6/12/2006 - 32 hours

In about 32 hours I'm going to be stepping onto a plane headed to Maui. I'm pretty sure I don't quite have enough money to get back, but I'm not going to worry about that right now.

I love these moments before something big happens in your life. My perception of the future ends 32 hours from now... after that I have a vague concept of five hours of flight over the biggest, bluest ocean- and an island at the end of the tunnel.

I know so little about Maui and what's in store for me. It is a big giant abyss of Unknown. The (good) anxiety over it has made it difficult to sleep, so I have been exhausting myself during the day with adventure and sleeping fitfully in small bursts- last night I had the most delectable dream with the most beautiful music...

... I love dreaming about music, and all the mysterious, beautiful melodies in my subconscious. They are unidentifiable, and I wonder where they come from. Last night, a translucent blob was dancing up and down a corridor to a myriad of blue men in a moat-like orchestra pit, playing a rich, slow-motion melody. The instruments in my dreams are unlike any I've seen. The blue men had their arms inside this contraption, which was making the rich horn-like sounds of music.

Ate breakfast at Roscoe's Chicken and Waffles with Bjorn and fought a gnarly food coma for the rest of the day (The Skogies spoke of getting the meatsweats from too much barbeque... I wonder what the word is for too much chicken and waffles).

Today went better at Venice, I set up with both Mike and Kate, who was selling her photographs. I broke even, made $35, and got a tan on the beach at the same time. I am happy to have gotten to spend so much time out there, people-watching and breathing in the salty air.

Kate told me that now she looks at the vendors of Venice Beach in a completely different way, and I do too, because for a few days I was one of them, and I got to meet interesting people, and sit in the sun getting delirious off UV rays and talking and laughing with Mike, Karen and Kate.

I thought about it some and thought about what I'd been doing with my time, and what I was about to do and I felt really good, awake, really, and cognizant.

I am so blessed, living this life of mine. I'm sure there are ramifications for my youthful recklessness, but I am willing to take the chance. No matter what happens from now on, I have granted myself and been given the privilege to experience living in this way, and I wouldn't trade it for all the stability and comfort in this world.

I should probably buy a swimsuit and batteries for my camera before I leave. Packing is not a problem, because I have such a small amount of stuff with me in the first place. I'm going to miss L.A., and all the inspirational friends who have embraced me and loved me and taken care of me as if I'd never left.

This life is such a crazed rollercoaster of emotion, logic and experience. I feel engorged with gratitude right now- last time I felt this way something terrible followed, but honestly-

-I have learned more this past year than I have in any other year of my memorable life. I am so ready to face anything this life has to throw at me. I mean it, motherfuckers. This girl is unstoppable.

6/10/2006 - 2.5 Days Until Maui

I just got my official flight itinerary for Maui this morning: I leave on Tuesday at 8:50am and arrive in Kahului, Maui at 11am. Five hour flight... over the Pacific Ocean... there are many thoughts to be had while coasting over a literal sea of blue.

I drew a portrait of Peggy yesterday on Kate's magnificent porch, that overlooks all of Los Angeles, including the Hollywood sign and the Griffith Park Observatory. As I was drawing her she asked if she could read from my journal out loud, and I said sure, why not. It's really interesting to hear painful things come out of someone else's mouth... your darkest, most embarrassing moments... those moments spent pining over lost loves. She'd read things about Chris that I'd forgotten about, because I always skip those pages when I look through my journal.

She read everything out loud from the break-up with Chris, to the high points in my relationship with Nick, and then she read the passage Nick had written me, which I had refused to read for the past six months, but now suddenly came at me from the lips of a third party:

"...And even if things don't work out between us, know that I love you, beyond any day to day drama- I love you for your thoughtfulness, your honesty, your warmth, your humor- once in a while you take a step back and think about the people you've been lucky to meet and- yeah- you're good people- I'm so glad to have gotten to know you."

Ah me. Love is a funny, funny thing. It holds hands with bitterness and jealousy, and is a distant cousin of friendship... the kind you only see at family reunions (if you're into that sort of thing). Anyway, enough about that, because history is only one thing.

Point being, Peggy had re-awakened me to the sacredness of my leatherbound journal, which has become for me, an icon of love manifested, lost, and grown into other things. I am so happy to bring it with me to Maui.

My mom is afraid I am making a stupid, rash decision. She is probably right, but I can't help but make it, just like a child can't help when their feet grow, and a recent college graduate can't ignore the cruel realities of this world, and just like I can't help but be awed by all of it... genuinely awed... cripplingly awed.

Selling portraits didn't go as well as planned today. I am pretty rusty, and my performance anxiety got the best of me. I did meet a beautiful group of people today who let me draw all of their portraits, and one girl gave me a pink bracelet she'd brought back from Mexico and tied to my wrist- I am proud to take it with me to Maui, and may it stay with me the way my necklace had, for so many years to remind me of this beautiful time in my life.

My mind is a buzz. Am I really going to an island paradise in three days? My mom is afraid of the post-adventure blues that she thinks I will succumb to when this is all over... but I think after nine months of bunny-killing, going home will be a treat too, provided I do not have to kill bunnies. Because I like Texas, and the people I met there, too.

Babble babble babble. I'm going to take a nap and then celebrate Karen's birthday by dancing around to ragga-dub in a warehouse downtown later tonight.

6/8/2006 - You Know How I said I Was Going to Maui?

Ok, even I didn't really believe myself.

But I just bought a one-way plane ticket about fifteen minutes ago, so I am. I told myself I would talk to Amanda first and read her vibe, and I finally got a hold of her today.

She told me I could stay in an eagle's nest loft above a waterfall where she lives until this next Sunday, after which I have a place to stay until the 26th in exchange for 8 hours of work per week. Then she said she wasn't sure what she wanted to do today, go kite-sailing with two hot boys or go to a goddess retreat. Delicious.

Bjorn is letting me borrow her camping equipment, should the need arise to use it and there are several listings on the bulletin board at the community center in Maui looking for work/trade workers. So I'm set. I'm going to Maui.

I leave this Tuesday morning... and Amanda is going to pick me up at the airport. This will be an adventure to be reckoned with... I haven't even left this continent. I'll probably be broke by the time I get back... but it won't be the first time this has happened. My mom won't be too happy either... but she's my mom, and she'll love me anyway.

Funny thing: I may have accidentally bought my ticket from San Francisco. Normally this would be a problem, but Mike happens to be leaving for San Francisco on Monday, so I have a ride up there if it's necessary. A little added adventure never hurt anyone.

Why am I writing this all down... probably because I'm so damn excited. A waterfall??? On an island??? I can't even imagine. I'm bringing my guitar and amanda has a recorder. I'm bringing one bag full of stuff (leaving the rest here in L.A. for now, my guitar, my laptop and a tent/sleeping pack.

My mom was worried about the difficulties I may encounter, not having any money and all. It's hard to explain to a mother that these sorts of journeys cultivate the wisdom of experience that is never fully understood when you just take your parent's word for it.

Ah. The weather is beautiful out here, cool and overcast. This weekend will be good for selling portraits on the beach. This is how I always wanted to live my life. It is good.

6/2/2006 - This Crazy Time in Our Lives

Peggy: "You know, this is a really crazy time in our lives."

Me: "Oh my god! it's the craziest time in our lives! I'm only recently realizing how amazingly free we are... we can go anywhere... we can do anything... and we can take care of ourselves. What an amazing thing to realize."

____________

I am thinking, what is this, some sort of 'coming of age' story? Of course it is.

Will I look back at all of this that I've written, and what will it mean to me, then? I've noticed I write in questions a lot recently. Suddenly, I am okay with that.

Yesterday I sat looking into the shining moonpie face of my neuroscience advisor, watching the joy ooze from his pores as he recounted the day that his daughter called him, to tell him, "Daddy, I just realized something amazing- I just realized that I can go anywhere, and do anything, and that I will be okay, and that I will be able to take care of myself. I can wait tables, I can type letters. I can serve drinks, or rule the country. I can do all of it."

His eyes were shining as he told me, "Her mother and I of course had known this all along, we'd known all along that she was capable of taking care of herself. We'd never worried about that. But to hear it come from her mouth..." The pride radiated from every cell of his being. If I were not so proper, I would have dropped to my knees in awe.


_____________________

I am experiencing something I feel compelled to document... not so much as a personal history but simply because it refuses to be contained. I discussed love and spiritual awakening over boba tea with Karina the other day, recounting with wistful melancholy the circumstances of my recent heartbreak (because everyone always asks why Nick and I no longer talk).

She brought up something that should have been obvious to me, just like my conversation with Nikola had, and my many conversations with Bjorn, and with Kate, and Peggy, and Mike, and Karen and the many other luminescent reasons why I had to come back to L.A.

