Subject: i am deeply moved

Date: Sun, 10 May 1998 23:08:50 +0000

Brock Foxworthy Hanson wrote:

Try this file. It's a windows 2.1 for WORD, that is closer to your format.

It's the latest shit that's happening to me. (As of three weeks ago.)

I quote a wise woman now:

"Keep in contact and good luck.

always take care of yourself...."

goes for you too.

Love, Brock

More of less.

1) THE DARE

2) THE PLAN

LEARN TO SURF.

PARAGLIDING.

34) ROCK CLIMBING,

27) MOTORCYCLE RACING

22) PILOT'S LICENSE

32) NEW ORLEANS (MARDI GRAS)

THE RAINBOW FESTIVAL

36) DO DMT

SHOOT HEROIN

26) MÈNAGE-À-TROIS (OR QUATRE)

SWORD FIGHTING

11) YOGA

LEARN A LANGUAGE

6) PLANT A GARDEN

16) LEARN TO DRAW

SINGING LESSONS

8) PLAN II

19) BE MORE OPEN TO STRANGERS

15) GO TO NEW YORK CITY

TAKE UP SAILING

EAT POISON JAPANESE BLOWFISH

18) FIRE A MACHINE GUN

24) FIGURE OUT WHERE KING ARTHUR WAS BORN.

GO TO ASIA

6) EXPERIENCE A PERFECT KISS

HAVE ONE FABULOUS, UNSINKABLE IDEA.

7) SAVE A BROKEN HEART.

1. DO A HUNDRED PUSH-UPS

WHAT'S IN NEBRASKA?

8) GO ON A ROAD TRIP SOMEWHERE REALLY AMAZING

9) EXPERIENCE SATORI,

17) BE MORE INTUITIVE

OWN A PORSCHE

10) WARDROBE RENOVATION,

38) RIDE A DIRT BIKE,

32) SPEND WAY MORE TIME IN MY HEART,

30) HAVE A TANTRIC BREAKTHROUGH,

FIX MY VISION,

FIND A HOUSE,

17) BE MORE INTUITIVE.

7) GET SOME BUILDING TOOLS.

12) LESS JUDGMENT.

13) MORE COMPASSION.

14) EAT BETTER, PRACTICE COOKING

25) GAIN MORE PERSPECTIVE

33) PUBLISH A BOOK

29) MAKE A WEB PAGE FOR UNKNOWN ARTISTS.

LIVE IN CAPETOWN, SA FOR A WHILE.

34) CUT A CD.

28) QUIT A BAD HABIT.

34) GET A TATTOO

GO TO CENTRAL AMERICA

37) LEARN A SEXY DANCE

one: the dare

He snatched the jar of white sugar off the outdoor table and downed a whole three seconds of it, raving the immediate blast of sucrose, straight-hits engender. Mick Tomas saw deep creases in every surface of a face, surrounding his eyes. They were bowed back in his skull, lurking. Innocents watched in abandon, as it unrolled. The fuzzy lint-ball rug, he habitually shunted his life under. After all, it was his Chinese year. Tiger. And every twelve, there's no excuse not to. Do anything. At all. The hyperglycemic rant increasing in volume, Mick linnets himself the other way around, to finger the bulging back pocket, he stores scraps of pencil, and paper in. For these very moments. Now, as an exercise. You have one year.

Everything you always wanted to.

GO!

Mick listed all the impossible things he wanted. Never mind cost. Loosely, each month filling-up slowly. Too organized! Stop thinking seasons! You can learn to sail in the Caribbean-or anywhere you want to! No need to set aside August. Don't schedule yourself so; it's your entire problem. So scheduled, fun's swept under the carpet.

LEARN TO SURF. PARAGLIDING. ROCK CLIMBING, MOTORCYCLE RACING, PILOT'S LICENSE, NEW ORLEANS (MARDI GRAS), THE RAINBOW FESTIVAL NEBRASKA, DO DMT, SHOOT HEROIN, MÈNAGE-À-TROIS (OR QUATRE), SWORD FIGHTING, YOGA, LATIN, PLANT A GARDEN, LEARN TO DRAW, SINGING LESSONS, BE A LOT MORE OPEN TO STRANGERS...

What are you doing?

(Stranger's question, straight from blue.)

Writing all the things I'll never do down, so I might do them someday.

That's a good idea.

Yeah, but I'll probably just lose this list somewhere.

So you don't have to look at it, and mull over what isn't being accomplished?

(She's a bloody mind reader, this one.)

Perhaps. It's a little exercise to distract me from the lunatic with the sugar jar.

They should cut him off.

Agreed. But each table has one.

She laughs. Quite sweetly, I might add.

Maybe he's here making you think about all the energy you're expending, doing diddly?

You're a bit personal for somebody I don't even know.

The way it should be; don'tcha think luv?

(She's from Graceville. Or Graceburg. Somewhere blessed. Not from my neighborhood!) Moved there from Glastonbury England.

Never been.

Where the King Arthur legends were born.

No kidding? Why'd you leave for Graceville?

Don't know really. Fancy I needed a change. A little like your list, but I cudn't seem to misplace it, no matter how hard I tried. Always wanted to live in small town America. Ever since I was nine, an' saw the thoroughly-Yank talkie, It's a Wonderful Life. You seen it?

I nod once.

I understood what it said purrfectly, by the way. So insipid, idyllic, and profound.

So what do you think of small Yank towns, now you're in one?

If I didn't like it here, I'd go somewhere else now wouldn't I?

(Touchy, ain't we?)

An interesting statement. Wouldn't know, really. Just met ya. Lots of people veer the wrong way in that kind'a dream, and stay there. Forever-thinking they've arrived.

That's not me. I know when to cut loose.

And fly to America?

I took a freighter through the Panama Canal.

Was that nice?

It was free.

As a stowaway?

At first. Then I worked.

Wow. That sounds like adventure.

As life should be.

(She's right. I'm sitting here talking to her for a reason.)

How did you get to Graceland?

Graceville.

Sorry; I must be thinking of Elvis.

Luv.

Huh?.

Of the land. In case you're wondering.

Love of land got you there? That's all?

No. But the other things are more personal.

And you don't want to tell a total stranger.

You're not a total stranger.

Just somewhat of a stranger?

Exactly. Who's too afraid to act, instead of make lists.

(Ruddy bitch! Who's she think she is?)

And that's why I'm a stranger?!

You got it sweetie.

That's why I dare you. It's what she said. I dare you to do everything on that list, before your year is over. And I bet you weren't even close to finishing. Were you?

(She had nuts in her mouth, they were mine, molars poised to grind down. I wince my chair in discomfort, imagining worse to come.)

So why not take a half hour, and finish your list. I'll ask you about anything that doesn't seem too clear. And while you're engaged in that, I'll tell you about those personal bits, if you're still interested. Assuming you take the dare, that is.

My feet were fidgeting wildly.

She pissed me off. Mostly for being right--and for that reason, I didn't want to give her the satisfaction. Of taking her bet, or hearing a stupid story. Brit meets cowhand, falls in love. Has baby out of wedlock, lives in trailer with house of dreams round corner, has horses, gets off riding them fast. Like all adolescents dream of. Girl adolescents, that is. Touches an erect horsedick, when nobody's watching. I'm thinking about it. She can tell. Angry, and curious.

This would fuck my entire life. To bits.

So? Are you that attached to it?

My life?!

The way you're living it, right now. Dearie. But I could be wrong... about you.

What do you mean?

You might not be bored and unhappy.

(She's trying to provoke a fight. That's what she's doing. She's the famous British candid TV mud wrestler, who wants to kick some blarmy Yank ass. And hard.)

I find myself chewing my nails. I never chew nails.

Okay. So maybe I'm just ignorant enough to take you up on this.

Ignorance can be wisdom, I've heard.

I'll try to ignore that, and finish my question. Or clarification, really. I have to do everything on my list? The one I'm about to make longer, that no human would be able to finish in less than three years?

You don't have to finish everything, you just have to give it a go. Until you're satisfied.

What's that suppose to mean?

I think you'll know.

You have great faith in a stranger, all of a sudden.

He's not such a stranger anymore.

Eyes-enticing.

GO TO NEW YORK CITY

Good! Keep going. I got off that bloody freighter, after havin' been raped by the sailer who discovered me a half dozen times or so (for the record) with a thousand bucks a-greenbacks, from the captain, who wanted me to keep everything quiet, after putting me to work serving the officers meals - when they heard me yelling - after the gag worked its way off. He was an evil-fuckin' pervert, the Spaniard. Man straight outta time from the Indian slaughters, in South America; b'cuz god kicked his greasy ass from heaven, for being too smug. Bloody idiot was some sorry gearbox engineer they couldn't do without. Take the offer, and we won't turn you in to the Pan American Police, they said. Who won't believe your story anyway. But I knew there was a chance they might, or the money wouldn't be there. They'll ship you back right away, after a stay in their lovely jail facility. And who knows what would happen! Pretty lass like you. They were terrible. Just like me, baiting you. So don't think I haven't been there, where you're standin' now, bucko.

LEARN TO SAIL

Because I have. I wanted to kill that captain and the sexual-terrorist henchmen he blithely called crew. Like you'd probably brain me right now for bein' so cheeky, if I wasn't a girl. Am I right?

EAT POISON JAPANESE BLOWFISH

But I wanted to go to America more. So fuck those passive-agressive bastards; they aren't going to get the better of me! I sorta let a few more of them have it, protesting the whole time, then let them know in no uncertain terms I had AIDS. Some new kind they just found in London drug users, that didn't show on the test. Those bastards just about shit themselves- wanted to kill me, quite truthfully. I was scared. The captain took me to his cabin, for safety.

FIRE A MACHINE GUN

I got to respect him, after thinking he wanted me all to himself. He never said anything about it, and what's more, didn't treat me like a mutant. Naturally he didn't try, but he seemed like a family man, who wouldn't anyway. I sat in his cabin and read books every day, or stared out portholes. He had a small deck all to himself as well, I'd pull a chair out and sit on. I was very tan, when I arrived in Long Beach. You don't have AIDS, do you? he smiled with a merry ole crinkle round his eyes. Do you?

FIGURE OUT WHERE KING ARTHUR WAS BORN.

Very funny. I like your sense of humor. That was a good joke you played on a mean rabble of a crew, he said. I hope they lose a lot of sleep over it, moralizing where they stay tonight. He had a formidable belly laugh over it, then admitted he didn't choose them, and didn't like them either. I've got an important load to deliver on time. People's lives are at stake, and I couldn't risk slowing down. You've been more than a good sport, so here's your thousand, with an extra two fifty thrown in. And if you want, I'll see what I can do about slipping you past those obnoxious custom agents, who ask a lot of embarrassing questions.

GO TO ASIA

I assume you have no visa? He was onto me. Saw straight through me! Doesn't matter. We'll see what we can do. Keep the door locked when I'm gone. It was spooky, on that mostly-empty ship.

EXPERIENCE A PERFECT KISS

He wrote me a letter, c/o the friend's name I left him. The only American I knew. She lived in Missoula Montana, and worked in a pillow factory. She was my Yank pen-pal in form four. He said thanks for the night together, and confessed he altered results in the quarantine papers, a result of noting possible HIV infections in his log, without mentioning anything else. Leaving it up to those wooden posts to come up with a story and stick to it!? That's a good one. He also said - I almost wonder, if you seduced me last night just so see if I believed you. And then I realized-it was to see if I believed myself!

HAVE ONE FABULOUS, UNSINKABLE IDEA.

Which made me feel bad, knowing it was partly true. Because I really leaned on him, and he was nothing but kind. When he'd come back, not only did he have a false visa, it had a bloody work permit attached! Knockem dead tiger, he told me, when I left.

I turned the corner and cried.

SAVE A BROKEN HEART.

Then what happened?

I wanted to know. I wanted somebody to tell me. I was in Long Island, a pit of a stinky arm of America, the place I'd dreamed about going. It was dark and rainy and I didn't know where to do or what to go. And I think I loved him alittle.

DO A HUNDRED PUSH-UPS

(What!? Am I out of my mind? I can do about ten. A hundred?! I wasn't thinking correctly. Strike that last one. Over a girl maybe. A hundred push-ups. Jesus!)

I need my 'ead examined, I thought to myself. For coming here. Los Angelos, about as far from A Wonderful Life as it gets. Here I am. American soil. Land of my dreams, and everywhere you looked, there was wet dirty concrete.

