Real quick: So long as I am moving my body around this Earth I intend that I should always walk that fine line between relative safety and adventurousness.
I am seated along the length of an enormous dining table in a somewhat suburban home, perhaps approximate to the University. The late afternoon sunshine diffuses its way through the room so that no corner is lighter or darker than any other, making everything appear vivid and alive.
Many lively individuals surround this table, dividing their time between eating and fervently discussing their movement–they are organizing, rallying around a cause–and their youthful energy suggests positive effectiveness. Ideas and smiles beam across the room in a blur of viscous conversation that eludes complete absorption.
This house belongs to Katie’s relatives–her Aunt and Uncle–with whom she spent much of her impressionable youth. And I understand that while they took her under their wing, it was with a certain degree of disdain (or out of some inconvenient notion of responsibility). Consequently, she was often treated as a second-class person, and this created issues that she still struggles with today.
I am in a separate room of the house, just off the kitchen. Here, the Aunt and Uncle are dining–separate from the clamor of the grassroots movement forming a few rooms away. Katie’s presence elicits some kind of comment from these relatives–yet another disparaging remark–and upon its delivery I snap, no longer able to hold my tongue…
I’m ripping each of them a new asshole, surging forth with forked tongue to stab the life out of their inflated egos, leaving nothing sacred, attacking every facet of their despicable existences, criticizing…no, no–crushing them over everything from their complete and utter failure to treat Katie with decency and respect to the blandness and low-quality of the food they serve. As this attack bellows forth, Katie retreats from the scene, her mood somber and reserved. I notice this, and wonder if its a signal that I am overstepping my bounds, or hurting more than helping. But these expressions pump out of me by necessity, and I don’t let her recession stop me–I feel these things need to be said.
I am outside–the dinner party appears to have shifted locale to circle a swimming pool. The same group of vibrant youths are here, but now seem more social than political. Same smiles, nonetheless. I see some of Katie’s closest friends, but not her.
Campus blossoms off of the opposite bank of a short, arched bridge that spans a crystalline river. Academic buildings and collegiate scenery that should feel familiar, instead seems just slightly different enough to provide that sense of newness, and much to take in. All, still perfectly illuminated in perfect light–nothing to bright, nothing too dark. As I cross, I decide to call Katie, feeling a bit of guilt over my actions with her family, and I wanting to discover her reaction. And while the water below moves along at a chipper pace, the line begins to ring.
I’m expecting to leave a voicemail as I’m remembering for some reason that her phone might be devoid of reception recently, so I am surprised when I am greeted instead by an inquisitive, “Hello?” Her voice indicates a certain degree of sadness. We talk as I wander further into a noisy campus. Wanting to give our conversation due attention, I set a course for a large nearby building–perhaps the Reitz Union–whose impressive height is eclipsed only by the amount of glass used to create its face. Inside, I see landings, hallways, offices and doors off to the right and left of an expansive atrium containing a wide stairwell, which I start to climb.
As I climb, Katie tells me a story of recent events in her life. She describes a woman, who upon description sounds like the wife of one of the faculty whom I work with. This woman, she relays, had loaned her an electronic word processor. And it is with this device, Katie tells me, that she wrote out everything–everything, everything–everything she wants, every direction she might take in life, every component of the person she wants to be, everything, everything! As she tells this story I continue ascending the stairwell, and for a brief moment wonder why she might not have used the computer I bought for her for this task–the one offered as payment for the panniers she lovingly and frustratingly sewed together for me…but I quickly decide this detail lacks enough importance to warrant interrupting her flow. She continues, lamenting that ultimately, the document was lost to a technological failure of sorts.
As I round the stairs up to the fifth floor, I begin to hear our conversation in stereo–in one ear, the phone and in the other, her voice from just a few steps further ahead. As I step onto the fifth floor, I see her seated in an office directly ahead. With freshly drawn smiles, we hang up our phones and move to pursue our conversation, face-to-face.
The small office is littered with file drawers and files that might once have lived in them. The desk, which Katie sits behind, holds up an archaic computer of sorts, which I think she may be using to check her email, or something similarly innocuous. A hand-made sign on the door of this small suite reads “The Kickstand”, each 1/4 page letter printed red on white paper and taped together to form the words. I understand this office was used by the first iteration of that organization.
