing is just the feeling of beauty. I thought I would fall asleep, in fact I fought to stay awake. But I came away deeply impacted.

At one point during the concert, I wanted to cry. It occurred to me, somewhere during an ad lib duet between a vocalist and trumpet, I think, that these men, both Whitman and the composer, created something of beauty. In this harsh world, seemingly filled with angry and selfish people, they made something beautiful.

It's his gift. And it's an opportunity we all have. I thought about that on the walk home. I skipped Muni and strolled down the street instead. Back in the chaos, passing belligerent drunks, angry homeless, a few out and out crazy folk. The residual echo of the music spoke to me more in feelings than in words. And it said this: When someone frowns, smile anyway. When someone discourages, have hope anyway. When someone shuts you out, love anyway. And when the world around you is filled with ugliness and pain, make something beautiful.

On Discipline and the Journey of Writing

2005-02-19T22:46:00.000-08:00

I may have mentioned it before, but for a couple of years now, anytime I would meditate on my "Purpose" or the direction I should be taking in life (doesn't everyone do this periodically?), one word would float into my consciousness again and again...WRITE! Sometimes I would feel it so strongly it was like someone was screaming at me. Nothing else, no particulars, just "WRITE".

So for the entire stretch of 2004, that's just what I did. I stopped consulting, stopped coding, and just wrote. For the most part, I dabbled in different types of writing and different styles. I would try first-person essays, scripts, short stories, non-fiction. I would try fantasy, mystery, contemporary. I actually wrote quite a few personal essays, published none, and for all appearances, pissed away an entire year, supporting myself with the occasional technical piece that seemed to fall into my lap at just the write time.

But 2005 has started much differently. On December 15, 2004 (exactly one year to the day after I left my last big consulting gig), I wrote a contract with a writing coach / therapist, who I hired to help me get through this block I have of not finishing a damn thing. We agreed that I would write 4 hours a day, 6 days a week. If I was working or writing for pay, I would do that for 4 hours minimum, then write for 2 hours. But write what? Out of all the things I was working on, I picked a fantasy novel I'd been mulling for years.

There's the key: ONE project. One single project, four hours a day.

I just finished up my second month and I've long since come to realize that this project has nothing to do with writing a fantasy book. This is all about finishing something. It's a journey to an unknown and mysterious destination. But it's the journey, not that destination that counts.

The end goal is not to be published. It's not even a finished book. Hopefully these will come about naturally. But the goal is that journey. And like any other discipline, it doesn't matter what you do, it matters how you do it. I'm finding that the process itself is uncovering loads and loads of...stuff.

I read once that the key to absolute freedom is discipline. I didn't quite understand that at the time. For the great bulk of my life, I've had ZERO discipline. I was the classic flake, promising much, delivering nothing. I had a consistent pattern of letting down everyone in my life. Every company I worked at, every organization I volunteered with, friends, family members. I would bite off WAY too much and end up delivering none of it. I would just fall apart.

Then, as an experiment, I started staying with what I was doing. Toastmasters, for example. Reiki, as another example. Instead of dabbling and running, as was my standard operating procedure, I would stick around. Lo and behold, that's when things started to happen. I would hit that first obstacle, the one that usually drove me away. But instead of running, I would work through it. The form of this obstacle could be anything at all. But SOMETHING would always, always, always come up. That's just the way of things.

Later I began training at the gym consistently. I began studying kickboxing. Still later, after moving to the bay area, I began studying martial arts. I'm now coming up on 4 years at the same school. That's a long time for someone like me.

The crazy thing is that the same pattern happens no matter what I'm engaged in. I jump in, have a great time, play for awhile, then something comes up. I face it down, work through it, and suddenly find myself at another level of expertise, one I didn't know existed. You can't know it exists until you go there. And then I would play some more, having fun, until I hit the NEXT wall.

The walls keep coming. In fact, they get harder, not easier. But on the other side of every wall is a level of expertise I never knew existed. It just gets deeper and deeper and deeper.

It occurred to me at one point that it's much like digging a hole. Coming from Texas, the idea of drilling for oil comes to mind, though I prefer to think of digging a well. You can poke around here and there, digging a dozen, a hundred shallow holes. And each of these would be a different hobby or practice. But if you stick with one and go deep, as deep as deep can go, you eventually hit this massive underground reservoir. It doesn't matter which hole you pick or where you dig it, the reservoir is the same for all of them. The point is to just keep digging, staying with whatever hole you're working on.