She wouldn't tell me any more. Just when I was hooked.

WHAT'S IN NEBRASKA?

(Is that a wish? Do I really want to find out?) That's a good one.

Remember--some people say be careful, or you'll get what you ask for.

Are you one of those people?

Look--you start your dare, then write me. I'll tell you some more of my story, as you tell me yours. Deal?

GO ON A ROAD TRIP SOMEWHERE REALLY AMAZING

Seems fair, quenches my burning curiosity, ever so slightly.

Here's my address--jotted on a placemat, I promptly lost.

(Or misplaced, actually.)

Aren't you done yet?

EXPERIENCE SATORI

No. Just getting started.

two: the plan

I had a plan. I'd work for two months, saving everything I could, then ease into my list. By the time year end rolled out, I'd be in full-pitch, or the hospital. I base this clearly on the state of mind you have to have a stable source of income to act from. Or at the very least a nest egg, to siphon off. I was planning again. Trying to box the entire experience of uncontained experience. My list was a joke; offering great amusement, revolving daily into brighter shades of panic, as I conditioned myself for the explosion it represented,

should I actually light its fuse.

Christ! Can you imagine even half this stuff in a year? I'd say out loud, to the obscene scroll, pasted to dingy yellow paint designed to brighten the kitchen walls. There in front of me--I'd dread having breakfast, before going to work.

Staring at me--that girl, forming Chicken! in her mouth.

Next to my lists, where lamps roam.

three: the kiss

BEFORE :

There was a lot of down-time, before the party began.

In the past, we'd never finished anything completely. Setup segued into party itself.

Nobody was quite sure … what to do. We stood around helplessly, fiddling the decorations, and fine-tune details. The dog, full of ennui, resting for the celebration.

The doors, we took off hinges.

AFTER :

To talk about it, spoiled something. Except to acknowledge it, as the best party ever. Amusing really, to think of us frantic chickens, scratching public ground for chemicals to assist us to a place we arrived at without their help. "You mean none of you were on ecstasy? None?!" She thought we were lying to her. They felt left out, marooned--this couple, thinking themselves pariahs of a love party, unable to connect due to lack of drugs.

There was something sacred people tried to trivialize afterwards. We'd all made out with each other, more or less. Kissed with passion. And abandon. Friends and strangers. Walls broke down, in a very innocent way. It was a fund-raiser for kids, after all. And afterwards, I'm appalled to listen to myself, praise the decision to sleep four hours, and begin cleaning up. I have to patronize the part that wanted to forget how exquisite that feeling was, with stupid grimy pats on the back. An innocent lustful sharing of hearts, with no wake of attachments. The meld of emotions we categorized and boxed, eons ago. No drugs to blame it on. Electric iced teas so strong, people back off early, to make the evening last. And last it did. Repercussions ringing. Still.

They'd dreamed it up at a bar, late one night. Sketched its plan on butcher paper, in the fantastic way a mind unimpeded by what's "possible" performs. I saw the sheet next morning.

"We've gotta throw this party."

"I don't know. It could be a disaster."

"So?"

"Big time. I mean a major fucking disaster."

It was his house, after all. And a lot of his die-hard couple, slightly-squeamish friends.

"We should know if a party like this could work."

(Or exceed our wildest expectations.)

All those people--so many unexpected kisses. The pretty one--who's lousy. The homely one, who feels everything. And isn't afraid to be there, wide open with it. You! Participant. Experiencing perfect, luscious kisses. Every whit of another person, in what they're able to show. Experiencing people pushed past their normal limits, and loving it. The world reckless, and full of abandon again. Touches of love, because lust is less profound.

No worries of how you'll feel tomorrow.

This is tomorrow.

And another thing. The broken heart. I realize, mulling over memories of the entire evening, where I had the girl in my arms, and she is telling me about hearts, asking me why they break so easily. Attachment, I say. The need to feel secure, and we expect--have you ever thought about the root of expectations?--things to be a certain way. But look at you now! Freer than most everybody in America. Not afraid to share intimacy with near-total strangers, a heart supposedly broken, but unbounded. So what is it, that broke? A glass brimming with expectation? Or your capacity to love? Because it seems to me (and I go out on a limb here) that for this moment, you love me. And I, in this moment, love you. Tear around lower lid, welling. You're right. I can still feel. Perhaps even more than before. See?! I say, if a heart was truly broken, it wouldn't work at all, now would it? Astounding. I asked for this experience. Not long ago. And here it is, she's hugging me, I'm hugging back and it's totally real. Nothing faked. Then we dance; then we part. I have no idea where she is, or what her last man meant to her. Lips tasted like honeysuckle in Spring.

Two down.

Untold to go.

four

This wasn't going to work.

By planning to conquer items on my list,

I missed the profound lessons beyond the check-box, my list-item created.

I never could have anticipated the perfect kiss and broken heart. I would have forced some scenario to comply with an experience I imagined, or projected the box to be. The culmination would have been small, and profound, I assume--something I felt some need to prolong, or broadcast, like my early morning cleanup deed, after our party was over. Even the plan to work like a dog, to save money and let loose, was a sham. It was programmed into me a long time ago. Save for retirement. Work now, play later. Desert last. Nose to the grindstone... the rest of malapropos. Lots of bussed dishes, waiting to be cleaned, washer broken. I'd work like a slave for X number of months more past the original end-date assuming I still hadn't enough ($$ or self-permission) to fund what new deviance I schemed, every day I labored. Subverting the very paradigm I associated, lending a shoulder and nose to its grindstone, thinking I'm working now, to slow it down later. A very devious curtain.

That one.

What do I do about it?

I didn't do much in a cause and effect way to start the list, commit to it, then immediately cross two things off it. Did I? Maybe-all I need to do is want or imagine an experience, then keep one eye peeled for circumstances out of the ordinary. They're signals in a way, there's a opportunity lurking.

It is possible.

five:

There's the waiter who served sneers. He's an old-world, better-than-thou type, who swells in significance, as he makes you (the paying patron the cafe owner created his job with) feel small and insignificant From the depth of my insecurity, I hated him-with his uncanny moves to haughty airs, that still make you look trite, and pretentious. His attitude bespoke class and erudition, as if he had much better things to do than bring you cappuccino, but had lowered himself to serve to raise this handful of puny consciousness inhabiting our region of the planet. He was the classic misunderstood genius, isolated in a thick, laborious condescension for the whole human race. That memory-I'm assailed by the mirror. Now that he's here, in the outside world. I feel fear, looking at his fear of people. And what they might be able to see in him, this barren depressed shell of a body, doing stereotype menial job, age forty six. As if any honest work that lets wound-up, unhappy people read, relax, reflect and realize things in a relative peace, is insignificant! He actually has a very important job, yet he views it through the goggles of the culture, he's prisoner within.

six : the garden

A philosophical life crisis--not the call you'd cradle close to an ear. Ring! Hello? The property is being sold. You'll have to pick up your Jeep. Great! Thing hasn't run in sixteen years, and I have nowhere to put it. Not only that I have no way to get it. Four flat tires no doubt. Frozen wheel bearings. Baked engine. God knows! Add three hundred road miles and it's barricaded in a barn fulla pipe and rusty farm junk. An inch of rat turds. I have to deal. But I'm a little hung over, and the hose is leaking (as I spray the beer-soaked party deck) which would not be a problem if it didn't get my leg all wet. And if I'd more sleep under belt plus a host of other intangibles. My friend's house looked like a bomb hit it. I reflect on the work and the money--a few people shouldering the lions' share and financial burden, so others might come, frolic, and leave. Maybe learning, or stealing something, en route. Yet it was only disturbing, in the scenario of a jeep had to be moved. For some illinear reason. It bothered me. The usual players don't throw parties like this themselves. They rely on this particular venue, and the organizational skills of its full, or part-time denizens to fulfill any avant-garde needs. Why am I thinking this? Mick's mind is addled. Brain a slow-drip syrup, on cold fall day. LEARN TO SURF. PARAGLIDE. ROCK CLIMB, MOTORCYCLE RACE... I HAVE to get busy! The Jeep logistic doesn't parry any list item. PILOT'S LICENSE, NEW ORLEANS Or does it? Neither did our party, till it suddenly did.

I consider A PERFECT KISS realization--that perfection, or our concept of what that is in each moment, hides the movement into it. Which perhaps, our parties somehow bring about. They concoct wet-whistle morphogenic fun-fields that push change to more profound lengths than we could muster ourselves. Each party constituent is moving over their own personal comfort line, adding to the general gestalt which makes it possible to go even further, individually. I hang up.

"Who was that?"

A neighbor, now helping me clean, asks.

"Oh, I bought a military jeep from a widow last August, and I have to move it."

I am busy examining my soaking-wet leg.

"Cool! How old is it?"

"1945."

"That's really great. Where are you going to put it?"

She tosses me the electrical tape, and points at the hose.

"I haven't the faintest."

Mick feels a trifle stupid he didn't tape the hose earlier.

"I have a garage."

"You do?"

"Sure. There's a little dirt in front of it though."

"Can I rent it from you?"

"You can use it for free, if you clean it out, and move the dirt."

Which sounded pretty darn-good, until the first blister. THE RAINBOW FESTIVAL NEBRASKA, DO DMT, SHOOT HEROIN... where the hell does this fit in?! SHOVEL A MOUNTAIN OF BROKEN CONCRETE LADEN DIRT My back trashed from the party. Ten cubic yards of clay compressed with jagged post-patio concrete and rock. And a stump the size of Kansas, lurking beneath. Not to mention what's in the garage. "What's an old growth doing in your driveway?!" I wanna know. MÈNAGE-À-TROIS, SWORD FIGHTING, YOGA, LATIN, PLANT A GARDEN... times a wastin'! I need to get this ridiculous Jeep-thing over with. And there I suddenly remember - a military jeep to drive around - my undying boyhood dream? Is that why I bought it? Not on a total whim? And goddamn. My garden!

Look at all this dirt!

There's something cathartic about digging out a stump. Especially a big one, with lots of roots you have to jack and chop, re-filing your ax in between. Chink of steel on gravel, from ancient glaciers. The sweat-the sun. Makes you part of the history of beings who've ever dug stumps, scratching farmland from forest. Like staring at fire connects you with cavemen, or frontier nomads.

I'll need a sifter box, a pick, a digging stick, and … Mick thinks it out. … Maybe some railroad ties, to shore dirt up. Because this is going to be one hell of a garden.

seven : the tools

LEARN TO DRAW, SINGING LESSONS, LEARN TO SAIL, FIRE A MACHINE GUN, GO TO NYC, WHAT'S IN NEBRASKA? FIX A BROKEN HEART, EAT POISON JAPANESE BLOWFISH, HAVE ONE FABULOUS INSINKABLE IDEA, GO TO ASIA.... GET SOME BUILDING TOOLS. What did I mean by that? I already have a lot of tools. Not as many as I used to, by any means, but more than an average armchair carpenter or half-greased mechanic. I wrote TOOLS down, thinking no further than a newfangled dyno-grip reversable battery half inch chuck final word in 14.5v screw guns. Maybe I meant something else? I mail-order the screw gun, a right angle converter, and a quick-draw holster. Then thought more about it. DO A HUNDRED PUSH-UPS (Yeeow! Digging blisters.) OWN A PORSCHE, FIX MY VISION, FIND A HOUSE, GET SOME BUILDING TOOLS. What kind of 'tools' do I need to do such things, or attempt them? Like : FIND A HOUSE. What is it I'm trying to build? What is 'house', if not the temple of thyself?

I should make that last word

two words.

Stand up ready to leave; pause. That girl who sat down behind me-Hooowee! Nothing to lose. "Do you know anything about gardening?" "Why yes, I'm a gardener." I have this pile of dirt, but I don't know if it's any good for a garden. Tool #1 : Nothing to lose. They talk three hours, she walks to Mick's potential bed, and checks the soil. "Yup. Pretty hard." Observes weeds and wildflowers growing on his dirt pile, declares it therefore capable of growing things i.e.--gardens. "If you want it, just go ahead and plant. See what comes up. That's my motto." she says. "Besides, a lot of plants like rocks. Plant those, and you'll be laughin."