Our surroundings shift around us, back to the house owned by the Aunt and Uncle, and into Katie’s personal room. She asks if I would like to see what she “has so far”, referencing a hand-drawn calendar of July 2008, littered with names and places. She asks me for the dates of our Alaska trip, and I reply with the dates of my upcoming Costa Rica trip. She marks this on the calendar with my name, and highlights that series of days in green or yellow–as she does this, however, I notice the calendar is not correct. I cannot tell where the error lies, but I know that the 11th should be on a Saturday and in this case it falls on a Monday or Tuesday. I study the lines and numbers drawn with a blue ink pen, but can’t seem to find the source of the disparity. There are other names and events written on the calendar. In particular, I notice “the fest” scrawled across the top, and again spanning several days near the end of the month, these days highlighted in blue.
The dusky sky reclaims some of its abundance of light as we pedal on University Avenue downtown, heading West. Repeatedly, we see signs bearing an image or logo of a sliced lemon. Continuing down the dark, wet road, now very much experiencing the night-time, we quickly come upon a dark-skinned man in round, thin, gold-rimmed glasses whose lemonade stand sits in the middle of the East-bound lane. He emerges from the darkness so suddenly we are forced to dodge, Katie hard to the right and me hard to the left to get around him. Our relative proximities scare everyone, and he call me something, using an expletive–but I know his expression comes from surprise and fear of harm rather than any kind of real hate. Still for some reason, I toss at him the newspaper I am carrying?!?
Almost immediately we turn around and head back East, and on our way past him, I call him the name that he called me–but now its funny and we all laugh. The night sky has given away to mid- to late-morning sunshine. I say to her “so…I really ripped into your aunt and uncle” with that inflection indicating an apologetic guilt and my desire to discover her feelings on the matter.
Without a moment of hesitation, and with confidence and conviction, she turns to me and says, “Oh, don’t worry about it at all…”
I can see the wet path left behind by my West-bound bicycle tires. Now with my hands off the handlebars, I’m roughly retracing my path, but not really caring if my tires hit the same patch of sidewalk or not.
I turned a corner today. I am leaving Gainesville in the last week of June, 2009.
I will be selling/freecycling my posessions, save a few “tools” which will help me experience my surroundings.
The next year of my life will involve bicycle mechanics, training in yoga instruction, and the sale of my house. Not necessarily in that order, and all as soon as possible.
In the meantime, I am here, now. Let’s have some fun.
This universe, this atmosphere, this environment–whether its source be supernatural, natural, or technological–is nonetheless designed to manifest the results of our choices. This characteristic serves to propel us to accept the limited environment…a component critical to producing the intended results.
But, what are the intended results? An anthropological study conducted by a technologically superior being, wherein all of the elements are artificial intelligencies in a vast supercomputing array?* Or a realization of our One True Self through intentional subdivision and obfuscation?
Choices! Make them. With intention.
* statistically, we are most likely computer-generated beings
The concrete sears as painfully as every other surface under the penetrating white glow of the afternoon sun. Nicholas Carreure’s neck sloughs the sticky residue of one dried bout of perspiration after another. His blonde locks have become saturated, as has the headband keeping the sweat off his brow. White skin has yielded to reddish burns, excepting that raccoon-ish area around his eyes, thanks to a pair of dutiful sunglasses. His muscles burn, not only from the temperatures, but from having pushed this far. But the day is not over, and motivations are as peaked as the mountain ranges just barely coming into view on the horizon.
This service station, which may yet prove to be nothing more than an oasis, is sufficient–at least for fixing a flat. The meager shade of the overhang provides only minimal relief from the direct sun; escaping the sweltering winds is another challenge altogether.
Nobody occupies this island among wastelands save the attendant, a man far too weathered for his age, whose soiled blue baseball cap seems more at home on his head than his own hair, which takes its directions from the whims of the wind. His long-sleve cotton plaid hangs loosely from his dehydrated body as he shifts his weight into a stance of equal parts curiosity and disappointment, knowing he won’t be making a sale from the pedal-powered fellow who just walked his cycle up to the curb. It is possible that few bicycles ever pass through this desolate desert-within. Or perhaps they never make it this far…
Hands covered with grease and road grime, Nick begins to work the bead off the rim when a dusty red pickup truck slides into the closest parking space, raising a choking cloud of particulate, and letting loose a shower of gravel which plinks and ticks itself against Nick’s helmet and shins.
“Heya there, a-migo!” says the driver as he trades places with the vehicles door. He is dressed not unlike the attendant, but his curly black hair is uncovered, and is as dusty as Nick’s has recently become. A matching black moustache curls the corners of his mouth but is well trimmed. He moves with the haste of someone who is used to dodging sunlight, making his way into a sliver of shade–the same under which Nick found refuge.
Leaning in for a closer look, he exclaims “I’m Cal…you havin’ tire trouble?!?”