"If you were still with Nick," she said, "Would you be on this adventure, this crazy journey of yours? Would you be going to Maui? Would you be so free?"

I concluded that I would not. Pondering this later that day, I was looking in the mirror at my face, not so much out of vanity but more to confirm whether or not I was the same person. I pulled on my hemp necklace, the one I had woven at the sime time I'd woven Nick's necklace, and also knitted his guitar strap for his birthday two years ago. It has not come off since.

I turned it around on my neck to look for the knot, where it had been tied and couldn't find it. It was an endless knot of woven strings, all the loose ends had been worn off long ago.

I tugged it closer to the mirror, to get a better look at it... my resilient token of the past... and with a slight pressure on the back of my neck I heard it snap.. and I held it in my hand, this necklace that had been a part of me for two years.

I am a sucker for symbolism.

I smiled to myself, and removed the other two necklaces that I wore around my neck, looking at my naked collarbones, one of them crooked and broken from being hit by a car when I was thirteen.

All of this change. My eyes are wide open and suddenly, all of this change is so beautiful, and so infinite in its possibility. Suddenly I felt all of this love for the sweat on my skin from the too-hot sun, and for the tears on my face. I felt all of this love for the wrinkle on the right corner of my mouth from all the smirking I'd done in my life, and for the thin-ness of the skin under my left eye, where you could see a tiny vein, because I cry too much.

I type this to acknowledge today that this was not the manic ecstacy of a hormonal surge, or an unusually good day, but a turning point- if only symbolic... of emerging from the other side of the jungle.... even if only to immerse myself in yet another.



_____________________

What are mantras?

To me, they are simple little things that we say to ourselves, and to each other- to remind each other about things we already know. A while ago I asked Karen, who is even greater a nomad than myself, what she did when she ran out of money, and options.

"You always have your friends. Your friends are always there for you. Chances are, they have been in the same position as you, and they know that you will help them, when they need it- and when you have the means to help them."

I remember when Alexia said to me with a laugh, that "Life is a problem. That's all it is! I have faith that you will solve it."

And talking to Amanda about Maui, and about going there, with no prospect for a job, or a place to live, or a goal, or purpose- other than adventure:

"Just listen to what your heart tells you to do. If you heart tells you to come to Maui, just come, and come without fear of uncertainty."

Bjorn has reminded me, always, of what true responsibility is. I worry so much about being responsible, and doing the right thing. The night I quit my job, and bought my plane ticket to L.A., she had told me:

"Your first and foremost priority, your biggest responsibility is your responsibility to yourself. You have to take care of yourself, because this world is cruel and will not take care of you. Responsibility is taking care of yourself."

Carl has given me too many -isms to document all of them. But I will always remember recieving a text message from him, while looking at birds at the zoo, the day after I quit:

"I am so proud of you, and your strength and resilience".

If not for my writing this now, with glistening eyes, he may never have known how much that statement will always mean to me.

The capacity of a human being to love another, to feel pride for and to care for them- the capacity we have to become a family, or to connect- if only briefly- is a phenomenon to be reckoned with. There is a godliness to that wisdom shared, and that connection. There is a universality that is illuminated when all of the light in the cosmos shines from our eyes during these moments of realization.

__________________

"To be left alone on the tightrope of youthful un-knowing is to experience the excruciating beauty of full freedom and the threat of eternal indecision. Few, if any, survive their teens. Most surrender to the vague but murderous pressure of adult conformity. It becomes easier to die and avoid conflicts than maintain a constant battle with the superior forces of maturity.

Until recently each generation found it more expedient to plead guilty to the charge of being young and ignorant, easier to take the punishment meted out by the older generation (which had itself confessed to the same crime short years before). The command to grow up at once was more bearable than the faceless horror of wavering purpose, which was youth.

The bright hours when the young rebelled against the descending sun had to give away to twenty-four-hour periods called 'days' that were named as well as numbered.

The Black female assaulted in her tender years by all those common forces of nature at the same time that she is caught in the tripartite crossfire of masculine prejudice, white illogical hate and Black lack of power.

The fact that the adult American Negro female emerges a formidable character is often met with amazement, distaste and even belligerence. It is seldom accepted as an inevitable outcome of the struggle won by survivors and deserves respect if not enthusiastic acceptance."

- Maya Angelou, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings

5/31/2006 - Fuck It, I'm Going to Maui

I have been feeling torn between my responsibility to my 2 unit class and my hunger for adventure and wandering.

Just yesterday I passed up the opportunity to hitch a ride to Seattle and hang out with Greg, but that was for a few reasons, mostly circumstantial. I finally got a chance to talk to my CIA (Companion in Adventure), Amanda and she's convinced that I HAVE to go experience what she's experiencing in Maui, and that I would appreciate it so much. I trust her judgment. we have been CIAs for a long time.

It costs only $150 for a one-way ticket to Maui from Los Angeles. Amanda spends $60/week there, all of which she earns during the week doing various tasks like gardening, or house-painting. She is supposed to call me back in a few hours, because she needs to talk to her friend, Dream (yes. her name is Dream) about having me for a roommate.

What is she doing there? Learning the art of Tantric Living. Eating fresh fruit off of trees. Gardening and playing in the ocean and in caves, dancing under the moonlight. I need to go. I can feel the pull.

Oi vey, but what about this summer class? What about the part-time job, and paying rent, and responsibility? How about that?

I run it by my good friend, Nikola Atanasov, my favorite Macedonian. Nikola is living his dream. He plays flute with unequivocable passion. He is now first chair flute for the Beijing National Orchestra, being paid well, and happier than ever living this great adventure of his.

I tell him about the class, and about my trying to be responsible and finishing my degree. This is what he tells me:

"Well, not that you should or will listen to me absolutely- but I would have no difficulty about picking maui and sailing and doing some tantra...those dont come up so often in life. School you can always go back to."

I bitch and moan a bit. It's only 2 units. TWO units seperating me from my neuroscience degree! and then he tells me that it is the same with him; Nikola still needs 3 units to graduate, as well. he has not officially graduated yet. He laughs about it and says it's a good excuse to get his student visa and come back to the states when he's ready to. I ask him,

Me: "Well what do you think I should do?'

Nikola: "What do you think I think? I'm not there, am I? I saw something better and I took it."

He's totally right. I can't put my life on hold for a class. The class can be put on hold for my life.

Here is a plan: I fly to Maui and learn Tantra with Amanda. And live with Dream. In August, we will return to the mainland by sailboat and found the Worldwide Gypsy Network (Amanda's idea... something about castles in Peru and Thailand). not sure about the WWGN... but the Tantra, and fresh fruit and ocean and sailboat sound great.

So fuck it, I'm going to Maui.

5/30/2007 - Personal Growth, or Sunstroke?

Something's gotta give. I've decided it's going to be me, and I'm going to do it with all the determination it requires! The last time I felt like this was when I decided to major in neuroscience, not only for my love of it, but to prove to myself that I could do it, that I was capable enough, and intelligent enough to double major in disparate fields.

Now, at the tail end of the chaos that is my higher education, I've decided to tackle this last class with all the passion I had when I took my first neuroscience class. Even if it is just a two unit statistics requirement, and even though I have already been working in the field for over a year.

Today I had to make a difficult decision: choosing between two good things. Showing the Catfish Whiskey boys around Los Angeles was a blast- I stood in the Pacific Ocean as the sun was setting and let the waves crash against my legs and wet the hem of my dress. I wet my hair with the water and let the salt encrust itself in it, making it stand on end as if I were a crazed beast emerged from the sea.

Kate graciously offered her porch to them for a night's rest... and what a porch it was. a huge porch overlooking all of Los Angeles, wide and green under the Hollywood sign. We cooked a deliciously spicy curry and laughed and talked. It was good to see those crazy Texans again.

Their tour leads them up through Seattle, and I was asked if I wanted to come along. I had to think hard about it. My heart wanted to continue wandering, and the thought of riding in a big giant blue bus with a bunch of rowdy Texan hippies up to Santa Cruz and San Francisco, through Oregon and meeting up with Greg in Seattle to pitch a tent among mountains and brew coffee in Twisp was so tempting. It sounded like an adventure to me, and I quite seriously considered packing up my few belongings an hopping onto the bus right then, off to who-knows-where.

I often think about the paths I have chosen not to take. I suppose this will be one of them. Because as much as I love to run off on an adventure, I have found my love, and my love is this book. I would like to go to grad school and work on the book as soon as possible. And in order to do that I need to finish school and officially get my degree.

I spent the day sitting under the sun and sweating everything negative out of my pores. I feel cleansed now, as if I know exactly what I need to do. There was so much indecision inside of me. I feel suddenly awake, and ready to focus. I feel a sense of responsibility, without feeling a sense of old-ness. I have a purpose, and it is a good purpose.

I'm ready.