I invite her in , a slew of party people synchronistically arise, and we watched an X-rated infra-red art video, then decide to throw another party. Next weekend--stage two: with ecstasy. Midnight. Secret Event. You had to be at the first one, to get invited to the second. Tool #2 same as party two. Attempt the most outrageous thing that comes up. If it seems too "impractical", it's is potentially the most magic thing ever. At least start the idea--who knows what the segue will be! Most people assumed this party would be the orgy.

Which was depressing, in itself.

Tool #3 : Assumptions dig holes you'll most likely fall into.

Mick's order arrives . He opens his battery-powered screw gun, and laughs.

eight : plan II

The plan was no plan. GO ON A ROAD TRIP SOMEWHERE REALLY AMAZING pushed all buttons of Get a map, and plan a route. Have a destination. Have a monument, park, or anomaly to visit - turn around, retrace steps. Mick brainstormed the bar, with his fun-expert friend, who wanted to go wherever, whenever. As long as it was good, and fit his schedule. They were both stymied by a proposition--too open ended!--Devoid of big events on the horizon they both wanted to drive to. Like going to the video store with six

filmheads, who've sucked miles of footage. Finding the acceptable film nobody's seen-a diplomatic nightmare. And then it occurs to the man. Tigers don't plan - they stalk. Just leave, and head some mutually-acceptable direction. Like East. Or South! Then see what happens. Sometime this summer, on a "perfect" day, when you both 'feel' like it.

Leave all maps at home. Drive intuitively

: Like my year.

nine : experience satori

The porch. That noise, driving me crazy! A dog barking relentlessly, on his leash, in the sun. Me, trying to concentrate. Hopelessly. Anger building. Can't put a brick through the car alarm window. Writing. Broke a pencil lead, pushing too hard. Pent-up frustration, boils out.

"Lucas S H U T - U P!! SHUTUP! Jesus-dog, you're driving me FUCKIN' NUTS!!" and he continues barking, almost as if he hadn't heard, or understood the stupid human, in his underpants. "Lucas, do you u-n-d-e-r-s-t-a-n-d m-e? Stop B-A-R-K-I-N-G." Like old God learns new doG, jiggling a few letters. Golden retriever becomes linguistically sentient, given overly-anxed owner. Tabloidians wouldn't even buy it. Count to three--slowly. Nope. Add three more. Six. One deep breath. Notice agitated dog in sun, with non-removable fur coat. Notice that same dog on short leash, with the blatant hamburger place in easy sniffing-range, and a million things to piss-mark, right in keen-dog sight. Full bladder, no fun to be had, you know? Doggy torture! This canine's under house arrest. He's a prisoner. Bad feeling of reflective surface, in the sharp outline of a dog. Think about DOG. Empty food dish right out of reach, lonely can't get to sidewalk for passerby pets, water dish dry as bone he wishes for. I loop a length of rope into slip-noose, and click it into his shackle, giving the animal an extra twenty feet. I'm told he chews through anything when the wind turns, and the wild smell of (double) cheeseburgers gets too strong. But who can blame him? Lucas laboriously climbs the stairway, lays his snout-down in the shade. Next to my chair. Where I'm thinking. Something like, MÈNAGE-À-TROIS. Or tête-à-tête. With a bit of pity, places a hand on the stump where

this dog's leg used to be.

Whammo.

A complex interconnection of events, symbols, and reflections. Lucas, brought to the curb, having been hit by the car. Devotion, fear, the owner, not understanding the act, not seeing how it reflected the owners own life, what just happened, what the dog represented. Father died, father's dog. Someone else taking care of him. Stump-knarled up emotion. Dog is happy enough, behaves like a normal dog, has adapted to this disability, but he knows. He can feel the handicap-its secret sorrow, covered up. Like the owner's inside. Looks peachy from with out - a glimpse of a hundred synchronicities, fast-motion forward. I sit up straight in the chair, and reach for a pretzel (haven't eaten - must be faint) left over from the party. Head reeling; a little disoriented. Must be low blood sugar. I rarely think like a dog. Hand one to Lucas, the notorious ifthat'shumanfoodIwantit vacuum cleaner, who commences to drop, and ignore it. Stare at it. Its procession of broken pieces. The owner - how he told me yesterday, he hated pretzels, was tired of them, have a party to use up the last batch from a party the next party re-engenders. Sick of them. Gonna throw out that five pound bag (where the hell did they come from?). I've never seen that dog ignore perfectly good food. Pretzel--knot. Wound up. Twisted. An open air monkey fist. Symbol. All articles are symbols, all foods say things. Interaction with the material world fraught with levels of symbology. Flashes of internal lightning. Insights into the words describing the symbols, themselves symbols or signposts of a different realm. Interstitial connections, we unevolved, mud-groveling humans are yet dimly aware of. The iris of ignorance, closing. Opening. A carefully orchestrated dance around a preponderance of far-reaching facts. The brain - searing Kaleidoscope to One Point, where it of God opens back out, into us. Are your eyes open? I don't know. The floor is thudding slightly. Lucas womping his tail, laying half sun-half shade.

Birds singing.

Nine days later, I'm standing at Oakland airport's crosswalk. It's raining slightly. If it's possible to feel satori once, even for a few brief seconds, shouldn't the body remember that feeling, somewhere, and be able to do it again? The dewy sparkle, the first sheen of rain. So bright and enticing. I could just ...

Is it really this easy?

eleven : yoga

Is easy. All you do is sign up.

The hard part is going.

The harder part, is doing it outside of class.

But the REALLY DIFFICULT PART is applying it to your life. All the time.

That's what he told us. All yoga is, is a state of being. Unfortunately you have to stretch your minds and bodies to get there. And there is good news. Very soon, you're going to crave it. And the hard part will be easy. In fact, some people become addicted to it. Which was a strange admission to a beginning class.

Tomorrow you're going to hurt. So take it waay-easy, and don't try to get anywhere. The idea is not to succeed at a pose; you do a pose to feel what it tells you. To sense what's where, and accept it. But of course, you'll have to learn that the hard way. Like the rest of us did.

Or I should say--are doing.

One breath per pose.

Five on downward-dog.

Arms trembling, I'm grimacing, dripping sweat.

"Smile. Ever so slightly. Relax your face."

she whispers in my ears.

This is like a hundred push-ups.

Not going up, or down at all.

twelve : less judgment

Two baseball-hatted dykes peruse the sport utility truck column, thinking with smoke-curl cigarettes blown jinx! (opposite directions) a big rig overdrive double cab @ seven miles per needlessly-wasted gallon, makes them butcher. LESS JUDGMENT.

"I hate people. People are assholes. Jerks and nitwits. I always have to deal with them." One says maliciously.

So you're gonna get an environmental nightmare to drive around and be tough in. All that metal and height between you, and an outside world of assholes? When you've probably never put a car in four wheel drive in your life! I am full of judgment for their uniforms, their manner of speaking, their short-sighted stuckupness, and their wimpy social shells. You're trying to be tough, and it makes you look weak. All those props are a joke. Take off that vibe and uniform of dykeness, and swim with the world. Show us who you are. I only see the shell.

They are an amped-up reminder of myself.

"Why did the condom fly across the room?"

"Why?"

(I overhead.)

"It got pissed off."

Which made me laugh. And laughing makes you feel soft towards people, when a finger isn't pointed straight at them. They tell another joke, about pricks in a BMW, that pokes fun at their own want-ad search, but they don't get it. Add judgment again. I'm privy to what they are not consciously. Assumptions make judgments. And why am I, Mick no-nothing Tomas so sure they don't need a four wheel drive pickup? Maybe they came from farms with those baggy, chain-strewn overalls, and dyed toe-head crew cuts. Real live genuine wop-wop chicks, who've shifted more tractors, and driven bigger dump trucks than you ever will. Shit. I'm busy constructing people's lives, knowing jack about them. And every time I up the ante of assumptions, I judge more.

Come to think of it, I judge almost everybody. For one thing or another. And it doesn't make me more happy, though it may make me gloat. Which is not a profound emotion. Somebody walks by, all hunched with age. Shouldering the burden of the world. Someone who might be quite beautiful, if they stood up straight. So I judge them. As I sit there, slouched in my chair, perhaps being judged for doing so. Self consciousness--be a good boy, sit up straight. I look around at all the bad posture in the room. At the multiplicity of reminder to fact I, Mick Tomas, rarely sits or stands up straight. On the gravity-against-anatomy drama, let alone the cosmic scheme of things. So what if... (and this is a lovely new concept) every time I see a body with bad posture, I think of my own? Bad posture, that is. I'll stand, or sit up straight, and thank them for a timely reminder? Instead of judge them. Which worked. Mick had no further charge on judging poor posture, when he remembered his trick.

That concept is intriguing me. What if... I'm only judging myself? No matter what I'm judging? How's that for a concept? In other words, my act of judgment is the reminder I can use, to improve myself. Radical. Judgment is symbolic. Judgments as acceptance.... Judgement as a complex system of pointers to people's own issues, with ourselves. Judgment as a language--as a tool of introspection! The phone rings. An ex-girlfriend tells Mick about a man she became entangled with, because he's so enamored with her. It makes her feel special, and in control. Intersection. he's thinking. Stoplight broken.

"The sex wasn't very good, and he's clinging on to me now. I don't know how to tell him I want to be free without hurting myself by hurting him. He's very fragile now, in the midst of life changes."

Uh-huh. Everything she says: double meaning. Her and I. Him and his wife. Him and her on some level she doesn't understand. You're now the light and he's the moth. The freer you get, the more moths you're going to attract who'll need your attention. You, who fix those who want to bask in the heat of your radiance. Her with me!--don't know how to say it.

"I don't know how to say it." she echoes.

"You better say it, or..." whose moment, Lucas the three-leg canine tripod comes over for pet-attention, and gets hopelessly fouled in the power cord of my computer. Before he destroys something critical with his thrashing, I yank the plug out, the machine with my unsaved document goes dead, the dog loses its balance and skitters down my-smashed toe, claws gouging what's near to regain balance. I tell her about it. After I stop yelling incoherently. "That's what happens, when you don't communicate important things to others."

"You mean, you don't communicate with yourself about this stuff."

"Too true. If you realize what's happening, the world doesn't have to explain things for you." Though my toe still smarts, I thank the dog, for its part in our play.

No judgment necessary.

There is a woman I decide that I hate, who constantly runs my rabbit trails. This is not in itself unusual--unpleaseant coincidence frequently orders time and space in your favor, or disfavor, putting you nose-to-face with the very people or things you try to avoid. No problem there. What is unusual, is My virulent dislike of her-a friend for years! Judgment clung everywhere. He's sitting in a cafe trying to enjoy his drink, and she's a table away.

It's bothering the hell out of me. I can feel her there, purposely avoiding me because I won't play her little game. Hard to avoid bad vibes like that. Gotta face them--or leave. So I pulled out a piece of paper, and wrote down all the things I hate. About her - mind you. Then drew a little flowchart from each complaint to what those words triggered. In me. Like a bloody engineer would. Gawd-damn! Would ya look at this! The arrows transform each end result- Mostly because they terminate, or start (depending how you look through a telescope) at my own prejudices and problems. A rat race of words and associations lands Mick the cosmonaut in pleasant space, where compassion is watching a friend wrack themselves with torture implements for self-assumed, nonexistent crimes. We both bob the waters of mutual deceit peacefully, looking at each other. Without saying a single thing.

She nervously glances up, and says hello from her cafe table.

Suddenly, everything is different.

thirteen : compassion

MORE COMPASSION.