This is not to say that discipline means digging yourself a hole. Rather it means persisting, getting through the layers of sediment and bedrock, until you find that natural, rich, life-giving spring.

Which brings me back to the writing. Even now, after all the journies I've been on, I kind of thought this would be about finishing a damn book. It's not. Not in the least. I've been crashing into one block after another. All the voices inside my head telling me what garbage it all is, what a talent-starved hack I am. The boredom that's really just fear in disguise. The endless distractions. The procrastinations. The rewrites, going back to the basic story again and again and re-visioning it so that I can start over from scratch. They're all obstacles on the journey. And the key is to see them for what they are.

Most recently, I not only stopped hitting my 4-hour mark, but I practically threw out what munged outline I'd been working on and started over. I seriously considered throwing out the 19 or so chapters I'd written thus far. But I recognized that as yet another way to sabotage myself, to run from this overwhelming insecurity I feel as an artist. And so I just picked back up with chapter 20. I made huge continuity gaps, deleting several characters, changing some circumstances in midstream. But instead of going back to chapter one, I'm determined to get all the way to the end. To see what's at the bottom of this hole. Then and only then, I'll go back to the start and begin the revisions.

My writing coach gave me a wonderful quote. I hope I remember it correctly: "When there's no wind, row." I've been rowing quite a lot lately, working through this novel. But every now and then the wind picks back up and sends me sailing. Those are beautiful moments. They remind me that, regardless of the outcome, I'm here for the journey.

The Empty Yard

2004-11-28T21:50:00.000-08:00

With the commandment to “Go play together,” the young boy and girl skip into the yard, an empty field of bare grass. A blank canvas for their fertile imaginations.

“Let’s play Tag!”

“Ok!”

One reaches out and pokes the other, then runs away squealing. The other chases. After a few minutes, two mothers glance out the window and smile. All is good until The Incident. The current “It” reaches out and brushes a sleeve – light contact, at best.

“Hey, you’re It now!”

“Am not! You didn’t touch!”

“Did too – I touched your sleeve!”

“That don’t count. Besides, I was Home.”

“Was not – Home is over there.”

“Is not cheater!”

“You’re the cheater!”

A flying blast of sod escalates the confrontation. Soon a scream and crying pierce the air as perplexed mothers rush out. An empty yard, filled with imaginary rules resulting in hurt feelings and physical violence. What went wrong?

And so goes human nature. What an incredible power we posses, to create something out of nothing. We can create worlds from blank paper. Music from silence. Rules from anarchy. Boundaries from empty space.

We need rules, of course. Our systems organize us, give us structure in which to advance and grow. So we create imaginary boundaries and laws, then imbue them with the power of our belief.

And there’s the key: communal belief. We cannot paint a boundary in an empty yard unless we all believe it exists. Our communal belief creates the structure and order we desire. In fact, it is the only thing that creates this structure. Without communal belief, it doesn’t exist.

Of course, the truth is, it doesn’t exist even then.

It is not the incontrovertible fact of a rule’s existence which we recognize and honor. It is our combined belief in this rule. And does this belief help us? Without communal belief, we have no rules for the games we play. No laws to order our society.

No religion to bring us salvation.

No boundaries to fight over.

No “other side” to kill or die fighting.

But in the end, they still don’t really exist do they? And if a rule that doesn’t actually exist is causing hardship, then doesn’t it benefit us to question it, challenge it, dissolve it back to the nothingness from which it came?

Who threw that clod of dirt on the playground? Who knows. Rewind. Was Home over here or over there? Rewind. Did the sleeve count? Rewind. Let’s play Tag. Rewind. Moments of unbridled joy. Rewind. Children running into the yard. Rewind.

The yard is empty. No rules. No joy. No suffering. It is empty.

And so it was. And so it will always be.