5/20/2006 - Bathroom Synchronicity and Other Unmentionables

So I just came back from the bathroom just now (coffee is a diuretic) and as I was sitting there not thinking about a whole lot in particular, I noticed a copy of Stephen Hawking's Brief History of Time was sitting next to me.

The pages had been opened to (in this particular edition) page 145 and I read the following:

"The increase of disorder or entropy with time is one example of what is called the arrow of time, something that distinguishes the past from the future, giving a direction to time. There are at least three different arrows of time. First, there is the thermodynamic arrow of time, the direction of time in which disorder or entropy increases. Then, there is the psychological arrow of time. This is the direction in which we feel time passes, the direction in which we remember the past but not the future. Finally, there is the cosmological arrow of time. This is the direction of time in which the universe is expanding rather than contracting. "

I thought this was interesting, particularly because a few hours earlier I'd read a passage to Bjorn from one of the editorial collections I'm reading that struck me:

"Theology goes a long way toward imbuing substance and processes with meaning- describing life as "matter reaching toward divinity," or as the process by which divinity calls matter back to itself. But theologians mistakenly ascribe this sense of purpose to history rather than to the future. This is only natural, since the narrative structures we use to understand our world tend to have beginnings, middles, and ends. In order to experience the payoff at the end of the story, we need to see it as somehow built into the original intention of events.

It's also hard for people to contend with the likely possibility that we are simply overadvanced fungi and bacteria hurtling through the galaxy in cold, meaningless space. But just because our existence may have arisen unintentionally and without purpose doesn't preclude meaning or purpose from emerging as a result of our interaction and collaboration. Meaning may not be a pre-condition for humanity as much as a by-product of it.

It's important to recognize that evolution at its best is a team sport. As Darwin's later, lesser known but more important works contend, survival of the fittest is a law that applies mot as much to individuals as to groups. Likewise, most great leaps forward in human civilization, from the formation of clans to the building of cities, have been feats of collaborative effort. Increased survival rates are as much a happy side effect of good collaboration as its purpose.

If we could stop thinking of 'meaning' and 'purpose' as artifacts of some divine creative act and see them instead as the yield of our own creative future, they become goals, intentions, and processes very much in reach rather than the shadows of child-like, superstitious mythology."

- Douglas Rushkoff

________________

Anyway. I've been thinking about time manipulation a lot lately. The older I get the less strange it seems. Recurrent themes in the past few weeks:

the role of mythology in constructing our personal beliefs, purposes and journeys

the flexiblility of psychological time-space

the role and mechanisms of sex hormones in determining thought pattern frequencies (gotta look up studies on this... been interested in it for a while)

thinking about what words mean and then what words 'mean'. (e.g.- 'depressed' and 'history'... i am realizing that to be depressed does not equate feeling sad, nor does it need to be considered pathological... sometimes one merely feels 'pressed down and sluggish'.)

something I keep reading a lot lately, and that a few people have said to me in one way or another- and also something I have said to many people- Alexia said to me yeserday: "Life is a problem, that's all it is!" But she said it in such a joyous way. Like she couldn't wait to solve it. It made me realize that it's all about delivery, really. If you carry your cross like it's a feather it doesn't seem so burdensome anymore. If you learn to enjoy hiking you don't mind climbing that crazy mountain called life.

Hours and hours spent on the book. Sometimes a let a tear or two go reading writing. You people really touch my heart sometimes.

5/16/2006 - Analog to Digital

It's been a long time since I've written in a bound journal, and I am interested to see what sort of difference this will make as far as writing goes.

This is how it all started. Thoughts are viscous and fluid when they are flowing from the ink of a pen. There is a natural beginning and end to it as my fingers fatigue and the page runs out of space. When was the last time I really "wrote"?

It may just be the delirium produced by sitting in the sun all day... but my handwriting is dancing for me in a way that type-written work never could. I was saying to Karen earlier that we'd come full circle. I have been at the mercy of circumstance for the past few days; I've resigned myself not to the meticulous planning and execution of my own intentions, but rather to the intentions of hands that lead me- to the intentions of the hands of fate, and to the heartbeat and pulse of this city.

Finally (almost), I am learning to embrace change, and to fall and rise with it while still keeping my head more or less straight. Today I listened to people talk and asked a lot of questions. it is so beautiful to swim around in other people's minds. What mysteries.... what uncharted territory. I feel like a scientist venturing to wonder at the composition of the cosmos.

What are you, stranger? You are a delicacy fit for a king.

I have made a multitude of definitive statements lately, as in, "Listen here sir, this is this." It seemed to work for a long time as if that was where I needed to be right then. I am often in the habit of thinking in place, watching all other thoughts float by. Now I am reaching out into the world with a question mark in my hand and the thoughts are washing me free like warm water, or cold air. I want to listen more, I am liking being a listener. There is so much noise here and I want to listen to all of it. L.A. is a good place to be a listener because it is so full of voices dying to be heard.

There is so much purity and simplicity in our intentions. The overgrowth of confused motivations makes that difficult to see sometimes. We all want to touch and be touched in one way or another.

There are always two sides to me. I feel as if on the outside I seem conflicted and confused. I have done very little to indicate otherwise. On the other side of things though, I have never felt so much clarity in my life- I see a clear cut direction taking me on a journey of endless fulfillment. Shall I venture to say that this is my dream, and I am living it? Shall I venture to conclude that I feel a sense of purpose, and I can almost touch it?

5/14/2006 - Fate, Balance, Happenstance

tricked you. you thought this post was going to be 'deep', didn't you?

I am laughing in bemusement at the fact that I spent about an hour meticulously articulating my thoughts in a blog yesterday to explain what's been going through my head. It had to do with things like the things named in the title of this one. It was totally 'deep'.

Where is it, you say? That is a good question. I must have not clicked 'post'. So it has been transformed from non-matter into non-matter along with all the other digital trash. Can we be wasteful with our cyber space? Where are all the time-space fills? I would like to go dumpster diving in all the digital trash. I might find years of writing there. And then what.

It has been strange here, but I guess it always is. L.A. always leaves your stomach slightly upset, and puts your soul's energy slightly off balance, so you feel like you have to sort of stumble around like a fool, to keep that marble on top of that chopstick (you catch my drift?)

The nice part is the momentum and the energy of it. The hard part is the creeping notion in the back of your skull that you're a dancing dog in a tutu at a circus with many players, but no audience.

That metaphor was certainly exaggerated. I exaggerate a lot when I am here.

Last night I watched a homeless man selling flowers in downtown L.A. get shoved in front of a moving car by the bouncer in front of an art gallery full of 'hip, urban artists' (majority origin: middle-class suburbia and comfortable upbringing). I was at the Hive Gallery watching my friend Christopher Robin, who lives there, do some live painting. There was a scuffle and a lot of commotion and a pretty little white girl tried to stop the fighting between these two large angry Black men.

I didn't want to come to any conclusions about it, or think about Truth. I just wanted to leave, so I did. Mike's Droogmobile broke down about a block from where we parked. Zombie Jon took me to Adam's where I arm-swilled a handle of Jim Beam all night before taking a valium and passing out. I don't know if this is productive or not. I'm pretty sure it's not.

Today I'm hitching a ride to Venice Beach to wander around in solitude. Now I feel like it's been a while since I've been alone. I am frustrating myself trying to find a balance between solitude and socialization. Trying to find a balance. Trying to build a balance. I think Austin will be good for me. It's very hard to be/want to be alone in this city.

Don't get me wrong, I love L.A., and I love to see my friends and spend time with them. They are the most wonderful, mythological creatures. This is a wonderful, mythological place.

But I have this habit, wherever I am, of wanting to be somewhere else. To go go go

I can't tell if it's pathological or not, or if I'm just young and confused. I'm also not sure what the difference is. Anyway I should go. I have this old friend to visit, it's name is the Ocean.

5/9/2006 - Not Quite Awake

I haven't been here 24 hours yet and I feel like I'm dreaming.

I keep trying to explain to myself how I feel but it's far, far too overwhelming to put into words this early on. I won't really try, all I'll say is I can't stop smiling.

And it's not even that a whole lot has changed in my head, even though (pretty much overnight) everything, EVERYTHING has changed in my life. Bjorn picked me up from the airport and we rolled a spliff and drove around L.A. in his white convertible at 2 in the morning. We went from the airport up north through Venice Beach and santa monica, and then across through hollywood, through koreatown and thai town, echo park and silverlake and ended up at a ramen place in little tokyo around 4 in the morning, eating noodles and catching up. I love that there is always something to do, even at four in the morning.

