My girlfriend and i are in the ocean; we are receiving instruction from a man intent on teaching us to kayak against the currents. We are up to our waistlines in swirling, salty water. The wind defies the sun with its cooling whip across our backs.

Our teacher looks over his bare shoulders from time to time, eyeing the clouds on the horizon which hang low and darkly. I sense his concern, and within a few minutes, he’s inistent: “Ok, we have to get out of the water.”

We head up the dunes to find higher ground, and looking back over the horizon, i see the hurried advance of the stormfront. It had descended upon us much quicker than i thought possible, winds whorling in that frantic way that often predicts an impending hurricane.

We pitch my tent, and as we do so, a Jamaican family paddles to shore nearby in a small, wooden boat. They don’t even have to ask–they will be riding out the storm with us in the tent, our common desperation to survive binding us. Mother, Father and their child (Boy or girl? I can’t be sure) clamor into the tent, my girlfriend and i right behind them.

They’ve brought with them a small, portable record player. The exterior of its suitcase-style enclosure is that avocado green that bled from the 1970s, its texture one of burlap. Inside, a marigold deck supports a gooved, black turntable. Swing arm to match.

The interior of the tent is surprisingly spacious! About 20′ by 20′, i guess, and with plenty of head room. Quite comfortable, actually. We feel warm, dry, and secure, despite the distant-feeling sounds of the storm, which is (no doubt) right on top of us.

I’m talking intently with my girlfriend. She has brown eyes and hair, shoulder-length, and wears a salmon-coloured sun dress over her black bikini, tanned skin and bare feet. We’re discussing life, the universe, and everything. The other people in the room–our teacher, and the Jamaican family–have faded from each of their respective corners into non-existence.

But the record player remains, sitting between her and i, in the centre of the tent, turning constantly, but too slowly to play and 33s or 45s. I fumble with a switch on the side of the machine. The record comes to a stop and then begins to move in reverse.

As the record player spins backwards, so does…time.

I hear our conversation in reverse, and flipping the switch, I hear it forward for a second time. I feel my lips moving and hear the words come out. I see her lips move and make the same sounds i heard earlier…only this time i know in advance what will be said. She is aware of this phenomenon as well.

Both of us appear to be “aware” of time, observing these events as they occur, and unable (or not even wanting) to change them. And so as the record player goes back and forth, nothing changes save our perspective.

Using my hand i spin the platter with vigor–a thousand spins forward, two-thousand spins back, and we watch–unharmed–as the word rises and falls around us, never losing the safety of our spacious tent.

I begin to wonder how my manipulation of myself within the timeline affects my own timeline. Or how it could be possible?

Man, i really want that record player =)

We are riding on a smoothly-paved road near a lake. The grass between us and the water is crisp and uniformly green…a park perhaps. The temperature is that perfect balance between hot and cold–no matter that we’ve been biking for some distance–i don’t feel even a hint of perspiration or fatigue. “We.” I am with friends–not sure who, but i sense their smiles and playful attitudes as we meander down the street. The sky is greyish but not gloomy–a uniform blanket of cloud diffuses the sunlight evenly throughout our field of vision.

Our bikes are older, as is the timeline. It may be somewhere between 1982 and 1986, and the bikes we are riding feel about 10 years old–mine might be that 1970’s dark brown with a couple tomato and marigold rings around the downtube. They a little clunky, heavy and fendered, but well maintained and performing well.

The road we pass takes us past a structure–not unlike a pole-barn–something you might see in a park, but usually with picnic tables underneath. This one, however, contains a large group of people engaged in yoga asana practice. Standing close together, they contort into poses that are familiar but not–variations i’ve never seen. The instructor calls positions one after another, in a very “flow-y” manner. Positions are held only long enough for the practitioners to chant (in sanskrit) the name of the pose, as though they were chanting “om”–and do so with perfect precision and harmonics–nothing short of angelsong. I cannot help but crane my neck around as we pass–I’ve already slowed myself down to elongate the experience.