Candle in the Shadow

2004-11-03T21:55:00.000-08:00

I just came across this old favorite again:

"Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented and fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small doesn't serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It is not just in some of us, it is in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we consciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others."
Nelson Mandela 1994 Inaugural Speech

Since the election results came in, I’ve been feeling a bit depressed, sort of closed in and full of anxiety for what the next four years will bring. But beneath it, I feel a ribbon of hope. It’s a hope borne of determination not to succumb to that fear. A hope for the strength and power that comes from being “a child of God.”

Mandela’s quote helps me remember that this strength and power lives within me. It’s that connection with the Divine. It’s that joyful, playful spirit that dances inside this body.

We are already free. We always have been. And what better time to celebrate our beauty than now?

I will not lend strength to the troubles of our country by naming them directly. I imagine that anyone connected with the spirit of Life can feel the same potential for sadness that I feel, and for the same reasons.

I’ll say instead that with the changes our country currently undergoes, we who have a commitment to Spirit, who see beneath the structures and patterns of our society, who understand the nature of this world and the next, have an opportunity. This is the time to be Ourselves. Our True Selves. Unmasked. Uninhibited. Unbridled. Full of all the joy and hope and peace and love and beauty and truth of life itself.

This is our time to “make manifest the glory of God that is within us” and to live that glory in our daily actions.

This would be our path in any age. But I feel that in the context of all that is Not, we can give greater strength to all that Is. For the next several years, we’ll have even greater opportunity to see the power of this connection to the sacred.

It’s not my place to label good and evil. I feel we all start out the same and discover our version of reality in large part because of the context of our environment. Even so, I feel that this is my time to be a candle in the shadow.

I’ve been late getting started. Now’s the time to do the work of a Higher Purpose.

Spinning in Circles

2004-10-28T01:16:00.000-07:00

I've been taking a class lately on staff-spinning. I hear that it's vaugely Polynesian. It's related to poi-spinning but with a staff. In other words, the staff dancer lights both ends of a large staff and, to the throbbing beat of trance techno music, spins intricate and beautiful patterns in the dark.

I've just started so I'm not lightning anything on fire just yet. Strangely, I have an affinity for the staff, having gotten one as a teenager and spun away for hours and hours on end in the backyard. More recently, I've studied "bong sparring", which has nothing to do with cannabis. Something about using the staff really feels right to me, feels very comfortable and natural.

So I decided to take this class, to explore it a little deeper and learn some new moves. But that's not all that's happening. This is rocking my world.

When the music starts and the staff spins effortlessly in my hands, circling in front of me, behind me, all around me at blistering speeds, I've started to feel transported. The music pulses through me. The staff begins to spin itself, with me gently guiding the energy like a flowing stream of water. It moves around me. My body flows with it. We become a rapturous dance, stepping aside from time and space and simply existing in The Moment.

How is it that something so simple as spinning a staff can produce such heightened blissful states of consciousness? A lot of people take drugs to feel this way. Something I used to do in the backyard for fun has turned into this ecstatic dance. And I've only begun dipping my toe in the pool.

There exists a level of consciousness that transcends this "reality". Perhaps it's just a step to the left, floating just outside the corner of our vision. Many cultures, many paths, have explored this state throughout the history of humanity. Processes have become codified into religion. Then religion becomes the end unto itself, losing sight of the original goal - a transcendent state of being.

It's hard to describe, but those who've experienced it (and there are millions in the world) know exactly what I'm talking about. It's a special place, a rabbit hole. You can find it through prayer, through meditation, or, as most people in America, simply engaging in a Passion. Ask any athlete about The Zone. Ask any painter or dancer who creates from the deepest part of their soul. They know what it's about.

This is a place that can be reached by anyone, through anything. I've experienced it while singing onstage, while dancing at a nightclub, while sparring in the dojang. And lately, I've experienced it by simply spinning a staff. Feeling the music. Allowing my body to be swept up in the flow.

What takes YOU to that place?

Speaking of courage...

2004-10-17T02:14:00.000-07:00

As one of the "Two Cents" contributors to the SF Chronicle, I get a couple of questions every week for "man on the street" commentary. A couple of days ago, I got the following question:

"When was the last time you had to be brave?"

Normally, I rattle off a highly quotable answer. But this one stumped me. At first, I thought about my martial arts training. It takes a certain courage to smash my hand through a stack of bricks or to spar with a black belt for whom "light contact" means sending me flying 5 feet instead of 10. Then I thought about the Reiki meeting I organized, which didn't actually involve a lot of effort OR courage, but still sort of terrified me in the way giving a toast terrifies nerds.