I have not been away so long that the place feels unfamiliar. Driving through the city I can still give directions and point out good places to eat and shop. Everything looks and smells the same, familiar. I thought it would be hard to come back to my old house (memories of the ex), but it's just different enough to fend off memories, just the same enough to still feel like home. I love the smell of this house. I'm sitting on my old bed (now Bjorn's) in my old room (also now Bjorn's... she owned it first!) as I type this. This room has the best energy of any place in the world. It's the only place I have ever felt at home.

I said hello to the palm trees and the ocean. L.A. still smells bad and is noisy, and I still love all of it. I had a very strong feeling, smoking a cigarette on the porch, that I had never even left. There are new plants on the porch, Sonya has been taking good care of them- there are new cacti and flowers. My old bamboo windchimes and wooden twirly things are still hanging from the roof. My paintings are up around the house, and my old furniture and other little remnants from when I lived here. Chin-Chin, my kitten is now the House Cat and not a kitten at all anymore, but a chubby, happy beautiful creature with the same bitchin' personality. His alter-ego is Ninja Fur. Don't cross the Ninja Fur.

It feels SO GOOD to be home. God. I can't even explain.

Breakfast this morning at the Pantry with Chrisrobin and Bjorn. I couldn't stop smiling. I was close to catatonic with appreciation. The pancakes were delicious as usual and the post-Pantry condition will probably have me farting all day but it was worth it. So freaking happy to see old friends.

I feel lucky to stay in my old house. Even though many things have changed since I've left it helps me to feel grounded for the first time in a very very very long time. Tonight I hang out with Toben at the Cinespace to see Pony Up, the band he is making a music video for right now. I will be helping with puppeteering! Saturday I get to do some live mural painting with Chrisrobin and Mike at the Hive. Late this week I hope to meet up with Katie to discuss journalistic things, definitive literature on our generation and catching up with old friends. I've got a lot of people to catch up with.. I can't wait! Bjorn was right when she said today that "You don't make things happen in L.A., things happen to you in L.A."

I've gotten a few "What are you doing here?"'s so far and replied with a few "I don't know"'s already. This will probably continue to happen, and that's okay too. Bjorn says I'm a nomad and I guess she's right. Well that's about it for now. This is my first blog ever written in California! Neat. see this is why I never blogged here. Just too much.

5/5/2005 - How Do I Say How I Feel

I am engorged.
I am a cup overflowing.
A cornucopia of nonsense.
I am swollen with fear.

What am I doing?
Where am I going?
What am I seeing?
Who am I being?


My life is an open ended question, and I have the answer inside me somewhere, if only I could find it.

It occurred to me that I am not motivated by the pursuit of happiness but by a desire for fulfillment. I have come to realize that the two are not one in the same. This is why they are two different words.

I am being led into unknown territory by an invisible leash pulled by an unknown force.
I don't like to call it God.
I don't even like to call it a Concept.

I was listening to a story on NPR about Laney who finds her calling.

"I know what I'm going to do!"
"What is that?"
"I'm going to play the drums!"
"The drums? How did this come about?"
"I don't know, I was in the music store, and I saw them, and they were beautiful and shining at me, and red, and I realized, I am a drummer, this is my purpose in life"
"But where are you going to get drums?"
"I don't know!"
"How are you going to afford them?"
"I don't know!"
"How are you going to learn them?"
"I don't know!"
"What are you going to do, then?"
"I don't know! I don't know! All I know is I am (insert many drummers' names here), I have it inside me, and I am a rockstar!"

At this time I'm realizing I am being silly because tears are welling but not falling and I feel my heart become full and lift itself up in my chest, pulling again against some unknown force (neither God nor Concept). I am driving home and I feel its pull, and I am wondering where it is in such a hurry to go.

The tension drives me mad, and the tears threaten to form. I am changing lanes and trying to function as an element of the Highway Machine, but find it impossible to focus. Don't they know that my heart is trying to fly away, even as it is tethered to an anchor, and that the anchor is somewhere inside me? Don't they know how terribly distracting it is?

The story on the radio has switched gears and a woman with a Jewish accent is going on about the show Roseanne and she is slightly annoying, talking about scriptwriting and Mel Brooks. The pull starts to fade.

I am left with the words echoing in my head. Recycling back, periodically pulling. Periodically lifting me up to tiptoe on the convex layer of oxygen molecules that hold together what would otherwise be an unapologetic outpouring of atoms. I am doing this consciously. Bringing myself to the brink.

"What are you doing?"
"I don't know!"
"Where are you going?"
"I don't know!"
"Why are you doing this?"
"I don't know! I don't know! I don't know where I am going, or why I am doing this. I don't know what is right and wrong. I don't know how to go about it. But this is me. This is me. This is ME."

I think about it over and over again. About the joy and terror of replying "I don't know" and the overwhelming right-ness of it. I step out of my car and lock the door. I walk toward my apartment and think about how this is the last day I will be at my apartment. I think about last night and saying goodbye and my last weekly Thursday seeing Keegan's band play- one of the few rituals in my life. I think about how much more you appreciate people, and places and experiences when you experience them for the last time.

I think about how I was sad when I turned ten, because I would no longer have a one digit age.

I think about crying when I graduated the fifth grade, knowing I would never be 10 and in elementary school, and reading Tom Sawyer under my desk while the teacher talked. How I would never see so-and-so again and how I would forget their name some day.

I am so very sensitive about things. I always remember feeling silly about it. About being sad and crying. But as I let two tears run down my face as I am walking to my apartment door I am not really feeling silly or sad; instead I am understanding something a little better about myself because I feel so strong, even though I am shaking and almost crying, and truly terrified. I feel a strength unparalleled. I feel a push, even as my heart pulls.

I realize I love this fullness I am feeling. I love that I can feel it. I love it's touch, and the invisible leash and my intangible force. It is beyond me. I love it so much I can barely contain it.

5/5/2006 - Taking the Gamble

notes on transitions, change and 'stuff'.

I think the reality of my situation is finally starting to settle in.

I'm going to California in TWO DAYS and I'm not totally sure why.

I woke up just now, it's not yet 8am in Sally's house realizing I should probably have my 'exit interview' at work so that I may officially quit my job before I leave for L.A. for an undetermined amount of time. I will probably leave the apartment I've been living in for the past five months today, as well.

I think I'm starting to feel a little anxious. It's either that, or I have indigestion. Or maybe it is the residual alcohol running through my veins from my (last) time seeing Keegan's band at the Moon.

Either way I have this feeling of being on the verge of something, instead of just feeling stuck- this once very familiar feeling is now foreign and a little intimidating, but something I am more than excited to delve into again.

The Good Dr. Blake (Mr. Philosophy at TCU) asked me last night, 'what if the decision you made leads to a lot of difficulty, hardship and pain?'

I had only somewhat considered this because I feel like an optimistic frame of mind is what keeps the faithful blessed. But in reality I am more pragmatic than that, and I'd thought about it and said 'then I will try to appreciate that experience just as much'.

I have no pre-conceived notions of Fantasyland in L.A. I've spent enough time there to know that most of the time it isn't easy there, and far from perfect- people asked me what I was going to do there and I shrugged. Because I don't fucking know. It could go any direction, and for this, part of me is frightened.

I am indulging in the reckless abandon of my youth... and not completely sure of the path I am taking. It is not the 'responsible' path- that was the path I was on, and unhappy with.

The biggest habit I need to break is my fear of change.

The biggest lesson I need to learn- not to kick myself for placing myself in a gamble, and for wandering in the dark- looking for something more. Not to kick myself if it doesn't turn out perfect, because it never will- and there is no point in kicking yourself when you are already down.

I must remind myself that the life's path I've chosen, and will choose over and over again, will be filled with discomfort, uncertainty, self-doubt and self-reckoning- and that I will constantly encounter the possibility of failure. How's that for your hero archetype, Joe Campbell. You generalist. You so crazy.

I wish I knew why this is the right thing to do. I don't know if it is- I just know that where I was- in that job, in that place in my head- was not where I needed to be. It was like turning a camera on itself- interesting at first, but ultimately providing little further information no matter how time progressed.

The most important things I have learned while being here:

That, while it is lonely at times, I much prefer this life of solitude (without the distraction and wasted time of having a boyfriend)- the deeper rooted meaning of this- how to stand on my own two feet in every way (emotionally, spiritually, individually)- with, of course, the help of good friends at the times when I need it most. I almost want to thank Nick for completely obliterating my trust in men because, other than just breaking my heart, the past year has taught me to rely on myself- and for this, I am eternally grateful to the hands of fate.

I have learned how easy it is to write, everyday, even when I have nothing to say (what the practical application of this is, I don't know- but I feel much more sane and cognizant because of it, and it is arguable that I've become more articulate when I speak as well). It's not about 'blogging' or whether or not people read these things. I write almost every day. For whatever reason, that means a huge deal to me... and doesn't really need to mean anything to anyone else.

Some day though, I am going to create something that will touch your hearts.