A difficult thing to know. What is compassion? Why do I need a larger share of it? Do I perceive I'm not endowed with enough compassion? Is that a compassionate description of myself? (thinking I need more, I mean)-like I accrue chips, and count their colors' worth. So on some level, I consider myself lacking--not perfect. I am literally, a constant state of judgment seeking compassion from itself. Compassion feels the inherent rightness of things, outside stereotypes of god, and time-warped tautologies of good and bad. Which makes me think, I'm thinking too much. But I can't help myself. Compassion is linked to judgment. Under a current of definitions, and best second-guesses. It's running through Mick's noggin, as he listens a whole way through his neighbor's blow-by-blow, of a trip to Africa, followed by two years ago trip to Europe. A route so carefully outlined. All geographical features dully noted. Names of towns, Mick had long-since forgotten. 'We drove three thousand miles in two weeks!' A distance that took Mick six months, then another two months, sometime later. "I was sorry for him and at in a patronizing way." Mick told his friend. "'Wow! You certainly saw a lot!' I told him. But did you see anything? Packaged in that car, through all those sweet-smelling villages? Did you walk fields' riot of blooming wildflowers, and bicycle cobblestones lines of houses all-but breathed upon? Of course not. You followed the tour books, stopped at convenient food places, and took the gawker specials, interspersed with prearranged trips. Because your lives are drawing to their inevitable close, so you hurry-hurry take go-for-broke travel risks you never considered, until right now-having not the slightest idea how to walk pouring rain to no destination whatsoever, to sleep with destitute artists in Paris on a warm creaky balcony, with a large bottle of half-decent Burgundy, waking to sun - warming cold stumps of limbs. Happy! I feel sorry for you. I thought. Now, your tragic element is involved. I honestly feel sorry for you. Compassionately. I feel wounded, somehow, vicariously hurt, for the hurt or life reaching its close, you feel inside. Like somebody's gypped you, but you can't figure out how, or why. (Mick's eye betrays falling tears, hanging there. Forever.) In that village, I remember.

That girl, I never ..."

fourteen : eat better/practice cooking

At a bar, with a cardboard box of the strongest garlic-pesto-onion-feta hot pepper pizza, ever constructed. A bar where they dispense Tuesday peanut fame you crack wildly, flinging shells to its floor. A very old tradition there - animated pool playing. Shouts. Opera from the speakers. Louder than you're likely to hear at most beer swilling establishments. Famous 1960's posters, blackened by smoke, there since forever. A famous watering hole, in some respects. I should be more intuitive about what I eat. I think. (Chowing.) Or be more artistic 'bout what I choose to cook-point-counterpoint. Like these peanuts. Why am I eating them except everybody else is and they're free? Or this beer, for such matter. The pizza is pretty-damn good. I close my eyes, and see what draws me. (Another slice.) Someone wanders by, snags a handful of my peanuts. 'You mind?' Not at all. You're my answer, in a way. What isn't need gets removed. I reach for that beer, take one long pull. One piece left. One bite : Intuition sez--Mick's finished. Knocks his beer over, which happens once a year, while reaching to upend it. Another person happens by--asks for the rest of my peanuts. 'Have atem.' Leaves the last piece a pizza, in case anyone's starving, the box wide open. And from nowhere, large wolf-like dog appears stares at cardboard box. The mutt chose this exact moment... because? Mick wonders. When he's been here for over an hour, chewing on broken pool cues in the corner. Don't ask. God is dog, in some other universe. "That's right." says dog, in face-lick language.

But thanks all the same. Never had one like that before.

fifteen: go to NYC

Hadn't been there in a decade. Been thinking about it … For quite some time. As easy as picking up the phone, and making an airline reservation. Before anything else today. You can always change the date, if need be. So lock it in--the intent, so it becomes reality. Hello? My friend, in the Bronx. Anytime; you know that. We've been waiting. You're about three years late. Take subway #1 to ... my pencil breaks. Then the D. I remember that part, scratching it, caveman-style, on my paper. In fact-I have a frequent flyer ticket that's about to expire. You can have it for a hundred bucks.

Thanks!

See you soon.

Click.

Mick saw his friend, stayed with an old flame, experienced a broadway opening studded with stars, ate the best nine-course dinner of his life. All free. In seven days he walked nine hundred blocks of the drop-jaw sublime, that's upper and lower New York.

"You couldn't have come at a better time." he's told,

more than once.

sixteen :

learn to draw

"How did you learn to draw?"

"I've done it since I was a kid. Copying Mad magazines, cover to cover, things like that. You know - studied the masters."

"I decided I want to learn to draw this year."

"Good for you."

"Any suggestions?"

'Give yourself permission.' That's what he said. "Sometimes I think those fancy-shmancy twenty thousand buck a year schools are nothing but a glorified permission to draw. All it takes is a #2 pencil, and some paper. Oh, and enough desire to try."

His was a new-old thought for me. Of course! The willingness to "fail", and not be disappointed. To produce cruddy renditions of things, without being crestfallen. Act with desire a kid does wanting to ride a two-wheeler, sans-outriggers. No need to go to Capetown South Africa, to take art classes.

"Schools are a track, designed to perpetuate their critical acclaim by dissemination of a inbred, critical, methodology. It's important to be driven from within - not by a curriculum handed down by professors preceding older professors, and so on."

"What about timesaving hints?"

"Hints are good. You can spend a lot of time trying to figure out obscure tricks, a teacher can impart quickly. But …"

"Tricks can trick you?!"

"Touché. Be wary of tricks. They're called that for a reason. They are at their roots, an invention of somebody else's style, that happens to work quite well."

"So I should... ?"

"Get a pencil and paper. Here, in fact. Look no further."

Twirls the slightly chewed, off-yellow Emperor #2 in his soft, nicotine-stain fingers.

"You want it sharpened?"

"To a sharp point, thanks."

Expert fingers twirl the nifty strophe sharpener.

Pleasant grinding noises.

"Good luck. And patience. Do it because you're in love, and your fascination pulls you onward. Never force desire. It destroys itself, as you grasp it more tightly." (On the narcotic nature of things we pursue, quite aside from drawing.)

Five minutes later, I went to a used book store, and got two.

Ten bucks. Right brain philosophies of drawing.

"Do it for a year," he told me.

"and you'll be three years ahead of the crowd."

"Because they're all stuck in school?"

"You got it. And what's more..."

You'll feel better about it, for having done it yourself, in a unique, non-commercial way.

seventeen :

Be more intuitive.

It's a perfect day.

We'd hot-tubbed, and talked the night before.

He asked me if I wanted a ride. Part of me wanted to walk

the cool shadows so fragrant, of morning. But it was three miles, and I had things to do.

"Sure."

The car wouldn't start. It was apparently out of gas.

Half an hour earlier, he'd claimed he didn't want to go to work. His newly-built house, the one winning the architectural awards, reflected, and multiplied the day. Blossoms of apple, golden chain, and orchid framed his windows.

"I don't' understand it! I can usually drive thirty miles on reserve! I've only gone eight-Max." He runs its starter mercilessly. Coast the vehicle out for a bump, and a new angle. A nearly-vaccuous tank. Metaphor for no enthusiasm. Grabs his plastic one-gallon from trunk.

"Maybe you aren't suppose to go to work today." I offer. "In the old days, this would be a positive sign, you should do something else."

Realizing, perhaps, I wasn't suppose to get a ride, as well.

"I'll be right back." He says, already on his way up the hill.

"That's okay. I'd like to walk, anyway."

"You sure?"

"I wasn't, until now."

He takes it the right way. On the way to his gas station. Flowers hot, and panting.

Walking. The way it was done, world-wide. Through the place I used to lie in the grass, and dream. Where the first love I married, crisscrossed the land. Subtle traipse of memories, indelibly marked... cold-feel the brilliance love carves, in surroundings. Watching us, at the tennis courts, each equally bad, laughing. Tears running my cheeks. The whole place, sad trees warmed by approaching light, drenched in melancholy. Each house, so quaint, tattered slightly round the edges, radiating charm. I would have missed all this.

The very reasons we're on planet earth.

eighteen :

fire a machine gun

The last place I'd think. In bed. Asleep. Finger poised trigger, while we waited for passerbys to clear. Enjoying the heft, and destruction of the thing. Examining the fire mechanism, while an ex-military man rambles about his wife, and her penchant for the W.W.II SAW-style machine guns. In the kind of tone, that made you think. A slightly wacko Major (who was letting me shoot it) nodded, as he rattled a slew of hand-helds, and a fifty calibers they'd salvaged from wrecks of some kind.

"Okay, now hold it like this, real tight. It's gonna wanna kick straight up."

The thing felt terrific, and ominous at the same time. My heart was beating wildly, as I leveled it at rows of hanging cups, in the abandoned building. Then Mick woke up. Just long enough to wonder how he knew all this about machine guns? I'm not sure I've ever seen one like I was holding. It was quite odd, really. He later told his friend. Then I thought, shoot! I never pulled its trigger! So I went back to sleep--forced myself into the room, where they were all waiting for me. "Well?! Anytime!" the Major said. "Stop daydreaming and let-er rip! I want all those cups gone. Right now!"

So I let 'em have it.

Budda buddabudda…

Damn. The things are loud!

Later, Mick remembered some of the numbers and models the husband bragged about, and tried to look them up. SAW was something the military currently used, that shot a lot of rounds per minute. What's more, the Germans - masters of all things that shoot - had a number of automatic rifles so far ahead of their time (in terms of rounds dispersed) users had to carry spare barrels, for a sustained use melted the guns down, or wore them out.

The next day, my father wrote, saying they'd gone through a relative's possessions, and discovered his W.W.II German Luger, taken during some battle-r-other. Did I want it?

nineteen :

be more open to strangers.

Brian. I learned his name at the end of our fruitful conversation. Seen him around for years. Never said anything before; started with 'Hi. Mind if I sit here?' Two hours pass, mark endless topics of conversation. Both of us are now obscenely late for whatever seemed so important, exchanging addresses, and brainstorms. That sunny, spring-crisp day.

"Hello."

Try it again. Pretty woman I noticed, an hour before. Instant chemistry, first brush. Exotic, deep-south, black walnut perception. Sun sinking. We spend the night in the park, beneath the long needled pine, exuding its scent. 'Let's camp!' I'd blanched to the transient suggestion.

"Really?"

"Sure!"

It was living, a little dangerously.

She had some Persian rugs, in her car.

The stars.

A steamy moon.

Awake a few hours of sleep.

Walking early morning city of dreams.

(Say yes!)

"Yes."

Dizzying. The concept.

'Hello.'

Smiles.twenty: new wardrobe

Actually, all Mick needed was more underwear. He's needed more underwear for seven months. Maybe even his whole life, now the issue is open. And you'd think going out to buy underwear would be easy. Why is it most straight boys are such lousy shoppers? The question plaguing many women involved with men on a daily intimate basis. Because men can't be bothered. They don't care enough about how they look, for the plastic glam and parking nightmare of retail therapy. It's hard enough to shave, and brush your teeth in each day! he thought. And Mick, like many men, had been dragged department store shopping (who actually enjoyed such soirées!) for clothing he didn't want to wear, a few too many times as a youth.

What not enough underwear translates to is Mick wears same gray ratty (favorite) T-shirts every wash. Because wash time is dictated by an acute underwear, and more occasionally, sock crisis. There's never time to soil all the superlatively (trashed) butter-soft duds, and move deeper in the drawers. This taking into account the whole weeks of hand wash, each night before. Because Mick hated sock-eating Laundromats only slightly less than he hated shopping for clothes.

You know those clothes you like to think you'd wear, but never seem to? You like it on the hanger, or have an essentially-sentimental attachment to it (reminds you of the time you were thin, or that night you...) Probably, it isn't comfortable. Or barely fits at all. Nothing goes with the thing. It's downright weird. Whatever-It's taking up space. Like old thoughts occupy mental space, that might be better employed. So if I buy enough underwear, I'll work my way down-closet, and probe the depth of my drawers. I'll have no excuse when favorites Mount-Fuji, pitted-out in a corner. I'll actually want to wear the usually-unworn stuff, to further put off washing. Because everyone knows a laundromat take the same time (more or less) with a lot or a little. I may have to face a fact I don't like something; it doesn't fit, or the fabric's so scratchy it drives me fuckin-bananas. I'll the prowl odd vintage shops, and the madhouse of dollar clothing bins, only buying what totally strikes me as cool.

I wonder the mental equivalent, of lots of underwear.

learn to fly

The airline pilot was a big kid. He drove a pristine 1963 Porsche, talked about Daytona Beach and thirty year olds. Know where I can meet some? He was essentially a fraternity boy from a repressively-small town, kid-n-candystoring. An adolescent let off the leash, dizzy with wonder.

"My god! You want to learn to fly! Congratulations! You can't imagine what fun's in store for you." I grin. But he had the wrong philosophy entirely.

"I suggest you go to one of those intensive schools. That's what I did, when I was dumb as a post at age sixteen. Just set nose to grindstone and get it over with. Down in Florida-they have it to a science there. Get your private in two and a half weeks!"

But who wants to fly in Florida? Like learning to dive in a swimming pool, instead of the Great Barrier Reef. I tell him so; he disagrees.