But then I thought about war, about US and Iraqi fighters both facing a deadly unknown - each other. I thought about peace protesters risking life, limb, and liberty against jittery riot police. I thought about heroes who run into burning buildings to save someone or stand up to an aggressor or even donate a kidney.

What exactly does it mean to be brave? I've never risked my life in an act of courage. Is that what it means to be brave? I don't know.

I ended up giving a very non-quote-worthy answer about how I try to break through my own fears every day, but I've never risked my life. Perhaps we have degrees of courage. Some sit in front of the tv all night, work in a cube all day, living quiet, desperate lives, insulated from fear by pork rinds and pizza. Some make courage such an assumed part of their lives that they no longer think of it as an "act of".

And what of those for whom bravery is a self-indulgence, whose acts of courage extend only to the salvation of their own lives? I think of thrill-seekers who may or may not consider risking their lives for a cause greater than an adrenaline rush. But I realize that's a reflection - in all the small victories I engage in, the daily confrontation with my own shadows, the only person I'm saving is me. Moi. Justin. Myself. That's it - no burning buildings, no small children playing in traffic.

Perhaps courage is a habit, to be conditioned through persistent exercise. I do believe that my own breakthroughs, large and small, habitualize courage. That doesn't make them any easier. I have a non-existent novel to demonstrate that, along with several unpublished short stories and essays and a half-written screenplay. But I feel as if my own journey is leading up to something. I don't know what. Perhaps someday I'll be called upon. I'd like to think that when the time comes, my experiences of facing down fear will play a part in my future success.

So in answer to the question "When was the last time you had to be brave?" I could say I haven't, yet. Or I could say just today, in a writing class, when one of the world's greatest fantasy authors ripped my story to shreds in front of everyone and I took it all in without crying.

Or I could say just say this morning, when I bloody got out of bed.

Reiki Meeting #1

2004-10-17T01:53:00.000-07:00

Shortly after getting back from Burning Man, I decided to look up Reiki on meetup.com. I found a defunct San Francisco group and signed up. As I did, I saw a notice that said "This group needs an Organizer."

"Pshaw," I thought to myself. "I'm no organizer." But as I wandered through the site, it kept coming up, like an appeal or persistent demand. I felt opportunity tapping me on the shoulder, looking down at me as if I knew damn well what I should be doing. Holding my breath, I clicked the link. I became Justin, The Organizer.

Last Wednesday we had our first meeting - I would rate it a smashing success. 6 other people showed up (all women - what is it about Reiki and women?) and though everyone seemed a little uncomfortable at first, most of us were hugging each other by the end.

Our opportunities seem to come when we're looking just to the side. But we have all these chances every day to make some small impact, a positive ripple on the pond of reality. We're planning on another meeting, perhaps some group Reiki by the ocean. Maybe this group will evolve and grow. Maybe not. But for a few hours last week, several people opened up and connected heart-to-heart, shared very personal experiences about the miracle of Reiki, and came away feeling better about life. If a single click can create these ripples, imagine what a true act of courage might effect.

What is Matter?

2004-09-30T01:24:00.000-07:00

I saw What The Bleep again last night at the Metreon. Freakin amazing. Blew me away harder than the first time I saw it. This is definitely one of those movies that require multiple viewings. It's packed with goodness. It'll have you sitting in a daze after the last credit rolls away, blown away with a universe of new possibilities you haven't considered before, questioning everything around you.

This is what I saw the night before belt testing.

Tonight I tested for black/red belt, the last one before black belt. As the past several nights of testing have been as well, tonight really and truly sucked ass. The vibe felt like mud. I could tell the moment we started that this would be one of those nights where just getting hyped would be the big accomplishment in itself, much less doing anything impressive.

That's a shame, really. Because when we're on, we're REALLY on, doing some amazing, freaky shit. But tonight, it was mostly about just getting our legs off the ground and not getting hurt.

It was also, for me, probably the greatest success I've ever experienced in a test.