And not in that child molester sort of way. A generalized statement reflecting a generalized goal- which, nonetheless, will be met- because I see no other point.

not to self- Blake was right when he said you'd brought up a really good point at the Steve Best lecture (on land ethics and animal rights.. it's been a strange week), but that it could have been better executed. (refer to structure of the previous sentence and current run-on sentence/overuse of parentheticals and sentence fragments for example... what kind of editor could I possibly be?). All this writing is thoughtful but lacks any semblance of organizational structure. I always look at it and think to myself, 'this is how it came out just now, i will organize it later' and i just realized that i approach pretty much everything in my life this way, and that it never gets organized. so step two. learn to organize your statements and choose your words carefully. The thinking part is alright. Now represent your thoughts in a way that does justice to the effort put forth when formulating them. More generally: Josephine, learn how to organize your life. You will be so much happier once you know where everything is.

4/25/2006 - Hormones

hormones are a strange thing.

this wave of 'something' has hit me like an air train. I wouldn't call it depression... while loosely defined, it would classify as such- I'd rather call it a sudden sense of 'lack of motivation'.

I had the hardest time getting out of bed since I was in college. I woke up and watched the minutes go by on my clock and didn't care. I didn't even care that I was an hour and a half late to work. On my drive to work, a cloud hung over my head weighing me down (the thought occurred to me that this 'cloud' is probably just a headache... it is). On a lighter note, the weather today is my favorite weather- slightly misty and cool, with a breeze and overcast clouds that mute the colors of the day. Reminds me of early mornings in Napa Valley growing up, 7am time-to-go-to-school. It was uplifting, in a temporary nostalgic sort of way. Either way it felt fantastic.

I go through these brief periods of inexplicable (grief?) bad moods where I feel far away from myself, watching myself from outside experiencing things that appear to be beyond my control. This pretty much pisses me off, especially in lieu of the fact that I give anyone shit who says things like, "I can't help it" or "I can't do anything about it". The truth being, as I realize now and again in these ruts, that there's not a whole lot you can do at the time- except be conscious that these things pass with time. This I know, and believe.

The mysteriousness of it lies in the fact that not a whole lot in particular has changed about my situation. The sudden shift in perspective comes as just as much of a surprise to me as it does to anyone around me. It's baffling. I like to take the high road and blame it on hormones.

Since these times are cyclical, and come and go with the tides (and the moon), it seems logical. Furthermore, during the brief time that I attempted to take birth control, I had the chance to see what it was like to truly observe the jarring effects of a sudden high concentration of these little lipid-based bastards. The uncontrollable crying freaked the shit out of me, especially since I knew I wasn't even sad or upset about anything. I found myself trying to come up with explanations for the crying, but it doesn't work that way- if you're crying for a reason, you should know exactly what that reason is.

So yeah, hormones. It's awfully strange, the lack of motivation thing. I feel pretty dysfunctional, but terribly sentient at the same time. Oh, to be a woman.

I've been e-mailing my Lolo (my grandfather, for you non-Filipinos) back and forth about going to the Philippines, and when is the best time. He wants me to come right away, and I am thinking about it. Now more than ever I would like to get away and disappear. I would like to make my personal myth rich with detail- a story worth telling. Will recommended me Campbell (that mythologist-refer to previous blog) a while back and it seems to be exactly what I need to read right now. It is along the grain of how I feel anyway- talking on the phone with Alexia:

Alexia: "What do you want out of life, Josephine?"

Me: "I want to live a life worth telling."

It's always been this way. I don't know why, but it's true.

4/20/2006 - mirror/\rorrim

Writing in this blog for the past six months or so has sort of modified the way that I organize my thoughts. Every time I have something going on my head, a little morsel of food for thought, so to speak, I always feel the need to write it down, even in a sentence or so... to record it for posterity's sake. I seem to think it's important, to me, at least.

Lately though, the thoughts keep coming, and I still keep wanting to record them, but then I think to myself- what's the point. Since I can't come up with a reasonable explanation I sort of lose the motivation to write them down. I have a feeling this post is going to end up ironic. Alanis Morissette ironic, I mean.

Earlier today, I was thinking about how I've been complaining a lot. I don't know why, I am quite blessed. So I want to write down a list of the ways that I am blessed in this life, because there are many, many ways that I am blessed and I don't want to take them for granted whilst I bitch and moan the way that I do. I wanted to count my blessings- and I'm thinking to myself, "I should remember to type out a list of my blessings on The Myspace when I get to work." This notepad is at hand.

I always want to record my adventures, too. I don't mind doing it, I like to tell stories, I love to tell stories. But I guess most of the time lately, I feel like I'm repeating myself, or merely regurgitating information. I never got around to telling the story of my camping trip with the guitar-playing 50-year-olds and the one-armed fisherman, but I don't see the point because I already remember the whole story from telling it (in person) to people.

I guess a big part of why I write in this thing is to record things that I know I'll probably forget, but do not think I should. I'd been spending a lot of solo time lately, which lends itself to writing- the kind that makes me think of facing two mirrors toward each other and standing in between. As I try (awkwardly) to emerge from my self-isolation, I find that recounting incidents verbally helps me remember something else- it becomes a story that always changes, which is fascinating in its own respect.

The good thing about having thoughts written down though, is that I have a chance- should I find myself confused (this never REALLY happens of course)- to at least pretend to sort out my thoughts in a pragmatic fashion. This is useful when things feel hopeless, and you need to be reminded that there is always hope, and that everything is progress (thanks, science).

During the whole fiasco with the ex I felt it was absolutely imperative to write. I didn't want to forget how I felt at any given point, or lose sight of why things are the way they are. I didn't want that sort of nostalgia-clouded confusion. I don't know if I thought about this consciously... but the ability to reflect rationally on the situation when necessary is well-appreciated upon retrospect. It's good to remind yourself why you don't need to talk to someone anymore. Sometimes you forget and risk making yourself a bigger fool than you've already proven yourself to be. I am okay with being a fool. I just want to be a fool who learns from her experiences... so that some day I may be a wise fool.

These are all interesting introspective practices- a form of narcissism (maybe?) that I have characteristically indulged in as long as I can remember. I was a prolific self-portrait painter back when I was a prolific painter. I made a point of painting at least one a year because I always thought it was interesting how self-representation changes throughout our life. Thinking about it now though, and proven throughout history by everything from the painting caveman to myspace, infatuation with self-representation is not an uncommon thing. We are all nonparticles trying to prove we exist.

I don't see anything wrong with it, either. Know thyself, and you know the universe.

______________

notes:

the light storm last night put the fear in me. it was the most beautiful thing i'd seen in a long time.

our furniture is gone and our bathtub is porcelain white. things are about to change in a big way.

some people don't get my jokes. they think i'm being serious and then i come off as either abrasive or retarded.

some people find my habit of laughing when people make fantastic facial expressions unsettling. They think I am laughing at them, but I'm not- I'm laughing because I love peoples' faces and how much they communicate. I wish they knew.

do people think i'm a big jerk? i dunno. maybe i am, or maybe i just question my epistemological perspective to an exaggerated degree. my self-esteem is at a healthy level. my self-doubt is not.

i hope that some day i will remove all this armor... perhaps i will feel lighter

4/12/2006 - What a Day For a Daydream

The weather is getting really warm and I'd forgotten how much I missed the sun.

When I drive home from work I roll all the windows down and open my sunroof to let the sun pour in. The breeze smells like early spring pollen and transcience. Because weather like this is transient in Texas. Fifteen minutes of every day I can pretend I'm driving to the beach like I used to do almost every day when I lived in California. My skin is starting to turn brown from lounging in the sun every weekend with the guitar and the Ollie.

The summer is coming and I want to be outside every second. I've got the itchy foot. i've got it like an epidemic in every cell of my body.

I just finished watching some sort of Jacques Cousteau (or some progeny thereof) documentary on the PBS. They were on Midway Island, helping a bunch of twenty-something year-old volunteers gather old fishnet trash from the corral reefs and putting them into piles on the beach where they can just look ugly instead of killing fish. In the television they held onto planks of wood and got dragged through the ocean looking for nets. They were being dragged but they looked like they were flying, it was beautiful. I could feel their adrenaline. When they saw a net they'd let go and drop off into the water, sinking and start cutting away at the nets. It was like treasure hunting. I cried a little because I wanted so badly to be a twenty-something year-old fishnet gatherer in the ocean on and island. But instead I've found myself wearing a labcoat and killing things, and not saving them.

Amanda is in Hawaii farming now. Rob is about to take a Great Roadtrip Adventure. Hearing all these stories makes me think back on the adventures I've had in my life. I'm not done. I'm not done! I am so hungry to be free. I don't want to be the person that makes fantastic plans and never follows through on them. I don't.