"It'll take forever anywhere else, and cost you a fortune. If you do it every weekend, you'll forget what you learned the last time up. Two steps forward, one and half back."

He's very good-natured about it. "Doesn't matter if Florida ain't Boulder Colorado. Buckle down for the instruction, and the fun begins afterwards."

Save now for a rainy day (when the weather's so crummy, you want to stay inside). Eat desert later. Work before play. All the anti-kiddisms. He, of all people, should know better.

"What about helicopters?"

I say, quite from somewhere. Not sure where.

"Ahhh! Helicopters! I'd love to!"

"You haven't got that rating?"

"No. Don't ask me why not? Those devices fascinate me."

"You fly jumbo 747s, and you've never flown a helicopter? Not even a itty-bitty Robinson?"

"Madness; isn't it?"

Because he wanted to. He knew he did; and he hadn't done it yet.

"I should, shouldn't I?"

Rhetoric. All good intentions. Like that.

I look at him, projecting : Damned right! Silently.

"But I need some cash. Got two planes, one for investment, and have my eyes on another. Thing's a hundred grand, and I've only got sixty, mortgaged to here."

(Shows me this throat.) "So you wanna fly helicopters?" Changing subject.

Took me off guard. Do I? "I've thought about it. But who'd rent you one? Things worth a fortune. Not a practical way to fly." Which alerted Mick. Impracticality is atheism, in a system which makes such assessments. "But if you're gonna fly birds, learn them first. I've heard it's harder to go the other way round."

"Huh?"

I was going down, swimming peregrinations.

"To get your fixed-wing first."

"You mean, if you're gonna be impractical, go all the way?"

"In a manner of speaking."

I stayed quiet for a moment.

"I mean-if you have the cash? Why not?"

Well, I didn't really.

"Or, I suppose you could make them an off-season offer."

He offered, slyly. Then cups hand to mouth, all sneaky and kid-like. Whispers,

"How do you think I got mine?"

the lost hours

twenty four

The list. It was stumbling. It was preoccupying. The mind raced to find ways to optimize it, to figure out condensations, included two or more items. Mick tore it from his wall. Lofted it to the corner; that satisfying clunk of an empty can, and a dense wad of paper. Two points, in the old days. Now worth three. From the distant outside, one bounce off the fridge. Maybe.... it's time to leave. Just pack and go. Store the shit I don't remember, or give it away. Spend the rent on other things. Get the damage deposit, and buy a ticket. Anywhere.

Love it. Jump on a flight. Vamos. See what happens!

That's

living dangerously.

GO!

King Arthur was born ...

reference to Welsh poem Gododdin (c.600) [crossreference: Mabinogion ] although late sources (Gidas, c.540) place the king at the Mt. Badon battle, and in Ninnius (c.800) as a Celtic invader, or as victor over invading Saxons, depending on perspective entertained. Geoffery of Monmouth in Historica (c.1135) proclaims Arthur as Western European conqueror, and Wace's Roman de Brut (c.1155) adds a chivalric influence Sir Gawain and the Green Knight (c.1370) highlights and cultures with knighthood. Arthur, illegitimate son of a King who went mad. Pendragon. Merlin. The magic sword-in-the-stone routine. How come no birthplace? No cozy logistic of busted marriage vow bed. Isn't this stuff published? Weren't there any tabloids back then? No inquiring minds? 'Arthurian legend may be amalgamations of Irish hero tales, brought by Bretonian minstrels.' I didn't realize this one scrap of information would be so difficult to obtain! Arthur's sorceress sister's after his ass, in more ways than one! What jucier father-son fodder? My. But this is interesting. Wife on the Sir Lancelot rampage. Arthur mortally wounded by Sir Mordred - his own bastard by sister Morgana no less! But occasionally his nephew? - is taken to Avalon. Also known as Glastonbury! And sword [SWORDFIGHTING] Excalibur, given to him by the lady of the lake [THE DARE], is thrown back. Avalon. Place of the mists, where times collides. And Arthur is suppose to return. A grand archetype! But I still don't know where King Arthur came from.

Camelot, is after this fact.

I guess he came from Avalon.

That's where he and his sword disappeared to, more or less.

Christ. I had a house fulla stuff, and a big adventure to embark on. Too many anchors, and not enough sea. No boat, all ingot and ballast. A huge kingdom, no horse. All the rest of it. Tons of excuses. No action.

The nights return.

Subject: Re: got your missive...

Date: Tue, 05 May 1998 19:42:55 +0000

To: Mick@speakeasy.org

Mick,

As a matter of fact there is a helicopter school nearby. I dated a

Colombian man who got his license here & then had to move back to S.A.

Are you at work?

Darcy

Darcy Vanderbush | 303-546-9009

Boulder, CO | "Go for it!"

Okay-coincidence. And that same day : A reply.

Mick Tomas wrote

From -- Keiho Soga, Santa Fe Internment Camp:

Beyond the forbidding fence

Of double barbed wire,

The mountain, aglow in purple,

Sends us its greetings.

And from -- Sojin Takei, Lordsburg Internment Camp:

There is no fence

High up in the sky.

The evening crows

Fly up and disappear

Into the endless horizon.

How many more thousand miles

Does this wasteland continue?

Beyond the end of the horizon

And over the mountain -

Again, more wasteland.

here, in coffee-zone bliss days

hands fully blistered from dirt removal, jeep ensconced in garage, I consider next move, which may (like a crow) be flight.

Quite Literal : Ever wanted to?

Fly, that is. Learn-to. Be fun to have you as partner in crime.

Subject: Re: Crime

Date: Sun, 3 May 1998 23:46:31 -0700 (PDT)

From: peefree@wiznet.com (Paul Freeman)

To: Mick@speakeasy.org

Surfing. From out of the blue. No primer, no hints, no nothing. He hadn't the foggiest. Mick mulling it over - somebody hands him a movie ticket : The blue speaks again. Title. Lives of Algerian immigrants, brought to France for work. COMPASSION. PERSPECTIVE. Thinks how easy he has it. In his old, but clean clothing, riding a functional bicycle through the ghetto. No mud. McDonalds hamburgers 29 cents Wednesdays. "Two, please." His wrappers caught by wind - tumbling down our street. What the next generation will think of how I live/am. And all the rules I followed. What I accepted, and shirked. People living like animals - the third industrial revolution... See it today! Down the block. Right now. Row houses and squats. Hopelessness. Still! You can feel it here - car tires in the street. Junkies slumped in corners. How fortunate I am : What they thought, those immigrants. Those imported workers. Scary.

When people are more spiritually and technologically enlightened, they will say we lived like animals. Mostly. Those privileged Americans with everything but true idle time to consider the ineffable. Going to Laundromats, and fixing greasy engines. Working nine hours a day, commuting three. White Pontiac squeals U-turn, loaded with fast-drinking juveniles, leering out broken windows for trouble. Trouble is a warning, things aren't right. People trying to wave flags - (escape). Not follow the rules-Mick's thinking about... Those billions of lives. The endless people, he never saw, met, or realize existed. All ghosts now-anchored on obscure black and white films - until they too die. Trapped in endless deserted archives of

such useless things.

23.

Mick was overwhelmed.

He walked a careful tightrope of too many things to do.

25. Gain more perspective

The hastily-erected "temporary" M.I.T. Building 20, now slated to be demolished, '…housed more fabulous insights, breakthroughs and inventions, than prob'ly any post-war shanty slapped together. And why is that? It seemed to have a start-up sound, before anything even got put in there. Like an instrument makes, before it actually makes any sound. He's wistful, wishing it wouldn't be bulldozed. They should save it; like they did the Boeing airplane shack. People need to remember where we came from.' He looks a very sad sixty-seven.

It's replacement won't even have windows that open.

I'll never forget that. Mick told me. But I'm not sure why. I think it's one of them things that sticks in your head, like a song you have to keep humming over and over. Hard to stop, because something about it's important. Oh, I've thought about it, believe me! The quip about the windows - fresh air, blue sky and all. Escape hatches, freedom - and about them tearing it down. Goose and the golden eggs, new is better, erase the old; the tyranny of fire marshals and industry-influenced building inspectors. The danger of dangerous unpredictable structures. How that makes people think, and feel. Also - mental and geological hotspots move. Look at Cascadia! Hawaii! Even Yellowstone's a roving hot spot. Started in Oregon-Nevada, movin' to Canada. Eventually. So things change. Maybe 62 years is right on schedule, for a temporary building.

Maybe that's it. I was born 62 years ago. That tiger thing. And the structure of self I erected is out of date. Belongs as a museum now. It's just an empty shell, nothing amazing is happening in any longer. I'm keeping it around for educational purposes, and sentimentality's sake. Only, remember to build windows into the new one, that actually work. Or hold classes outdoors. Where it's all one big window.

I'm still staring this down like a list of things to do. That's why I'm overwhelmed. There aren't enough hours in the day to devote even twenty minutes to all these tasks. I'm drawing at lunch break, reading motorcycle race pamphlets before I go to bed, e-mailing through dinner, planning finances and schedules a quarter fo the rest of the time, and wondering how it all gets sampled before the one year countdown date. Even though I'm less fixated sub, or semi-consciously, I'm still fixating on each possibility enough, to prevent them from becoming a coherent whole. As a list, they constitute tastes on a plate of many different foods. As a whole, sequestered by convenience into parts, to define the plate itself, that rounds out into a meal. But that's a high-order conundrum. That's one of the reasons stupid songs ply your brain, like a broken record.

What is the coherent whole of this experience - this offhand dare - if not to provoke change? Not that it is guaranteed to, mind you! I could check off every item on the list I compiled, pat myself mightily on the back, and step right back into old ruts, the exercise secretly inhibiting any real transgression from them. In other words, I undermine my attempt to break out of my boring life, by doing all these pipe-dreams, but I do them in a way which actually reinforces the bad habits I seek to change. Plaque on the wall of deeds accomplished, framed by the same old thing. No thanks.

26. Mènage-à-cinq.

It wasn't what I had in mind. (The four of us there, in the hot tub.) About three in the morning - maybe later. Two of them were pretty friendly, when I got in. Three of them actually, after about five minutes, when another guy got in. And then the second girl. High sex vibe, oozing all over. Fuckin' drop-dead gorgeous, if you have to know the truth; Mick hesitated to tell his friend. Then what happened? I'm not quite sure. This other guy comes over, and they all seem to know him - they start kissing him good-bye, all slinkin' together in one little spot, because he's gotta leave. I mean, the party was far from over. So don't ask me why. He's got all these lips and limbs caressing him, and he's gotta go? Seemed further from divine truth than you should venture. And they're having such a superlative time, him lingering for more etc., that I thought I'd join in. So I squeezed up between this bike racer dude, and the stunning female specimen. I think we dragged the guy on the outside, in. Wow! Yea. You lost track of whose body part was what - it was one big slippery sensuous ball. How many people were there? Six, at first. One of the girls left, because she was afraid her boyfriend would wander out. So stop me if my math is off, but that leaves one girl? One girl and four guys?! Well, I know it sounds a little off, but the girl was actually about two and a half females locked in one body. And what were the guys doing meanwhile? Mostly on her, but ... and this is the embarrassing part, a little. Makes the whole experience strange, 'cause I can't boast about it after a few beers. Somehow, it didn't matter there was only one girl. Come on! You're shittin' me! No kidding. Do you think I'd ask for any guys at all?! I mean, don't all hetro men want themselves and five beauties in a hot tub? The women can share each other - that's about as far as we get. But this was different. The bodies all lithe, and latently-athletic - but relaxed, you know what I mean? You're looking at me funny. What I'm trying to say is ... You got it on with men. No; that's not it! I mean, at that place, in that tub, there wasn't any difference. Male female. It was only sexuality - or sensuality, more exactly. Don't get me wrong - that one girl was the prime directive, for all concerned. But ya-can't help getting all over each other, getting to her. Know what that's about? You're all over each other, but you're not weird about it. Like it is totally natural to touch another human being. I guess I see. Were you ripped? Nope. Hardly at all. We'd danced it out of our systems by then. I can see why you won't be bragging about it in bars. he told me later.

It was far more profound to connect with men that way, than women. Women connect without all the macho stigma, men become fouled with. So actually, Mick got a lot more than he bargained for.