We all have days when the world just feels like "ugh". You want to crawl back into bed or chill in front of the tv or just take it easy. You do NOT want to do mad-sparring with your posse on the dojang dance floor. You do NOT want to be breaking things with your hands. You most definitely do NOT want to be vaulting your 240 pound ass into the air to do any fancy kicks.

So the test is this: in the worst of times, can you still do it? Can you conquer the malaise? Can you create the reality of your CHOOSING and transcend the world you perceive around you?

Most of my testing kinda sucked. I just consider that context for what was to come. I'm glad to say my sparring went pretty well once I made a DECISION to bring up my energy. (Shortly after we started, a friend whispered in my ear, "Bring it up, but keep it under control." Very smart words. Transcend the night, but not so much that I go wild.)

I completed a knife hand break for the first time - someone held the top of the board (only the top, which meant less leverage and required a faster strike) and I sliced it in half. I did it but it hurt like hell. Looking at my fingers now, I have a strange purple bruise covering my FOURTH finger and the inside of my fifth. Bottom line: little bitta energy, lotta brute strength.

Later we stood around a candle, punching and kicking to put it out. Now, this is something I've gotten pretty good at. I can usually punch out a candle on the first try. This is pure energy - no matter how fast you punch or how windy you make it, the damn candle is not going out unless you bring up the energy. Tonight: nothing. Everyone else got it but not me. I never did put that fucking thing out. Well, except when I kicked it across the room by accident.

So there's context. Sitting in a funk on the floor with a big glowing "L" on my forehead, I heard Master Johnson ask who wanted to break. I felt no need to volunteer. I felt complete. Actually, I really, really wanted to mope. But I didn't. I CHOSE to stay present, not thinking about the candle (the past) or a possible break (the future), just observing the present and focusing on my own energy.

As someone else prepared, I decided to try something fun, mostly cuz I was feeling like a smart-ass, as in "if I'm such a loser with a stupid candle, let's see if this energy shit really works." There's a meditation I do that involves sitting in silence for a long period of time until my awareness starts to float up, then transition through several "levels" or states of consciousness. The whole thing takes me awhile nowadays. Or so I thought.

For shits and grins, and to help me get out of my funk about the candle, I decided to see if I could do the transition just sitting there in the middle of testing. So I closed my eyes and started traveling. Instantly, I felt the most amazing thing - a separation of spirit and mind, or spirit and body. My essence, my consciousness, began to travel. It shifted through several layers. For kicks, I sought out this mysterious but magnificent "source" I've encountered several times in the past. And I found out. I allowed it to fill me. I started opening up, feeling a swell of energy through my body. I started shifting.

Cracking open my eyes again, I saw the matrix. The intangible world we pretend is matter, aka the material plane, aka reality.

It's not.

I looked at the room from the perspective of someone not in it, someone sharing not quite the same dimension. Master Johnson must've sensed this, because as the other guy prepared, he suddenly asked if I wanted to do a break. I said sure, mentioning that I wanted to break big bricks.

Big Bricks: extremely heavy, extremely thick, much harder to break than the "small" ones (which are still big and heavy). In the past, I've tried twice to break a stack of 4, and failed both times. At my last testing, we ran out of the big ones and I didn't even get the chance. So for well over a year, I've had an old score to settle. It also means I had a PATTERN of failure that I needed to literally break through.

But I chose not to think about that at the moment. I felt sublime, I felt shifted. Utterly calm. At peace. My awareness sort of layered over the room like looking into a pool of water. I quite unexpectedly felt like if I was to ever break through, now was the time.

And yet, Master Johnson knew what the night was like. Everyone, EVERYONE, had missed their break thus far, needing two or three attempts to make it happen. So he instructed the black belt to set up three big bricks for me, instead of four.

As I prepared, another guy suddenly raised his hand and asked to do a break. He wanted to do four. He also wanted to prove something. It was obvious to everyone paying attention. Master Johnson chuckled and said "Set up 4 bricks". He knew, I knew, others knew, that this break was never going to happen. But the guy needed to experience that. We also knew that it needed to happen before mine.

Sure enough, for all the screaming and sheer strength, it didn't happen for him. 3 bricks, barely cracked, the fourth still unblemished, and one bruised and bleeding hand later, it was my turn. But I'd been bringing up the energy, tapping into this otherworld that I suddenly, after a night of shit, felt access to. Master Johnson saw it. "Four bricks," he said. A point needed to be made. He knew it, I knew it.