Shortly thereafter i’m standing at the edge of the front yard of a ranch-style house down the street from the yoga practice–it looks very much like the one i grew up in on Hornbeam Drive in Longwood. Bikes are strewn around the yard and people are sitting on the grass, talking jovially, or tossing a frisbee. Everyone seems satisfied–or rather, happy.

I have a pillow wedged between my knees and i’m hugging it with my legs as though to afford myself a certain stability, and with a crouch i jump up into the air. And again. And again. Each successive jump is a little higher, each time i hang at the top of the arc a little longer, and each time i land as softly as a feather, barely bending the grass blades below.

On my last jump, i’m hanging at the top of the arc and it suddenly dawns on me that i can choose whether or not to stay in the air. My past experience tells me that after hanging at the top of the jump, i should begin to fall…and this is still in mind, but i am also working with a new understanding of a new moment.

I choose to remain in the air. And i do.

My mind wavers a bit, between confidently embracing this new understanding (and staying aloft, if not rising more) and the past experience, which wants to pollute my current understanding (and causes me to wobble in the air and perhaps descend a bit).

I said yes.

I wake on the couch where i had fallen asleep, the red-shaded lamp still glowing steadily.

It is dark out but the sun is just beginning to diffuse the slightest light throughout the sky. I am startled into an adrenaline rush by a man outside the window who keeps approaching the glass…his face wearing an eerie maniacal smile.

I swing around to the front door which he is coming through, to block his invasion. I can see him better now. He is dressed humbly, in clothing that has probably been on his back for days. He is a bit weathered too, likely not having seen the hot side of a shower for days. His hair might be shoulder length and straw like in colour and fray. His demeanor is calm and his behaviour suggests that he thinks he belongs here–that is, he doesn’t think he’s invading my space, but i feel very uncertain and defensive. And, still calm and smiling, he’s trying to push his way past me, affecting his presence into my space. I am holding him off with pushes of forearm and fist. A couple more guys show up, similar in presence.

I am obviously uncomfortable with these guys trying to get into my house, objecting with screwed up facial expressions and increasingly wider limbs, somehow managing to keep them at bay. Finally i gain ample control over my limbs, and subsequently theirs, and push them out the door. Once this happens, they seem “defeated” and no longer try to come in. Over my shoulder, however, i see a fourth man, standing on the other side of the room, almost statue-esque, and having a skin tone of dusty granite. He is very tall and dressed only in a cloth, appearing very ancient and tribal. He seems to be holding his ground, and certainly he has the physical advantage over me–I’m beginning to anticipate an evictive struggle with him–which may not succeed.

Marshall (old friend, new roommate!) swings around the corner and approaches the statue-man from behind, only revealing his stealthy presence when he had descended upon the intruder, placing himself at a vantage point. The man of granite, with a wizened look upon his face, observes the new odds, and seeing himself overpowered, allows us to lead him out of the house without contest.

My friend Matt Brown is missing and presumed dead as of this past Sunday.
http://www.cbc.ca/canada/british-columbia/story/2008/08/10/bc-us-kayaker-missing.html

Matt was a bicycle advocate and an all around-swell guy. He was a part of the band “Loyal Frisby” with me, between 2000 and 2002. Matt was in the middle of a bicycle tour through Canada–on his way to Portland to begin a Nursing career with his newly-earned degree–and had reached a point of rest when this seemingly innocuous afternoon of kayaking took a turn for the unexpected. Matt planned every step of his trip meticulously. He knew when he was going to be where, with every road charted and every accommodation arranged. Tricky are these souls of ours that weave the universal web we walk. Scottish poet Robert Burns comes to mind, “best laid plans of mice and men often go awry…” and Lennon, “life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans…”

My personal philosophies preclude that birth should be the beginning or that death should be the end of life. To that end, i am confident in the notion that the soul/consciousness/life-force/(call it what you like) i knew as “Matt Brown”, with an agenda borne of love, has fulfilled its purpose in this venture–has learned what it has come to learn, or taught what it came to teach. But, it does make you stop and think about the “plans” you’ve made for yourself–be they for the next 5 minutes or the next 5 years. Perhaps in this way, Matt, though “gone” can still teach us–to plan, but to remain unbound by those plans. For some, his failure to wear a life jacket will remind us that the tightrope between relative safety and adventurousness is hairline-thin. Perhaps others will find inspiration in his adventurous spirit, realize that life is too short for “should’ve, would’ve, could’ve”, and shed the fears and false-securities that prevent them from tackling those pursuits that really allow them to flourish and feel alive. Matt answered to none save himself.