27. Motorcycle Racing

Mick ossifies with cold, wind blowing a chilly Spring gale, clutching a lukewarm cuppa tea. Next to him, three woman discuss their relationships. In excruciating detail. Is that all girls ever talk about? he wonders, and looks at his feet. Squarely imprinted by his left shoe, is a motorcycle racing paper. He picks it up, spreads it, and chuckles. The women, noticing the content, roll their eyes, as if he's proven some point. All boys think about. More death-defying toys. Mick is cagily aware of this double entendre, but chooses not to think about it, for a moment.

It's a nice dream, but a very expensive one. There's a leather suit, for starters. No off the shelf model's gonna fit me; that's for sure! And even if one did they're ... (flips some pages) ... Jesusss! Seven hundred bucks! On sale! Then there's bike mods, and track fees, and transport, and tires. Just for starters. Brake pads and chains and safety-wiring big nuts and bolts and boots and gloves and whoa. Dig a big pit, and start shoveling money in. Keep going, you'll get there yet.

But it looks so seductive. Imagine!--no dogs potholes eighty year olds cops oil gravel unmarked hairpins tree branches deer litter and most of all-cars. No idiots on their cell phones, wandering into your lane. No 'Oh sorry!' waves after almost taking your life, lighting a cigarette or grabbing Jolt Cola. No License Revoked pink-thanks, for three times a poky car speed limit. Which made him think. What is it I actually want to experience, in racing?

I'm never going to win anything, that's for certain. I've got a bike, but the engine's too big. A thousand cc's of years-old technology would require a dump truck of money to match what showroom floors sport, these days. (Flips some pages) Christ! (riveting advertisement) The new ones have fifty more horsepower than mine! Fifty! Half again as much as my motorcycle's whole wad. With less weight, and the trickest shit CAD/CAM can muster. So basically, there's no way I'm gonna take any glory at a checkered flag.

Mick takes a sip of his now stone-cold tea, pretends he ordered it iced, and arrives at Want Ads. Ten Bucks for thirty five words. Runs a month. He reaches in his pocket with a slushy antifreeze hand, finds a twenty. Being slightly irrational, and fever-pitched, he jots an ad out. Tall broke skinny guy needs leathers to enter the ridiculous sport of motorcycle racing. Any condition, any color. No fantastically-cheap offer refused. Call 642-0793. I could add some more. I get twenty-five words. He reads it through. Nope. That's fine. Says it all.

Against normal protocol, he puts his only twenty in the envelope, asks for change. Six days later his twenty comes back. We're gonna run your ad for free. Nobody's ever done what you just did before. A week later, he gets a call. Cool article man! (What article?) Amazing how silence says things. In the rag, you know. The cycle paper. Oh, that! Mick had forgotten all about it. Another brief lag in the conversation. You mean you didn't know? Know what? They did an article on you. They did WHAT?! Yea. About starting out, and trust, and being broke. And I was thinking, reading it--I have this old pair of Italian leather, sorta funky colors, but the real shit, you know? Kind'a stuff you feel invincible in. And I'm pretty tall, and used to be pretty skinny. Still am, really. You want it?

Like : Is that a trick question? Do I have to stand on my head performing sexual favors? I meet him at a biker joint, where half the drinkers wear skins. Knee-dragging pictures grace the steppe below a cove, along the length of the bar. He is almost exactly my size, and walks-n-talks like my cousin. Is my cousin, in a previous incarnation. It is beyond uncanny. Hey dude, we're exactly the same size! How big are your feet? Twelve and a half?! Me too! Dood!! You need some boots, and gloves? It's the hard-core stuff - in good shape, hardly used really - but they got these now models - hottr-n-shit. Been thinking about it--dude, those new boots are something else! And he talks the foaming mouth craziness of three tall Heifiweisens, the burning smell of kneepads, the power slide corners, and subtle weight shifts, that make all the difference. We should go! You and me. We'll rip around that track!

Which scared Mick, a little.

Why is it I want to do this? It's happening really fast. I'm suppose to be at Sears Point in two weeks. Two weeks! I must be kidding myself. I'm doing this for fun? Stressing out about money and time? Mick's sitting at the same bench, where he found the paper. The two women, by some mighty coincidence, are also there. I'm all for hunting ... the blond one says, ... I just think they should arm the animals too. My boyfriend hunts. It makes me think men are sick, for wanting to do that. Oh Gawd. More talk about men. My boyfriend this - my boyfriend that. And yet, here I am obsessing on my same subject. Things. Machines. Money. Madness. Adrenaline. There's a lesson here, if I can only get a hold of it!

Something about release. About letting go. Into love, or animal-nature. Driving fast, you have to think like an animal. Even late night riding a bicycle - car doors, oil, pedestrians, wet tram rails, cars ... I'm aware of survival, being it. I'm a rabbit, with predators everywhere. All motion is scrutinized, and not from the mind, but the visceral level. Like love. The mind is overridden. And sex, in its rawer form. Raw as enlightened, or animal. I am ... trying to be a tiger ... racing? To find the animal groove, where nothing rational matters. I am doing the same damned thing as these women obsessing on love? Their relationships are their hotrods, bicycles, and crotch rockets. Right? They are gassing and fixing, in between races.

The leathers fixed something. They fit perfectly. A little baggy midsection, room for a vest beneath. Dude! You look great! Welcome to racing. I grin, uncontrollably. Guess I'd always been a little afraid to balls-out, ride a naked edge of what's possible, with worn Levis, and a cheesy nylon coat

28. Quit a bad habit.

It's eleven thirty, when a friend calls. "I'm down at this new bar with Rudy ... " (Rudy?) "... the bartender, and it's pretty fun. But wear a hat. And hurry." I tear through my closet, looking for suitable couture. Finding nothing, I fashion one out of newspaper. Tape it under my chin, for the bicycle ride to--That place! Sacrifice. Hadn't noticed the name before. Funny. I only noticed the place itself three days ago. And now ...

Rudy, smoking like a fiend. An empty pack lies to his right, a fresh one propped in his special ashtray, with an offering dish in case anyone feels the need. 'If you needa smoke, there's a little sacrifice involved.' He tells me, as I order the pint of his finest.

And we talk. My friend has a gray beret on, and her ex-boss something ridiculous, though I suspect she only tossed it there, because I had soggy newspaper on. Both of them sported burnt-down stubs, the remnants of their quarters. In defense, I chink my change for a fag too. Drinking and smoking being complimentary vices, and all. "What sign are you?" she asks Rudy. He takes a long drag on his Camel, and exhales the mighty blue cloud. "Cancer." completely oblivious of eponynomy.

I forgot to brush my teeth. Slept in my shirt, no particular reason. Cold, and the covers are short. But hell! Like an ashtray, breath of bad bar floors. Could have used an hour or two more, quite truthfully. Which hits home at lunch time, in a large way. I lay down for a twenty minute checkout, on the grass. When I awake, I'm lying in a pile of butts. Nest for a non-smoker. Or am I?

I never buy cigarettes. Except that time. I don't care if they aren't around. Only other people doing it in my immediate company, makes me want them. As a social thing, you understand. Yet ... I still do it. With cruddy-tasting tobacco. Nerve of it! Me telling my friend, to quit! Who was it I'm tellin'? Maybe this is my bad habit. But--in most people's books (mine?) it isn't a habit at all. God knows how few cigarettes I smoke a year.

I'm all the way across town, red lining a few shifts in-between stop signs, pissed about a parking ticket. Lousy racket! Twenty bucks! One eighth the size of a car, same price! Grumbling the injustice of the world, wanting to firebomb all stupid three wheel carts, or public ministries attending them with paychecks and bennies. Nuts! They're just trying to get me riled up. Mutherfuckers can stick it where the sun doesn't shine. I'll do public service. Which made me feel a lot better. So I slow down. Two little girls, swinging schoolbooks, both yell at me. "Don't smoke!" Whaat?! I can hardly believe my ears. I take my helmet off, ask. "Don't smoke. It's bad for you." and they giggle. And walk off. Leaving me dumbfounded. Was I smoking a cigarette? Do I look like a cigarette ad? Could anyone be in a less opportune position, no free hands a full face helmet and fifty miles and hour of wind, to smoke?! I watched them. No passerbys get this message. Just me.

I never considered myself a smoker. But this is important. Maybe its the way I cave in to other peoples habits. Maybe it's not being discriminating. Nice tobacco can be a sensual treat, from time to time. I rarely smoke pot, so that's not it. Sometimes I'll handroll a ceremonial sage n-knickknick mix. Mostly because my friend brings out his nice tasty pouch of it. Hmmm.

And I'm on my way to a friend's house, to drop off a book, and get a graphics tablet, ostensibly for sale. I'm researching making CDs, and web pages. I'll receive a slight commission, for the delivery of the tablet, but what I'm really after, is information. About music, and recording, and mics. Do you do bodywork still? She asks me. Sure. In special cases. Smiles. My neighbor has one. She's about to go to Asia, to Kathmandu actually, and needs intuitive work done. It's her first time. Ah-ha. Anything special I need to know about her? She's got throat cancer. Or did have.

I waltz out laden with goods and information, notice a young man lighting a cigarette, leaning on my motorcycle. He is tilling the ground of an older man, coughing drastically, between puffs. I watch them, standing there. Okay, Ok. I get it. Ain't this grand? Next day or two, I tell my friends : Don't let me smoke, when I'm around you. No kidding! I'm only doing it because you're doing it, and that's not a good-enough reason. Now you have to enjoy it for both of us. Three of them thanked me, less than a week later. One said, I enjoy smoking more, whenever I think about what you said. But get this - while talking she's fumbling an unobtrusive box, and a tarot card flutters out. "Ahha! Been looking for that card!" Which surprised me, because she didn't seem the type. (Whatever the type is.) "What's it mean?" I ask her - now a believer in portents. "I'm not sure. I just started figuring these things out." she caveats. "But I do know from the symbols here its moon's in cancer." Where'd you learn astrology? I nearly ask. Do you want me not to smoke around you, so it's easier? I tell her, my habit is actually poor intent, so don't curtail any of your actions for my sake. In fact, it's better if you do smoke, so I'll learn to separate the herd instinct, from a pure desire to do something.

29. Make a web page for unknown artists.

How hard could this be? Mick thought the easy was difficult, and vice sometimes. If artists are unknown, how will I find them? And why would they want their stuff broadcast on a world-wide open-forum? Better ask myself why I wanna do this in the first place. As an ego trip? As a segue to writing a book myself? To avoid doing my own shit, because I'm busy doing other people's? Maybe ... Nah. But it could be …

Sometimes, it's important not to ask.

Buy ten megs of space, try out the automated page software, boot the free browser. Just for the hell of it. Act. Stop compiling arguments for and against, judging their whys and wherefores. The site doesn't have to be a masterpiece. Let people on it shine, all by themselves.

... that this is an old idea. Maybe I've wanted to do this for a long time. Put others before myself-or learn how to do it, in a non self-destructive way. That's a good thing. (Right?) As timeclock stamps later, and later. Seize any idea, just to get the need for a rational explanation out of the way. I've got it. I want to showcase how Joe and Doreen Average do secret art, that's better than celebrated stars of the fields. I want a site that brings big egos down to size, and bolsters small ones up. An incandescent bulb glows faintly. There's a free computer in the library, isn't there? So what am I waiting for?

Mick did it. And he got to see himself, through others. He also saw me trying to get, and edit, things made of humans' innermost thought. What do you change? What changes blunt the uniqueness, of this person's take on reality? Maybe you can't change anything!

Then what? I mean, what's ... "good enough" to publish?

He wanted to know.

30. The tantric breakthrough.

It was a Russian fern - can't remember its name - think it started with B. Got it at a hot tub party at six in the morning. In its little plastic jar, some nasty-tasting distilled botanical extract. Soviets got busted, using it at the games, supposedly. Seems it builds muscles, as a side effect. Or vice versa, if that's what you're after. Drops your walls. Opens things up. Like ecstasy, they say. Sort of. I'd seen these people around. They were cool.

Legal. Just barely. Don't advertise the stuff, tell whomever you give it to, to keep it undercover. The more it's out, the faster they'll clamp down on it. Ain't "it", 'they', every time? If insight, its bad. But fuck 'em. I've got a bottle, and everything else is academic. So I do fifteen squirts of the stuff with a girlfriend. And it comes on.