No fear. I chose calm. No apprehension. I chose the present. No bricks. I chose clarity. I chose to see past the illusion, to see beyond the veil.

This world IS an illusion, a collective make-believe experiment. We believe this matter exists, but what is it, really? As I prepared, I made a silent prayer: to experience matter as the illusion it is. And as soon as I sent my prayer, my intention outward, I shifted to gratitude, knowing that it's already been answered.

I threw some palm strikes to the floor with a shout. The first shout came from my chest, and I felt it there. The second and third came from my SOURCE, and I felt them there. "That's what I like to hear," said Master Johnson, who felt it also.

Approaching the stack, I chose not to see the bricks. The other students, without exception, touch the stack, feel it, practice a few strikes against the surface. But I chose not to validate the existence of the bricks. Instead, I simply held my hand above it and sent my energy out, through my arm, sensing the bricks, then feeling the bricks NOT THERE. I sent my energy straight through to the floor. I stayed there for a couple of seconds, until I knew a connection with the floor, with nothing in between us.

I felt no emotion, except perhaps amused. I didn't hope, I didn't think, I KNEW that I'd already broken the stack. I KNEW that I was safe and whole. I KNEW that this illusion in front of me meant nothing but dust and air.

As I felt the bricks dissolve under my stream of awareness, something "clicked" and I knew it was time. With another shout from my deepest depths, I put my hand down and passed gently through four bricks. I felt them crumble, one by one, beneath my palm, like breaking the surface of the water. A slight resistance, a slight tingle, as they dissolved under my hand. It all happened in a fraction of a second, yet I still feel it. I passed through the illusion and continued to the floor, where I'd been focused all along.

Eight cleanly sliced pieces fell to the floor. And the room erupted. Despite myself, I cracked a smile. A big one.

This was more than a break to me. It was a validation. As shitty and murky as this night felt, I proved to myself that it didn't matter. I have the power to break through far more than concrete.

I also proved that I am my own man. It was to be the only successful break tonight. Others after me tried, but it just wasn't happening. For several, it didn't happen at all - the first brick might as well have been solid steel. But for me, everything came together perfectly. Perhaps because I didn't have the chance to get nervous? Or perhaps because I was so shifted that I wasn't even there anymore. It all feels like a dream. And my hand felt so, so good after the break. Like a massage or a mineral bath. Safe and whole (though my fingers are still traumatized from the previous break).

In the end, I turned a night of failure into a night of firsts. And also reinforced, THROUGH EXPERIENCE, the knowledge that we do indeed have the power to transcend this material existence. And that's what it takes - first-hand experience. Reading is nice. Learning is even better. But to truly feel it takes experience.

So now the big question: what next?

come into the light, carol anne

2004-09-24T01:01:00.000-07:00

Ok, now here's some cool shit: sungazing, also known as Living on Light. It's evidently one path to becoming a "breatharian".

Now, I don't know how authentic all of this is, but it sounds really cool. And one website said this one guy who's been doing it since '95 has been checked out by scientists and NASA, even! So it must be real! Seriously, though, I'm keeping an open mind about it. I'm about ready to try anything to whittle this belly down.

The reason I noticed this is because Sacred Space in San Francisco is hosting "HRM", the guy who's been doing this since '95. I'm half-interested in going but it looks like an all day thing and I've nekkid leatha men to gaze at on Folsom.

In other news, I've suddenly got the organizing bug up my ass. I signed up with a Reiki group on Meetup.com and, noting the lack of an organizer, jumped in. So now I'm organizing Reiki folk in the bay area. (And I've never been to a meetup meeting.) Then I searched craigslist for other Reikers (my term) and found a pocket that will hopefully join up. Then today, walking down the street, noticed "Reiki" in a window and decided to strike up a conversation with a total stranger, which is quite uncharacteristic of me. All in the quest for connection with cool people.

Because that's what this world needs. Like-minded souls, united in positivity, hooking up and amplifying that vibe into this munged place we live in. I don't generally consider myself a social person. And since I moved to California 4 years ago (as of today, in fact), I've cocooned myself from all the mean people here.