On that note I propose another idea, and not really a plan (yet). It is somewhat linear. My job ends in June which is fantastic. I would like to go to L.A. for a while and face my past and transform it into my present. Then I would like to fly onward to Hawaii and visit Amanda on the farm. Then I would like to fly onward to the Philippines to see my beloved grandparents and to wander alone on an island.

My dream is to find a job mending huts or canoeing people to caves in exchange for food and a place to sleep. I want to be able to sleep in the sand on the beach. I want my skin to turn a deep brown like a Filipino girl should be. Most of all I want to see the blue blue water and the white white sand. I want to face my fear of the Pacific. I want my year of solitude to climax into a finale of Suddenly Finding Myself in Paradise.

I know I'm idealizing it. I know it won't be this way. But I know it will certainly be something. And I would like some thing. I dream too much. This is the time in my life to make these dreams come true, or else I will wake up and my reality will be dull and grey. I'm going to take a night drive now, and have a thought. I want to watch people walking. Where do people walk, here.

4/10/2006 - On Lost Friendship

I was thinking about this a lot. It seems like we're always told that parting ways is a natural event. Our paths cross, we go our seperate ways... most of the time we come back to each other, a lot of the time we don't.

I always wonder then, if it is such a natural thing, why it is so difficult for us. A person either leaves a hole in our hearts when they go, or else that hole heals up- and we're left with a vague memory that at some point, that person had a place in your heart. This fills me with confused nostalgia and I wonder how we could have become so unimportant to each other. Even though I shouldn't, I question whether I even know what love and friendship are. (Because I think, for some reason, that these things should be everlasting).

Either way it kind of doesn't feel so good. I don't know what my point was. I always try to find a point. Maybe the wounds don't heal as cleanly for a reason, maybe those conformational changes allow us to become something else and grow. I hope it's not the other way around, I hope it doesn't make us rigid and mean. I don't think it does. I think it can, but I don't think it does.

I think losing people allows us to better appreciate the people we have kept in our life. Some of my closest friendships are approaching the decade mark. I met people out camping who had been friends for 30 years.. much longer than I've been alive. It is an amazing thing, lasting friendship. It is a blessing.

4/1/2006 - Jamming with Mommy

I totally jammed out with my mom. It was as cool as it sounds. MAYBE cooler.

She taught me a James Taylor song (honestly I don't really know who this guy is) and a few Beatles songs, Here Comes the Sun and Let It Be. This is how my mom sang when we were playing:

"Let It Be"

C-ing is the C-ing is the C-ing is the C-ing,

C-ing words of G-sdom, Let it F, Let it C

Refrain: Let it C, Let it G, Let it F, Let it C, C-ing word of G-sdom, let it F, Let it C!

.... and yes. She pronounced G-sdom the way you think she pronounced it. Like "gizzdom".AND she did it all in her Big Bird voice. I was laughing so hard I thought I might pee myself. Seriously. Anyone who has seen my mom be silly immediately stops wondering where I get it from.

It's really cool to see my mom pick up a guitar and start playing it, especially since she never does. I could tell that once she was a fucking rockstar, before she popped my brother and I out and put away the instruments to change diapers, etc. for the past 22 years (not that she's still changing my diapers. I change my own now, thanks very much.)

She used to be a concert pianist in the Philippines, and she also plays organ (who plays organ anymore? My mom has a really old organ in our house. It's amazing.) and sings. I see pictures of her when she was my age and I think she was gorgeous, andway cooler than I am now. My aunt tells me she used to be really into astral projection and trance-like meditative states, etc. She was a psychology major in college, specializing in abnormal psychology.

It's all kind of hard to believe, now that she's this ultra-conservative 9 to 5er who likes her American flag on the front porch and voted for Bush. But every once in a while I catch glimpses of something here and there that make me think maybe I wasn't adopted after all.

Did I mention my mom is crazy? Because she is. I always worry that I'm as crazy and temperamental as she is, so I try to be as fair and consistently mellow as possible. It's a toss of the coin whether or not I get her on a 'crazy' day. I think tonight I got her on an 'effin' awesome' day. It was great, we played for an hour and a half and she got up and said,

"My fingers hurt now and my wrist. You keep F-ing and C-ing, I'm gonna go make poop."

Later on that night i'm eating tapioca pudding and my mom says she likes to put evaporated milk in her tapioca pudding. I ask her what the difference is between evaporated milk and condensed milk. She says, "One is evaporated. One is condensed."

As if I hadn't learned anything from her first response I ask her if she knows what tapioca is made of. "Tapioca pearls." she says.

"Yeah, but what are the pearls made of?"

"Pearls. The pearls are made of pearls." She says. Amazing.

3/29/2006 - Larry

Sometimes when I am waiting for the elevator to pick me up I hear a voice. If I press the 'up' button and the elevator is going down, it slides right past my floor and I hear the voice ascend and descend accordingly. My favorite part is the chuckling. You can hear it grow and fade in volume;

fourth floor, hehehehehe

third floor, HEHEHEHEHEHE

second floor, hehehehehe

first floor, ........hehe.....

basement.

In spite of the talking and chuckling, and especially when I am not paying attention, Larry the Janitor and I startle each other at least once a day stepping on and off the elevator. When this happens, I jump and Larry chuckles. It goes like this:

Me: "!"
Larry: *chuckle chuckle*

Before Larry steps onto the elevator he is always saying something in a very excited way. He continues to talk as he pushes the button. It's like he's having a conversation with an old friend, only he's not talking to me really, and no one else is there.

Larry is the only person I really like listening to while he talks to himself. Most of the time I find it incredibly disturbing and annoying, but when Larry talks to himself I love it because Larry never has anything bad to say.

Today I am riding on the elevator with Larry and his big blue dumpster cart. "It's a grey, grey day," he says, and I don't say anything, I just listen to him. "It's terribly grey and rainy."

He looks up at the sky and I follow his gaze, but I don't see anything except for the grated elevator ceiling with the tiny circulating fan behind it that's supposed to help us breath in this metal box.

"Ye look up at the sky and all you see is grey." He closes his eyes and shakes his head and for a moment I think I might not hear him chuckle this time. But then he opens his eyes and cracks the biggest smile I've ever seen. The kind that squeezes the water out of your eyeballs like they're sponges and pushes it all to the corners of your eyes, making them sparkle and holler in jubilation.

"Oh but just a while ago all that grey broke apart just a little bit,"

He's looking up at the sky again. "And there was our glorious sun, and it was just shining down on all of us, and it lit up the world just for a second..." There's the chuckle. I am so happy to listen to Larry talk.

".... thank you Lord, for this day. Thank you for this day, Lord!" He lets loose a rich, deep laugh as he walks out of the elevator and pushes his big blue dumpster into the hallway. His laughter fades away as the doors close and he walks away from me; and I am left almost, but not quite, the way I began: speechless.

There are angels among us. I know it, I love it.

3/19/2006 - Letter to Christopher

Some person I don't know sent me the following message, duplicated for you below:

----------------- Original Message -----------------
From: Christopher
Date: Mar 19, 2006 12:02 AM

Hello Person.

What are you worth? No, that's a bad way to begin an introduction. Hopefully, I eradicated its bad-ness by saying that it was bad. But this is nonsense.

Let me be straight with you, and save the elaborations for a later message. This is the important information. You sound interesting, so you might be able to help me. I am the kind of person seeping with creative potential, but I am the victim of solitude. I need to develop a sense of society with other people.

No, not straight enough. I'm thinking I need a job as a screenwriter's assistant, or some job in the business where I can get noticed. And it all begins by knowing people. You're a person, so I might be able to use you. Not in the offensive dejected sense, but in the friendly, cordial, I've got nothing to lose by contacting you because I don't have anything you can take from me.

But even if you can't help me in the directly practical sense, that's fine. We can communicate to eachother with these symbols and see what ideas evolve.

By the way, my myspace has nothing on it, as you can see, because you're the first person I've ever contacted with this apparatus. Take it as a compliment of initiation.

-------------------------------------------------------------

And it prompted me to write the following response:

"Hey Christopher

Your logic is somewhat fuzzy and you come off as reasonably sociopathic. If you are really 18, then disregard this statement. All 18 year-olds are sociopathic. You're on your way. Self-consciousness can be a valuable tool when it comes to personal growth.

Self-proclaimed victims of solitude are victims only of self-proclamation. I talk to a lot of people that consider themselves socially isolated. Some cases are worse than others, but it's a universal condition. Even if you had 2000 friends in the movie industry you'd feel isolated and solitary.

The comfort lies in knowing we are all alone together. The thing that seperates us is also what binds us together.

The first step to establishing a relationship with the rest of society is to have the desire to empathize with it. When pursuing a career in film it should be innate to consider your audience's point of view. When talking to a producer and trying to convince them you are a capable, articulate director you have to intuitively tune in to that person's body language and say the right things. It takes a lifetime to develop these sorts of skills, but if you don't have it, you've got nothing. The roots of human nature lie in the ability to empathize, form social networks, and communicate with one another.