Not a blowout drug-more a dizzy, giddy euphoric. Opens you up, gets the erotic thing cranking. Doesn't make you horny, as much as connected with another human being. The evening light pouring in the second story window, reflects her olive skin, with its luscious shine. It made me grateful, and dharmic. I'm some kind of lucky dog! Here, in the suffuse light, stroking this gorgeous girl, who's so utterly cool.

So we get down into it. The kind of experience where ... you don't actually want to cum, because then it might be over - all that delicious tension - so you squirm around, all sexy sweaty, and neck-sucky, for the best part of six hours. Where I noticed something peculiar. Deep connection, and sexual stimulation have an either-or quality to them.

The concept - making love. I was having trouble with the word, making. Making like forcing. I'm going to make this work. And the two of us, who are so blissed-out in each other's company normally, hours fly like minutes, are about a million miles from making. Things just happen. They simply are. It occurs to Mick sex may often circumvent a plunge into intimacy, wherein natural rhythms, orgasmic sex doesn't occur. But we make it occur. So there's a war going on, perhaps between the brain hemispheres. Intuitive right vs. Goal-oriented left. Game O the century. Whatever. Almost certain societies force sex, rather than stay the zones between - trying to integrate locked gates with long winding passageways, devoid of light. I suppose this is Tantra. Funny I never knew what it was. Till now. SPEND WAY MORE TIME IN MY HEART. See the two connected. Tantric acts begin with sex, and extends out into every moment, and minute sphere of the world. As Chi does, in martial arts.

Self-satisfied to the roots of his hair, Mick seems totally fine-but there is a tiny little problem. Are the arms in front of me, holding onto these motorcycle handlebars mine? A bit too rubbery-numb for comfort, in 45 mile an hour cross-gusts. Mick can't tell how hard he's gripping the throttle - comprising one of only two narrow gummy cylinders, that prevent him from blowing off the motorcycle. 'So I scrunch fists 'round those nasty cracked grips (through my ratty duct-taped ski gloves) as hard as I possibly can. Just in case. This is very borderline, I'm thinking, to be dealing with hundred-plus horsepower machinery.' The next day, Mick can barely hold a pencil. The tendons in his wrists are that strained.

Yea. The thing about holding on. Holding on Too Tight, didn't escape me. I was holding onto everything too tightly, trying to be safe, be sane, and predictable, in regards to possible outcomes. I couldn't properly quantify the pressure, against all the other times I gripped those bars, so I freak out?! Nice response. A real candidate for space exploration. Panics when change is encountered. Not what you'd want on a resume. Not by a long shot.

You tried that stuff? Yea. Why? It's a hoax, he said. Rots your brain. Well, Maybe it rots out the part that's improperly programmed. Because I didn't want to argue with what's done is done. The thing is - and I don't expect you to buy this, on a global scale - I was having severe problems being on two planes at once. The heart and the crotch. They're flying different directions, at different altitudes. And I mean, when you're really airborne. Jet fighters, not ultra-lights. It was frustrating, and useful, too. Get too close to coming, switch to the heart connection. Loosing turgidity, switch the pure sex vibe. Not that each is without the other, mind you! I'm speaking of the deeep shit, when you're totally there.

It's how you can keep the on your edge feeling. Just about to orgasm, close as close, but it hasn't happened yet. Any second now!-can last an hour. When the love feeling goes to fairy-tale depth, some of the sex drains out. When the sex feeling is total, some connection is lost. Most sex is media porn, or ad bodies poised for such, soliciting a public's desire for pelvic contractions. Deep love without a formal attachment like marriage or 'relationship', is rarely discussed. That's because you're suppose to be wary of strangers.

Not open yourself up to them.

There are many ways to be open. One method is external - being able to go into somebody, with a part that isn't mind, or body. To see a human in their home turf, without their ruse of walls, and smokescreens, lets you see yourself. Another method is internal. Being able to stand back, within the person you think you are, and create a space others will it turn visit. In doing so, you will see the cavern of yourself, with all the chambers yet to be explored. You will follow the footsteps of others, as they show you places, you never considered going. None of this is possible, as long as our protection mechanisms are fully in place.

So Mick stepped back. Way back. To a small root cellar at the end of an institutional corridor, he didn't know existed. Full of earthenware jars. Stacked like wine bottles-carefully on glass shelves. It was a china shop, all bulls were kept from. He didn't even know it was there.

I felt like I had to be still. Hardly breathe-lest everything fall, and break. And the funny part-these bottles, I knew, were empty. Essences of events and insecurities at one time too fragile for real life, lay hidden-so I bottle them up. And carefully store them, here. I stood, at that brink deep inside myself, almost completely withdrawn I was so far back. The other person, believes I am totally with her, and accessible. I am that, too.

Two bottles fall from the shelf, and smash into a nebula of pieces.

I see an ether, like the spirit of a dying person, rising from this debris. A sharp twinge of old fear, stabs slightly - their somewhat gentle reminder these phantoms no longer need protection. That the liberation of emotions from this storehouse is a divine act we call on friends and loved ones to help us execute. Even heart-wrenching pain, torture of bad relationships and abusive situations, are vehicles here. They rattle the walls, and threaten our citadels. They break the vellum, and fracture the vessels within. These bottles are suppose to be uncorked. And destruction serves this end. I step back, completely limp. Skin frictionless with sweat. I can thank the people who cause me pain?! And then let go? Holy shit. This went way beyond judgment. Thank your rogues, enemies, and oppressors - thank your lovers who demand, and suffocate you - for showing a way to freedom. To thank all people who draw you from your shell. They teach you to uncork, not smash

a carefully bottled-up self.

31. Spend way more time in my heart.

As if I'm not, by default of living and breathing. But it's not the place per-se, it's a state of being. The template : State of mind, is overused. A matter of not thinking so much, and just feeling from one moment to a next. I know what state this suggests. Something like an intuitive, non-rational right brain world. Where you feel luvvy-duvvy for folks, or look for some way to be cordial, even if you dislike them.

So this should be easy. I know how to do it; I know how it feels; I understand the mechanics of the shift, not to mention it makes being human, that much more enjoyable. But for some inexplicable reason, I don't go there. Often. Mostly with girlfriends, and close ones, at that. If somebody starts to attach to this state, for-get it. I immediately take a small step back. Which makes the classic abandonment insecurity want to attach even more-Ref : the "viscous circle". We ignore the fact relationships are training grounds on how to be in the heart with everyone, all the time. How to not be trapped in the analytical world of numbers and balance sheets, lists, and human cause making effects. Life is to receive, and transmit emotions clearly - tuning into those sublime realms, ancients more in touch with natural orders of the earth, revered. Not only that, it makes life more interesting. Or ... did I say that already?

Mick suspects this is bona-fide fact.

Maybe if I thought about being all gooey and squidgy with someone, when I'm not with them … just as a learners-permit thing, you understand ... but that's a dangerous tact. It gets better men than me attached. Better women too, though that's not the stereotype. But look at the utterly-cool Boremetz girl. She's got an attach-o-meter, built right in. Sensitive as all hell - get the slightest bit clingy, even in one intimate moment, and feel her psyche pull back. Instant-aneously! The connection decreases, and the partner has to let go of all possessiveness, which basically is a polluted version of love anyway. This is an important fact. It's an analytical perception that integrates. Attachment dilutes love, in its very highest state. But our culture promotes attachment. To just about everything. Attachment is like ... lust.

A need to possess, and conquer.

I try to burrow a shaft to the center of things, then turn this pocket of higher state I reach, inside-out. Except higher is a grand misnomer. Broader. More insightful. More cognizant, of what I already know. To be possessed by states of passion for things, without being owned by them. That's the heart-hinge, that swings wide. Smashes shit piled outside, obstructing the door. Most people feel this place, and want to wall it off even further. They sense how vulnerable they are, which conjures more fear, assuming what they could lose, given an all-out attack. And a presence of walls draws out assailants, who think they're up for your challenge. Scaling. Burning, tunneling, blasting-they vindicate those secrets inside. You are hiding.

So I'm stuffed with busy work and bullshit that keeps me from exposing those places, from taking the time to be there, and get comfortable fingering sticky locks in the dark. I'm taught it's not safe to go there in a presence of strangers-they may hurt me, or worse. And hurt is thanks, as bottles of nothing hit my ground, liberating trapped ethers.

Old growth, all around me. My mind funnels all perception through itself. It wants total control of reality. I am walking in a park, huge wise trees sway overhead. I am listening to the history stored in their cells - the record of seasons and days, wrapped by rings, like slices of hard drive, containing everything within a hundred yards. The ultimate historians, shaking slightly, in cool spring breeze. Leaves deliciously, wafting down. I could be walking barefoot over these. Because my foot hurts. "Take your shoes off." some voice commands me. That little voice inside us? An "intuition", fairy tales tell us about? "Just do it." I'm sad our earth used to be like this. Covered with exotic mosses, and giants. We murder what made us feel insignificant, because we humans wanted to loom above nature. I'm happy there's still a few places like this left. Opposites. Reminders of the magic garden we gave up, to have this easy, no-feel life. I'm thinking : We're taught to follow the little voice inside us. It's our "gut feeling". It's our heart speaking.

"Put your shoes back on." The voice said, treading carefully down pine chips, and pointy rocks. "It's been long enough." A few miles is long enough. Timing. Rationality. My feet are getting tender, city-bred as they were. But I don't. Because I'm stubborn. I do not trust the voice. The voice might be your intuition. It might be your heart speaking. It may be the right answer. And you want to trust your heart, don't you? Mind. Mind controls things. So you should be punished, to show you've taken the incorrect course. You believe you should be punished, don't you? To remind you to listen. To the voice. I step on a big sharp rock. Hurts like hell. But I still don't put my shoes back on. Just to see what happens.

Next.

I have patience. Wanting is a function of the mind. It is the perception of lack, rather than the knowing of fullness. The heart is always full. We just don't know it. My feet stop feeling raw. They begin to feel good.

Voice is busted. Its mind is very sophisticated. Mind knows I want to explore a state of intuitive "irrational" emotion, so it projects what it imagines that is-so I'll fall in love with it, embrace its logic, and my new inner wisdom. A lot like relationships. Mind senses body's subtle cue to remove its shoes, for it knows feet embracing earth, lighten saddened beings. It translates feelings to words, knowing we listen to a voice (of reason, of God) more readily. And to test its power, mind grabs a moment of tender feet to say : Don your protection again. Any intuition worth its salt knows little hurts can be good for you, teaching you not to resist. Plus, there is no hurt, where a soul's concerned. The mind rants and raves, repeating commands-Shoes on! Shoes on! Distracting me. Outshouting my shutups, wrecking my radar-steps' (courtesy of the earth) directional sense. So figure : Distraction + endless sharp rocks + two clumsy feet. Yeeeoww! SunnavaBitch!! Mind believes in punishment.

Intuition does not.

31. New Orleans

Autodial 11

1-547-0427

Beeep!

"Okay my man, here's the deal. We're going to Mardi Gras in '99 - because we missed it in '98, and it's important to get the last one before the century officially ends. You get me? The big pre-millennial blow-out, because we whinge about going and never seem to get there. So make a new calendar leaf. Mark it in big red pen n-tape it to your bathroom wall, so everybody asks you about it from now to then. Tell anybody who's fun we're there, and we're sleeping the streets - no excuses about motels booked two years in advance. Remember - you're committed. No doctor's notes. This is ... "

Beeep!

Called me back.

He got the message.

33. Publish a book.

Mick had heaps of ideas, in reams of strata collecting mold under his bed. Amusing-he had us both fooled, believing he didn't belong on the same web page other unfamous genius would occupy. He knew dozens of people like himself, he'd try to get on it. And he told me, "I'll write a book about living dangerously! So I pitched it. They liked the idea, since I'd worked there almost two years, never recommending any cockamamie ideas like other editors inevitably did. I lent him a 386 laptop cemented together with epoxy, duct tape and STP stickers. Get to work. I told him. Instead of sleeping? he asked me, quite seriously.

That's right!

He'd writen most of the thing already. With runny ink, on scraps of paper, and glossy old FAX tears. I agonized over whether or not to change it. The names, the places, the times. And then I thought : How often are books like this nonfiction? Or is there such a thing? Nonfiction. Publishing his book seemed downright impossible. He said. Everybody and their retired uncle wanted to write a book, or's smack in the middle of editing their second - the first having been 'too radical, or 'too specialized' for our dumb mass-market public. But I secretly fantasized I'd pull it off, with less education and spelling-savvy, than an average beer-soaked, first-quarter fraternity boy. Why not?! Everybody way down deep, would like a few months of living dangerously.