Not anymore. We've gots to risk it. Take a stand. Be real. Get the fuck out the door and be something that's going to help this world.

Tip for the day and note to self #1:
Keep a stash of food bars in the car, as in the "Clif bar" suggestion from yesterday. I keep pulling up to opportunities in the city to feed someone with an empty stomach and bad complexion. But I keep forgetting to put those damn Clif bars in my purse. Dharma points for good intentions? Don't think so.

Tip for the day and note to self #2:
Stop dating fucking drama queens.

Tip for the day and note to self #3:
Keep breathing, bitzchness.

A New Jus Bar

2004-09-23T01:57:00.000-07:00

Let's face it. Burning Man changed my life.

One thing it did was take me out of this media-saturated reality and return me to the harsh, intense, infinitely fulfilling natural world. You're not supposed to leave anything behind in the desert, but I did: my interest in the bitterness of politics. Among many other things.

In the past, this blog has turned into little more than a bitter rant, like all the others out there, even when I try to shade it with compassion and meaning.

But I find lately that, while my fundamental interest in politics has not gone away, my approach to it has shifted dramatically. I'm not as interested in jumping into the mud and slinging it out the old fashioned way. In fact, I've lost interest in addressing political issues directly at all.

Because underneath the political issues, we find the same foundation as social issues, justice issues, environmental issues, self-development, hobbies, personal interactions, learning, family, entertainment, addictions, and on and on and on into every facet of human existence.

I'm talking about our view of the world around us. Once we pull our heads out of the everyday (job, food, entertainment, relationship, and of course, money), we start getting into those lofty issues that only certain types of people seem interested in looking at. Why are we here? What IS "here"? What is the purpose of this mundane life I seem to be living? Where the hell did I park my car?

So if I'm to continue blogging, I feel the need to shake things up a little. I may ramble a bit, but if in reading this you spark to a kindred spirit, let me know. Post a message. Plug into this fabulous thought-train of peace, love, and neo-hippie techno-groovalicious power vibe we call Manifesting Reality. Because we're already making things happen. We're already creating the world of our imaginations. Now we just need to realize that and change our freakin minds, because we're in the process of creating something that's so not cool right now.

Check back here for more on that subject.

But for now, some short term instructions:

1. If you haven't seen it yet, then make plans RIGHT NOW to see What the Bleep Do We Know? at your nearest available location. No, stop - did I say you could keep reading? I mean NOW! Check out the times and get back with me once you've bought your tickets (I use plural because you know you want to bring a friend).

2. Find the groove you like and chill, freak.

3. VOTE! FOR GOD'S SAKE VOTE!!! Register NOW. And once you're registered, then apply for absentee voting NOW. Because that's the best way to get counted this time around. Shite's about to hit it and the fan won't be pretty on November the 3rd. So vote now and make it count.

4. Spread the love. Do something mysteriously cool and charitable for a total stranger. Fold someone's laundry. Drop an extra quarter in someone's parking meter. Give a homeless guy a Clif bar. Be the good in the world that you keep bitching about not seeing. Because we need you.

Don't say the "B" word

2004-08-28T09:01:00.000-07:00

Two Held for Alleged New York Subway Bomb Plot

This is sort of like saying "bomb" on a plane. Or saying "bum" with an accent. They didn't actually HAVE a bomb. Nor did they have concrete plans to get or plant one. Muslims today, everyone else tomorrow. (I wonder if the FBI is spying on me RIGHT NOW.)

Elsewhere in the news, the crackdown on bike-riding terrorists has officially begun.

message from God

2004-08-25T22:50:00.000-07:00

Locusts Invade 'Passion of Christ' Town

Bush Campaign Lawyer Tied to Group's Anti-Kerry Ads

2004-08-25T00:34:00.000-07:00

Gotcha!

The Purpose of Fox News

2004-08-24T01:47:00.000-07:00

Here's my theory. Stay with me on this.

Fox News, radical rightwing critics, and other noisy voices from the extreme right, have an agenda underneath their spoken war of words: to create and enforce and imaginary split in America.

Much has started to be written about the "Two Americas" - every single issue that reaches the news is now interpreted in two, exactly two ways. There's the Democratic viewpoint and the Republican viewpoint. The "left" and the "right". Once commentators get ahold of it, we're all told what our arguments are to be and, because we simply have too much information coming at us to process it all, we spit those same talking points at each other.