You may not like my blonde hair or my red beard. You may think I’m too tall; too skinny, or that my legs are disproportionately large as compared to the rest of my body. You may feel repulsed at the swaths of hair that scramble every-which direction from my arms. You may find my fingers lanky, or think my ears stick out too far from my head.
But this is my vessel.
I continue to choose this body, for all your judgments and perceived imperfections, because it is integral to this experience. Through it I discover parts of my self that can not be discovered in any other earthly projection of our luminous nature.
I love it. It is perfect. And I enjoy taking care of it, and finding its edge, and then going just a little beyond that–just to see what I can experience. When I have learned what I mean to learn, I will abandon this collection of molecules, and you and I will once again close the illusory gap–a gap that we have created, through intentional obfuscation, to experience individuality and its potential for self-realization.
On the other hand…if you also happen to like my body…well–that’s another conversation all together.
Thank you, for this tango!
You’ve worked high
and you’ve worked low
for most of your years;
its been quite a show!
By aeroplane and automobile
your been near, and gone far.
On the wide road of work,
you’ve been a fast car!
Despite the long hours,
and with kids at your feet,
you put pen to paper
and made the ends meet.
You may have left work,
but your work is not done–
life is an adventure
and this part is so fun!
Because the measure of a man
isn’t in a gold watch,
or a pat on the back
from an overbearing boss…
And nor is it Who He Was
and What He Did,
but instead is Who He Is
and What He Does
So love the past
for delivering today;
but what happens tomorrow
is yours to say!
Thank you for
all the work you’ve done;
for the opportunities you’ve given
to your looney-bin son.
You can go outside
and relax in the sun.
Or do anything else
that sounds like good fun.
I love you, Dad.
Nighttime has settled around us and the cool air is just humid enough to poke through our clothing. But we are warm anyway, basking in the sweetened glow of each others’ smiling faces. Your bleach-blond hair reflects the light dancing forth from ancient streetlights while wisps of wind find their way into the flaps of our pockets and collars. A few dim lights glow from the windows of the three- or four-story apartments above.
Our streetside seats at this bistro have long been warmed from the hours we’ve spent here–most of the waiters and waitresses have gone home for the night, and those remaining are cleaning up. But the table is ours for so long as we want it. A few shadows dance around the walls in the old urban district of this city in the Southeast of France. The cobblestone streets meander wherever they lead, in that interesting way that knows nothing of squareness.
Your eyes are wide; your lips are glistening and red and fascinating! Our conversation tonight wanders from every topic to every other, smoothly and naturally. For a time, nothing exists save our respective consciousnesses and their interaction–their relationship–as though we are in an ethereal tunnel of loving friendship where the doldrums of daily life can’t distract and interrupt us. Familiar.
Some friends of mine appear just down the street. This is expected–the next part of my night is with them, but also means our meeting of minds and bodies must come to a close. Standing from the table, you wish me a good evening, or express thanks for our time together. We set to part and pause momentarily to share a single, purposeful, and loving embrace. I can feel your lipstick transfer smearingly onto my lips, and as we separate, your eyes sparkle me tidings of farewell.
As I walk down the street towards my friends, I look back at you and see that you are looking back at me. It seems the night is still young…
I wrote this short letter with a particular individual in mind, but realized shortly thereafter that I have written a letter also to you and to myself. For an interesting exercise, read this as though you had written it to yourself:
This morning, I feel that I AM love.
And it urges me to write this; compels me to celebrate an expanding affection for [all of] us in our Oneness; that truth that dissolves all notions of separateness and border. It is perhaps also through my relationship to you that I am most quickly learning to realize this connectedness of all beings; that we are each an individual finger on the hand of the whole.
The more “time” I spend with you, the happier I become for our growing relationship; for the potential to experience the whole of myself through you, illuminating all seven chakras. Come explore the future with me in all capacities for as long as our individual paths provide that our footsteps should sometimes occupy the same earthly soil!
Potential is just that. Shared, there is perhaps something else to be experienced: the pure giving and receiving permitted by openness, vulnerability, pridelessness, and egoic dissolution (we could perhaps afford ourselves these freedoms in all facets of life). Be not worried or fearful of permanence or expectation–my love need not be earned or returned; only received.
In giving you my love I give my love to all, and receive it from myself. Through my individual actions, the universe shall be galvanized–what is “good” and “bad” for the one is just so for the whole :o)
I am confident and creative in this notion!
I went to the downtown farmer’s market yesterday–it was a citrus symphony! I came home with four satsumas, four sunshine tangerines, one minneola tangelo, a chinese honey and a blood navel.
Mmm…a slice of my own personal heaven-on-earth!