34. Cut a CD.

Seemed rather impractical. I liked the idea I could. That for fifty cents a pop, some shtick makes a gizmo record companies charge fifteen bucks for. There were large obstacles-namely, my woeful lack of virtuosity on any musical instrument. That plus a total absence of recording equipment. I took my dinky Dictaphone to an underground walkway, with a PVC dideridoo, and blew. Not that I could even circular-breathe. It would be hard to clip out the pauses, as I quickly, but not unskillfully, gasped beet-faced for air. Not surprisingly, this recording sounded like shit. I forget to bang the beat up machine, so the heads line up, every time! Then I did something cool. Added more noise. Subjected the tape to a hair dryer, and a weak kitchen magnet. Sounded raw, and grainy. A call comes, when this marvel is over. "Can you house-sit, while I'm on tour?" Have you got a DAT recorder? I ask, all full of epiphany. "Sure. And a twelve channel mixer. Why?" Oh joy. A house and a studio! Not that I know how to work anything. And just when my lease runs out here. Suddenly, it was time to go to work, and tear out a ceiling.

I could put anything on that CD. Spoken works, graphics, slides, musical experimentation - shoot. My imagination, the only limitation. Scary. How would I possibly decide? And can I not judge the material to death? Maybe I should ... Put a book on it! Yea! And hand it out. Or send it to publishers! When the cold shiver hit. Publishers - hawk-beaked humans, deft at bloodletting with forms of acidic criticism. What if I sound mawkish and feeble? With a voice like a frog? Ribbiting his last? I cold-shoulder the thought. So what. At least I gave it a go - as the Ozzies say! The plaster dust fell around me, like a gauze curtain.

A friend said, "You should sample noises. Things that have to do with the book. Like your motorcycle, in that concrete bunker. I'll bet that sounded cool as hell. That's music - it's just a different kind of instrument, playing in the background. Every sound is music, just like your signature, or your doodles, are art." Brilliant. Why didn't I think of that?

34. Rock Climbing. Get a tattoo.

Chain link fences. Police everywhere. Metal detectors at the controlled entrances. "What's that?" I turn my pocket inside out. Two dimes and a quarter, three crumpled receipts. It's a gun. What does it look like? Jesus. That wasn't enough metal for one measly bullet. They're trying to make it so safe, it's no fun anymore. I mean really! Carnival. The famous out of control party worldwide, over at five-thirty?! So neighborhood kitty cats can slow loll in the lowered sun, undisturbed by musical merrymaking? So oldsters can watch their TVs, without cranking the hearing aides higher? What's happening to this country?! Little gaddamn bracelets ('Getem dway down therre.') wait in a silly line so you can officially drink watered-down beer. People aren't really dancing, they're eating, to sedate the creepy feeling of wall to wall cops. What's a raucous time, without a little danger looming?

I'm not in the mood for foul. But I'm feeling it. A bad loop, with no way out - that ambulating, up down back - get it over with - but what's this booth? Henna tattoos. I'm fascinated by woman getting vines on stomach, and the boy with mandalla on brow. A picture book of masterpieces, just like a tattoo shop. Oh my god! This is it! Because I didn't really want something that didn't go away; I just like the idea of wearing pictures. Henna's like a gallery, instead of a single painting. Every month, the artist changes. She can see : I'm transfixed, watching intricate flowers up dark-skinned hand. How much? They start at fifteen. It takes awhile, she adds (if by apology). All ah got's ten. She turns to the man behind her. Would ya do 'im for ten? Passerby chuckles. Sure. I'm just sitting here. So make yourself comfortable; what do you want? No super frilly stuff; other than that, I trust you. Give my your art. Anything? You bet. Go to town. Wow. I don't get this often.

All the control at the gate, reminded me to give it up.

In a strange mood, I close my eyes, and go to the ceramic bottle room, with difficulty. It's hard to surrender without intimacy - without a reminder where you're going. Inside yourself. Deeply. I didn't want to see it happen, and judge an outcome. The cold paste, drawing heat from me. The warm clove oil, adding it. There was something a little magical about this, as he painted, on and on. The room of the floor was cold - and this sharp biting pain! Doubled over, broken ceramic, all around.

"Gosh Matt, that's great!" Another artist said.

"He gave me full license - that's how I usually do my best work." Points at me. His reply.

Impressed? You'd say. Sitting in the sun, moving only slightly, while red dye dried. I guess I shouldn't have badmouthed the fair. Moving more dreamily, bare arm flapping sleeve roll-up, never been on this street, except ripping by. Never notice what's around, wet railroad tracks all over. Concentrate, so they don't bake you - both wheels locked, sliding home. Where I notice the carnival special. Three climbs for five bucks. Poke head in. Strange walls bristle with bumps, stretch skywards. Your basic (massive) warehouse chock fulla rock climbers vertiginous to small diabolical outcroppings, designed to make you fall.

And I wanted to rock climb, didn't I?

Funny I never saw this place before.

35. A hundred push ups.

It's easy! Watch.

Watching you isn't going to make a hundred push-ups any easier.

No, look how I ...

Your reach is ten fucking inches shorter than mine!

That shouldn't matter.

I know it shouldn't, but it does.

You're blowing this out of proportion.

You want a physics lesson?! Look how much further up and down I'm going, with a full scissors of no-Newtonian leverage at the bottom. Besides, you're not touching your chest. And that's cheating.

Never mind all that. How many can you do?

I'm afraid to find out.

You haven't even tried yet?!

She's incredulous.

All that whining, and you haven't even pushed yourself!

It was a bit embarrassing.

36. DMT

Have you ever wanted something legendary? Something you know a little and nothing about?

"It's dangerous to make - one lab blew up, not twenty blocks from here. Hardly anyone knows what it is anymore. The fabrication of chemicals [clandestinely, cloak and dagger hand shields mouth] and you know what I mean - is fad-driven. They all use the same red-listed ingredients. Most of them, anyway. This ain't Haight Ashbury no more. You realize that, don't you? Ask any Joe on the street what DMT powder is, and you get a Huh? kinda look. So I'd steer you away from the stuff. The real shit is rare, hard to use, expensive, and worst of all, tastes like melted coffee-can lids."

"Does that mean you can't get any?"

"Now; I never said that!"

The stuff's tricky. Pay close attention - this batch's rare as rare can be. Like a black powder rifle - you only get one shot, 'cept here one shot hasta be three hits. And keep that match away from it - the whole idea is to melt it evenly, not burn it. Suck! Hard! You have to go for it. Don't mamby-pamby around. You've gatta get your bloodstream pumped up with enough tryptamine, or nothing happens. A threshold dose is three mondo hits held as long as you can - breathe one out, breathe the next in - with no air in-between. Is that a Roger? We're going to try a little dose, just so you get the idea. So get ready. I'll be reloading the pipe, while you're turning blue, holding the last one.

He didn't put much in there. Which was reassuring, considering what that little bit cost. Now don't tell anyone, but this is the last of a famous man's stash. He caught on I was interested, and since he had this nasty cancer ... Couldn't really use it anymore, you know? Takes a bit o-gusto. So here we go. You ready? You'll never forget the taste.

Burnt plastic. Couldn't be more right on. Nothing happened much, at first. Maybe because of all the concentration involved. Then ... a couple minutes later ... like entering a kaleidoscope. Figures in the room became complex geometric shapes, whose attention changed subtly, the mathematical descriptions of objects around them. It was a blown up interlocked puzzle of stained glass window quantum foam.

"Well?"

"Wow!"

Did you know that's the word for Poison Ivy, in Cuba?

His steps leave blueprints in a darkness of my eyes-closed floor. I forgot the conversation (were we having one?) and wish the rest of them would disappear. They pick my vibe on a shimmering transluncent glass vine, and give me more precious minutes.

"What was that about Cuba?"

"Nothing. Tell us about it."

Awh-shoot. Shoulda given you just a teeny bit more. You almost punched through. He said.

"To where?"

"Depends. The jeweled cave, maybe. Or the aliens, if you're lucky. My benifactor used to go there twice a week, and hold council." I let that ride.

"What kind of world is it? This cave?"

"It's an archetype - like a constantly present mass hallucination."

I look around me.

"Like this, then!" Sweeping slightly giddy arms, still feeling like millions of trapezoids. "What we're seeing! A mass illusion."

"Ah - but with a difference. You enter a completely different reality. Com-pletely different, and unlike a lot of popular mind-fucks, you take your rational self with you. I have thoughts there, just like I do here."

(Mick is busy deciding if earthy rut-bound perception's a good thing to take with you.)

"So it isn't as scary. And you know it's going to wear off soon. As you experienced, its peak only lasts five minutes, or so. It's kind, like an orgasm. High power - can kick you through to some far-out places. So who's next?"

As we bid the man farewell.

37. Learn a sexy dance.

I'm right-handed, but all left feet. Some excuse like that. Dyslexic to a core. Can't orient, after the first two spins. But the music! You have to move. And the women! Hot and luscious, utterly lascivious - the moment they hear two riffs. Stuff's a hard-care slither-slimy aphrodisiac, defined by bumper sticker, on car outside : DANCING-PERPENDICULAR MANIFESTATION OF HORIZONTAL DESIRE. Shoot. A guy has to be a retard, to not want this. Look at those bozos cuttin' rug! If you can dance, all else is irrelevant. You're a sensual god women'r hungry to be spun by. Which is good. Being a smooth dancer wipes the superficial away. Lets you see the human qualities underneath the showy-tell, most people polish expressly for public consumption. The only problems is : as a male, you're suppose to lead. And if ya don't know how … Which basically sucks. Because the woman is always in demand, and is led into learning steps. But a guy who can't dance is a serious liability. He defiles all sensual mystery with mashed-partner feet, and poorly-executed flourish.

So it's lessons for the dolt. Who loves to dance by himself, at his own pace in his own world never mind all special steps. But I underline self. Which is totally OK, except life is somewhat short, and there's a lot of perpendicular manifestation available, to those who hold salsa, or tango keys. I turn to the nearest spectator.

"Where can I learn how to do this?"

(An address.) "Three buck lessons on Tuesday. Check it out."

Maybe dance is the language I want to learn.

Anything is possible.

38. Ride a dirt bike.

What's that?

What?

Back there.

Oh; that.

Is it yours?

Yea. Haven't run the muther in a long time.

Why not?

Scared me - but good.

What happened?

Laid it down in a corner, almost got run over.

How come?

Little gravel, no warning sign, and nasty negative camber.

Does it start?

No idea.

Is it any good?

Sure it's good! Only ten thousand clicks. Ran on synthetic oil the whole time. Some rust in the tank though - need to fill it with nuts and bolts, shake it around. Probably worse by now. And the brakes suck BIG time.

I pause, weigh my new mind state.

Wanna part with it?

How much?

You tell me.

It'd take three hours just to move all the shit in front of it.

I ain't got a lot, but ...

Well-well. I'll think about it. Don't suppose I'll be ridin' it too soon.

You don't strike me as the chicken-type.

Oh, it's not that. I just do so many, ah-risky things already, if you know what I mean. Way I look at it, mountain bike racing and small planes is enough. Just pure odds, and I don't wanna add to them. B'sides. Every body has a way or two that's cool to go, and motor-biking ain't one of them - for me, you understand. For you, maybe it's different.

(I imagine a body impaled on a horizontal unicorn horn, twenty miles from nowhere. A hundred degrees, flies buzzing, telltale tire skid, all the way down the unexpected rain gully. No thanks. But it wouldn't mean I'd skip mountain biking.)

I getcha. You like speed, a ... (how might I say this delicately) ... little too much?

If ya got it, use it! That's what I say; and that's why I'm better off on a mountain bike.

I notice you don't fly jet fighters.

They sound pretty good though, huh?!

I have to agree.

What about five hundred bucks?

Is that if you dig it outta this carport, or me?

1. Surrender.
   
   

The control. The friggin rules. Touch me like this. I don't like that. These are my walls. You can go here, but not there. I have boundaries. You need to respect them. The routines. The rabbit runs. The LISTS. The addendums, not thoroughly articulated by or to, any party concerned. Where's a moment, when the world simply unwinds, in a mysterious, sublime way? And you're there for it, flowing its effortless tide.