Let's take what you wrote me, for example:

" I'm thinking I need a job as a screenwriter's assistant, or some job in the business where I can get noticed. And it all begins by knowing people. You're a person, so I might be able to use you. Not in the offensive dejected sense, but in the friendly, cordial, I've got nothing to lose by contacting you because I don't have anything you can take from me."

First off, thank you for being honest. That's a good quality to have because you will consistently get useful feedback about yourself, and not whoever it is you made yourself up to be. You're right. It does begin by knowing people. By that I mean- really KNOWING people. That leads me to something you should never forget, because you will never get ANYWHERE socially or professionally if you maintain this mentality- people are not commodities.

You can't use me, because I am not like a pencil, or a computer. I am like you. People have their own free wills, their own social inclinations, and most importantly their own intuitions about who they trust, confide in, bond with and form both personal and professional relationships with. Most importantly, I want to emphasize- they have the CHOICE whether or not to do so.

I do not know you, and you have bluntly referred to me as if I am a commodity. This in no way made me feel indebted to reply. However, I tend to float on the more charitable side of the spectrum, and more importantly, I tend to enjoy rattling off in general- so regardless of this, I offer my advice.

It is clear to me that you have placed yourself on the defensive, assuming that I would have any desire to take anything from you. Very protective of you, but you're also alienating yourself in your defense. What I gather from what you wrote me is that you're incredibly self-involved. Don't take that that wrong way at all. We are all of us, INCREDIBLY self-involved. We can't help it.

It's a fine line and I've got to go to work now, so just remember a few things:

never be presumptuous about where you stand in other people's perspectives if you don't care to understand their point of view. That's a breeding ground for delusion and it's never going to get you anywhere

people will only care to help you to the extent that you care to help them. "Care" is the key word there. That jesus guy was on to something, you know what I mean?

unless you're incredibly mind-blowingly talented in an idiot sauvante sort of way, work on getting over the sociopathy. It's crippling, and those genius people i speak of, they're not really sociopathic they're just kind of retarded and pseudo-sociopathic autists. People that want to use other people in order to emancipate themselves from solitude are setting themselves up for a lifetime of walking around in circles. best of luck with all that-

over and out,

Jo

3/15/2006 - Photojournal - Austinsconsin

This is the longest I've gone without writing something on this techno-contraption since September, when things started falling apart.

I've noticed, in my case, that it's difficult for me to write down my thoughts when things are going well. This past weekend was a blur of adventure and the next few months (and more likely a lifetime) will most likely promise the same.

Sometimes you're left so satisfied that the words escape you, or you feel it is impossible to do justice to the story... but I'll attempt to re-cap for the same reason I write about the low times- in an effort to document the beautiful little intricacies and details I've experienced in my short time on this planet- gathered like a storyteller's palettethat I may usesome day to tell a story that brings a tear or a smile, or a moment of connect- anything worthwhile like that is worth the effort.

In time's transgressions these sorts ofdetails lay dormant and rarely ignited... all we remember is 'this was good', or 'that was not-so-good'- and it is impossiblefor us to remember that it was once so much more.There is something magical about forgetting... and being given a chance to remember. It adds a richness to your life that spans beyond anything you ever thought you knew at any given moment.I like to think I'm storing all this for a perpetually incomplete project- what I used to think of as My Great Masterpiece, and what I now think of as Just My Life.

Toben and Ross came into town on Tuesday and I did not sleep for a few days in an effort to maximize hanging-out-time while still working. It was absolutely fascinating to spend time with Toben in my hometown. It is hard to explain, and somewhat relates to what I said earlier- in our lives chapters close and others open, and it is always stunning to see a character from one part of your life in a time and place that seems to be happening to a completely different person (me) in a completely different place (here... now). It is like turning around and suddenly seeing yourself, or rather, the person you were, staring equally perplexed right back at you.

It is not necessary for me to say that I was happy to see Tobe. But there it is.

The first night was spent laying low with spliffs and Shiners. Toben taught me to play a beautiful waltz on the guitar as Ross photographed the whole thing with his amazing camera and even more amazing eye. It was 6am before I knew it and time for me to go to work.

The next night we ate barbeque at the Railhead and then had some whiskey and beer atthe White Elephant Saloon and played some shuffleboard;back home,I was delirious from drink and lack of sleep but heard good conversation out my window and walked out to see two really Good Wisconsin boys sharing beers with my Cambodian neighbor and explaining their passion for puppetry and filmas my neighbor sipped his beer with wide eyes. I told them I wished they would sit on my porch every night, and talk about such beautiful things. Tobe showed me a music video for death cab for cutieby our friend Ace that brought a tear to my eye.

Friday I rented a little red Dodge Neon and picked up Ollie and Lynne for our adventure in Austin. We got to the Dobie Theatre just in time to plant ourselves in seats next to Toben and company as the lights went out.

It was a music video screening at SXSW and it escapes words so I will not attempt. Later that night tossed juice boxes out the window and into Craig's truckbed where Toben and Ross were sitting to follow them to the SXSW opening party. Drank quite a bit of whiskey and Lone Star on a free tab and played foosball with strange filmmakers that hailed from all over. They play foosball just like anyone else. Except those Wisconsin boys, they were pros.

Got to dance around with Tobe in a drunken frenzy which was fantastic, because nobody else can dance like Toben. Played some pool with Ross and ran upstairs just in time to see Toben give a security guard a friendly slap on the cheek, get harnessed by the nape and escorted roughly out of the bar.

We'd lost Ollie and Lynne (both underage) in the frenzy, but luckily they found their way back, they said, to Brown Sugar by the Rolling Stones blaring off the old record player and a general good-hearted rowdy house. I don't remember much of this part, but I do remember being thrown over Toben's shoulder and chipping a mug on his forehead, giving him a goose egg on the noggin. It was an accident. I felt bad, but it was funny and Toben is okay. Later, belligerently rough-housing with Ollie and Lynne, tackling and wrestling. Man do I love a good wrastle when I drink whiskey.

The next morning was bleary eyed and blurry with shirtless wisconsinites basking in the humid noonday Austin sun on the back porch... the dog (Cash) quietly seeking affection and hot coffee in ceramic mugs.

The boys went to some more film screenings and Ollie, Lynne and I wandered blissfully the city of Austin, no map necessary, because of lack of destination, finding little treasures all along the way. It did not take me long to fall in love with Austin. There is an energy to it- an at-home feeling-that I have not felt since Portland, only with the familiar grit of all that is Texas. It made me proud to be Texan so I bought a pair of beat-up cowboy boots.

That night we loaded a cooler full of beer and met everyone out at the Salt Lick, a gigantic barbeque house 40 minutes outside of Austin with an hour and a half wait blissfully spent drinking coolerbeer and playing/talking/listening to the country band/boot-tapping.

The Salt Lick is an all-you-can-eat barbeque mecca. The food is fantastic. Five of the boys ordered the all-you-can-eat barbeque, determined to get 'the meatsweats'. They served the kind of plates of meat you'd see in the Flintstones- tip-the-wagon-over-heaping.

On the way back to the city, took a beef-coma nap in Craig's truckbed with Nate and Toben, boots hanging off the tailgate next to the beer cooler, big-eyed Moon shrouded in veils of grey clouds as our ceiling,traditional americana folk tunes blaring out of the cab of the truck, which was kicking up dust every which way. It was a tranquil, perfect moment Only In Texas.

Went to an after-party for a screening after dinner but it was difficult to get drunk/rowdy at a bar with all the meatsweats going around. We hadn't the energy, only the euphoria. So we headed home for what looked like might be an early night, but then the guitars (and banjoes... and harmonicas... and washboards... and drums) came out and a 'jam session' unfolded that completely escapes words.

It all happened so naturally. A microphone set gently in the center of the room as old friends spoke and took turns playing in such a fluid fashion that it could never be duplicated as a performance. Ifelt so luckyto witness it. Craig, Chris (I think that was his name... from American Graveyard in Austin), and Toben, taking turns playing and singing in their own ways, rotating instruments, Cale on the banjo, Craig on the washboard- my little Eileen getting a blessed amount of play. Ross woke from his slumber ("Sounded real good") and began to shoot photographs of the whole thing.

We were up until six in the morning and I was ecstatic, getting a generous dose, in every way, of everything I'd been needing and wanting and lacking in my life for the past few months. Which is not to say that I have not been satisfied- I have found inspiration in every dark damp corner and concrete landscape.

It just felt so rich. I felt so rich. I FEEL so rich.

I left the next morning, blissfully reflecting on that past week's events andenjoying the company of Ollie and Lynne, two of the most beautiful girls I've ever spent a length of time with. Everything worked out perfectly, in every way. Because we just knew it would, and so it did.