This is an illusion.

America is NOT split down the middle and there are NOT exactly two ways to see every issue. As many perspectives exist in this country, in this world, as exist people.

But here's the tricky part. In framing every argument as "us vs. them", those who control the political process are tricking us into putting ourselves into one of two buckets - the extreme right and the MODERATE right.

The logic goes like this. Bush says "We need to invade / liberate Iraq!" (Or rather, he moves his lips for whoever is actually speaking.) So there's the official "neocon" line of thought. All conservatives, including Murdoch's media empire, fall in behind it.

Kerry says "we must be SMARTER about fighting in Iraq." Since we have only two sides to every argument, all democrats and everyone else who doesn't like Bush and company fall in line behind Kerry.

The problem: we shouldn't fucking BE in Iraq!!! We never should've invaded them. We never should've invade Afghanistan. (As a matter of fact, we never should've starved Iraq with a decade of sanctions, Clinton.)

By forcing the debate into only two directions, the party leaders force a win-win for their corporate donors. And American consumers, mindless sheep that we are, go along with it because at this point, we only see two colors. We only see two options.

What kills me is that this entire debate, in fact EVERY debate, has moved to the right of the ideological spectrum. When the people we detest (O'Reilly, Cheney, Bush, Hannity, Ashcroft, etc, etc, etc) rail against a particular issue, we are tricked into supporting that issue. What those smug bastards never let on is that they're usually only slightly to the left of their own opinions, which still leaves them far too conservatives for how I truly believe most Americans really feel. Similarly, if I say "I support Hillary Clinton and I love purple donuts" then conservatives are suddenly going to hate purple donuts, because they sure as hell hate Hillary. That's how habitualized we've become.

I promise you this: if Bush stood up tomorrow and said "I don't like orange. I think orange looks French. I just think the color orange is un-American. This country is founded on red, white, and blue. And that's what God wants for us." I promise you if he made a speech like that, you would have millions of conservatives all over the nation falling over themselves to build bonfires, hold anti-orange rallies, destroy every scrap of orange they could find. They'd boycott oranges altogether and anything they thought LOOKED orange. Then you'd have millions of Bush-haters with jerking knees who would take up banners of orange, go on orange-only diets, wear orange head-to-toe.

The rest of us would be scratching our heads in utter bewilderment, wondering how the hell we got to this point. Oh yeah - we're already doing that. I've been scratching my head over this whole Vietnam debate for weeks now. (WHO THE HELL CARES ABOUT KERRY'S FUCKING MEDALS!!)

This is called manipulation. And right now, we are being shamelessly manipulated into supporting pro-corporate, anti-compassionate policies regardless of which candidate or party we associate ourselves with.

It's so sad to see true progressives being forced to support Kerry because that's the only chance we have to get bush the hell outta there. This is the result of our deplorable winner-take-all system of elections. If we were to establish a more sensible electoral system, I believe we would crack open this two-sided fallacy and introduce some much-needed sophistication to the debate. In fact, we might discover we have opinions of our own.

I, for one, don't really care for orange. But I have to admit, if Bush hated it, I'd probably like it a lot more. Guilty.

AdGate

2004-08-24T01:46:00.000-07:00

Requirement of a scandal: put "gate" at the end of whatever subject you're talking about. In this case, it's this ridiculous back-and-forth about the attack ads. Not sure who in particular is more scandalized. The whole damn thing stinks to me. (The latest.)

I have a theory about this. Perhaps this whole thing is being done deliberately to nauseate the voting public and turn them completely off the electoral process. Whenever the general public is polled, Kerry generally gets majority. Only when REGISTERED VOTERS are polled does it split down the middle. So it's to republican's advantage to keeping voting at a minimum. Ergo, the Let's Disgust America strategy.

Of course, personally I believe that Kerry is actually a republican who thought he'd get more mileage posing as a democrat. So at this point, conservatives win no matter what. It's just a question whether the corporate agenda will be shoved in our face and adorned with redwhiteblue streamers, trumpets blaring, or whether it'll be done behind the scenes under withering attacks from rightwing demagogues and Fox News.