As such, my thoughts turn to those who love him, and how i can help to ease their pains.

Culturally, we do little to understand and accept death, and so when it darkens our doorways, we feel the pang of loss and the tear of attachment, as though (perhaps honestly) that we have not expected this event–which has been a part of life since the dawn of time. Even my own statement, “darkens our doorways”, associates a degree of negativity with death.

Personally, i am coalescing some ideas, or “plans”, that seem interesting to me, and which have “called” me into momentum. But who can say why i am here, or for how long…? Perhaps the entire purpose of my emergence onto this plane will realize itself in a very unexpected way, at an unexpected time. What am i here to learn? Who am i here to inspire? I may be playing a supporting role in a much larger scheme. Getting to the point–for all my “plans”, for all of “our plans”, the universe will continue to spin, positrons plummeting towards electrons.

I could be dead within 5 minutes of publishing this post, for any number of unquantifiable reasons. I may not ride a motorcycle anymore, but bicyclists get hit from time-to-time. I could be the victim of a crime, in the wrong place, at the wrong time. Whatever the case, it might seem senseless, or like “a waste”. How does this make you feel? Culturally, this is a taboo subject! But it doesn’t have to be. I’m certain: there are no coincidences, and nothing is random.

These thoughts are not born of some morbid obsession with death, but of a fascination with life–for which birth and death are integral parts. I’m moving forward with my ideas, with only the best of intentions. Should i fail to create a vision for myself, i would miss the whole point of this hilarious tango–and that is to come-to-know, or to realize, myself. But I can’t do it alone–everything is relative, and accordingly, i will come to know myself best through my relationships to others. And i’m so glad you’re part of this stellar equation!

Thoughts?

Peace, and bicycle grease,
and much, much love!

Information Technology is nothing more than an attempt, by our obscured consciousnesses, to regain the kind of instant access to total knowledge, sensation, and experience that we enjoy in our true energy-based forms.

http://www.simulation-argument.com/simulation.html
http://www.nasca.org.uk/Ancestor/ancestor.html

right foot, pavement, tap
left foot, concrete, step
sprocket, ratcheting, tick
right foot, pedal, click
left foot, crank, spin
eyes, horizon, narrow
right hand, gear selector, click
left foot, crank, pull
right foot, pedal, push
left hand, grip, tighten
right hand, gear selector, click
dérailleur, rear cog, shift
left foot, spin, faster
right leg, piston, fire
right hand, gear selector, click
left piston, fire, accelerate
crankset, spin, whirl
right hand, gear selector, click
left hand, brake, lean
crank, spin, faster
wind, ears, howl
left crank, whirl, blurr
right piston, rotate, push
right gear, click, hand
fire left, piston, spin
one machine
spinning…
whirling…
whorling…
rear hand, click, select
leg crank, blur, rotate
right leg, crank, coast
left brake, hand, pull
brake hand, rear caliper, squeeze
right hand, grip, brake
left foot, pavement, tap
right foot, concrete, step
breathe in
breathe out
out
in

destination? ha!
180 degrees
sprocket, ratcheting, tick
right foot, pedal, click
left foot, crank, spin…

to be a butterfly
to emerge not once but
twice on this earth

at first so humbly
caterpillaring around
consuming, anticipating

chrysalis
its a fun word we don’t
get to use enough

unfolding, unwrapping
wings drying, beholding
a universally accepted beauty

fluttering — notice,
we never say flapping
proboscis, curled

for two weeks
burning the candle
at both ends

a vacation for
the soul, after a long
lifetime of work

then back to the pool
ready for human form,
again — time to grow

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.

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