There is a lot more to this story lost between the cracks of my flawed memory, and edited for the sake (unsuccessfully) of brevity. I speak of remembering things in terms of 'it was good' and 'it was not so good'- as if it werean over-simplifiedthing- but- it's just as much the truth as any detailed account would be.

It was good. Let it all fall through the cracks, because the feeling never will.

____________

I've thought about it and decided to move to Austin instead, not because I've given up on NYC. But because it feels right, and because sometimes omens pull us in directions we never expected.

I'm in love with the city and I barely even know it. Sometimes though, it just feels right. Only time can tell if that love is a lasting love. Even if it's not in the end- which most likely it will not be, because I have a tendency to wander... I still love it right this moment. Right now it is real, and right now it is right.

Spent last night playing guitar with Amanda, and it was wonderful and amazing and new, because we are at the same skill level and we could play for hours together (we did).

She convinced me to run down to Austin for the day for a bit of shenanigans, which I could not turn down, in spite of hair dying with Sally and Clap Your Hands Say Yeah. You do thoughtless stupid things when you're in love, I guess. I leave in a few hours.

My ex's cousin IMed me a few days ago asking why I don't talk to him anymore. It seemed obvious to me, although I hold no malice or ill-feeling in any way towards him, or even my ex. It is a closed chapter. There is nothing more to say. He asked how I was, and I told him I was happy with my life. He told me to keep fooling myself, and I couldn't help but laugh.

It is truly a gift to be given the chance to love your life as an individualhuman being- to experience life knowing that you are complete even (and especially) when you are completely on your own. Maybe that's difficult to understand from any other perspective. But that's the charm of the whole situation... it's so good to me, and only I know that... and its validity can not be proven outside of the confines of my mind and heart, nor does it need to be.

Although it is perplexing to me why Mike even contacted me, it's unimportant. The low blow was no blow- as my distance from that part of my life is more than just physical. The good memories are like reading a good book. Nick is a character in a story now, and I'm sure, if I have even been committed to his memory, that the same goes for me.The bad memories- they're just a real simple story:

"It was not-so-good. But things are better now."

2/27/2006 - Say Think Do Make

Saturday was the perfect day. It was the kind that brings tears to your eyes and a hint of a smile and makes you realize what is important. It started off as a stumble- late to work, a traffic jam, fresh out of cigarettes and me cursing in silent frustration at marathon runners and getting lost and lost and lost. And lost.

Due to circumstance I tried unsuccessfully for about half an hour to just get my car across Camp Bowie Blvd. I don't mind waiting as long as I have a cigarette. Which I did not. It was all so terribly metaphorical and I was late for pancakes with Ollie, who was waiting at Ol' South about five minutes away. I probably could have walked there faster.

A brief conversation transpired discussing myspace drama over black coffee and donated cigarette before I realized suddenly that I was supposed to be at a wedding in two hours. We rushed (reluctantly) to the mall because it was clear I could not attend wearing my torn green curduroys and brown old-man sweater.

I walked into a shop that smelled like a familiar, comforting incense and asked the Indian man at the counter if he sold it. He was so happy that I shared his appreciation. "I'm so sick of all the people that walk in complaining that my incense is too smoky- and I think to myself, I would rather smell my incense than your stinky breaths!"

He did not sell incense, he just had a ritual of burning it in front of a shrine to his mother hidden behind the counter. "I always have an extra box," he told me, "and I want you to take it. Come back any time and I will give you another!"

It was the nicest thing that has ever happened to me in a mall.

Time elapsed and I buckled under the pressure to hurry (I am a bad hurry-er). I could feel cortisol levels rising and obscenities spitting out of my mouth at an unbelievable rate and so I decided- for the best interest of the planet earth- to forego the wedding, ditch the mall and focus on 'chilling the fuck out, you crazy bitch'.

Drank a Gatorade. Ingested some St. John's Wort. Thinking that I either smoke too much pot, or not enough.

I was glad I'd brought Eileen. The guitar's name is Eileen now. I don't know. It came to me.

Everything settled into a beautiful dusty pattern as we ran out of the pouring rain and into Ollie's dad's painting studio for a little bit of meditative activity.

The building is weathered and worn, like the old barrio mercado on the corner of 23rd street and Portland in Los Angeles, where I used to live. The paint on the walls is like an archeological mystery, peeling off to reveal the many lives it's had before this moment. The ground makes you think once it had blood on it, and tears and sweat- all of it culminating into one 'dirty concrete floor'.

An overwhelming holy presence always accompanies buildings that are this old and full of passion. It was once a church. You can tell by the virgin mary painted, fading on the outer wall with a myriad of tired cherubs peeling in genuflection. It was once a seamstress's workshop- I was told she was murdered there years ago with a pair of shears.

There was a coldness about it, like the coldness of being lost in the woods. It would seem like a place where no person would want to be, but it felt like the only place to be right then, lost in the woods, rain pouring down, white sky piercing through cracked windows and tattooing a pastel portrait of broken perfection on my retinas.

An old, iron woodburning stove near the center of the studio was the only potential source of warmth. Water was leaking from the ceiling into damp, dark puddles from the heavy rains. We set a fire blazing in the stove and warmed ourselves... I took little Eileen out to strum a few chords and she sounded big against those old walls. Big and rich with the energy and rhythm of all the hearts that have beaten there.

Ollie began to paint and I found an old piece of scrap wood and began to follow suit. We painted all afternoon, feasting on day-old pizza and chocolate-covered cherries. I painted one thing, and then covered it in thin white paint and painted another thing.

I wanted it to have layers like the building. I wanted it to have layers like me and my moods. My laptop was rattling out a random assortment of music on shuffle, and my painting style changed with every genre.

An old monk (Savath and Savalas... Langas Gypsies of Rajasthan) emerged out of one layer. He developed the tribal look of a man who has seen it all (Aesop Rock.. Tom Waits)... all of it dotted with logarithmic patterns and wild, radiant veinous fractals (Venetian Snares.. Aphex Twin)

We painted for five hours and the fire burned, keeping us half-warm. Chain-smoking and bowl-smoking, taking guitar breaks and not speaking a word- really, just co-existing in this creative silence that I crave and miss most in my life. The sky faded from white to black as I finished my painting and it was time for both of us to leave. It was pure, tranquil perfection in every sense of the word.

Later that evening I attended a lecture with Jasmine by Maya Angelou, who is one of my dearest heroes. I can't really put into words what effect this had on me. She was absolutely striking. Dynamic. So full of love and hope for her fellow human being. I wrote one thing she said on the back of my ticket stub. I don't know why, it seems like such a simple thing to state:

"Please know, that each one of you has the power to change somebody's life for the better."

I guess it just seemed like something I should make a point to remember.

2/26/2006 - On Nightmares and Afterimages

correspondence on nightmares and afterimages

----------------- Original Message -----------------
From: Matt
Date: Feb 26, 2006 2:51 AM

Hi Josephine,

Last night I had a rather rare and interesting experience. My memory may be cloudy and untrustworthy on the details of the dream imagery, but my memory of it is all I have left. I think in the dream I saw this multi-colored energy thing coming my way, engulfing everything around it but still exposing the details of that which it engulfed. As it got closer to me, I awakened, opened my eyes, and absolutely vividly saw this bright, arcing jumbled, jagged line of electricity (or something) about 7 feet long that reminded me of a cross between images of ball lightning I had seen earlier in the day, and the inside of those plasma balls they have at Radio Shack & Sharper Image. It was passing over a few inches above the surface of the bed, and was parallel to the ground and to my body, approaching me from the right hand side of the bed (I sleep on the left). When it had just about reached the center of the bed (and me), like a startled rabbit I jumped out of bed backwards onto the floor, and landed on my ass sitting with my hands catching the floor behind me. From the time I opened my eyes to the time I hit the floor was less than 5 seconds. Maybe less than 3!

Something similar happened twice during a short period of time about 8 years ago, but the images were much more frightening, although still brightly lit on at least one occasion. I think once it was some kind of shriveled spooky somewhat feminine energy head in the bed with me, and the other time it was a scorpion in the bed. Those two experiences within about a week of each other convinced me to give up on trying to pay my credit card bills (which was the source of stress) and simply declare bankruptcy. That turned out to be the right move.

______________________________________

Hey Matt-

Sleep afterimages are a very interesting phenomena indeed! There are a lot of studies about waking life and unconscious life (and movies.. and 'philosophy'... I say 'philosophy' because I really think it's an excuse for passing intelligent conversation off as academia, as if that's the only place it belongs). Here's what I've gathered that might help you make peace with your nightmares:

There's an underlying physical phenomena to a lot of the weird sensations we have when we are dreaming. For example, when we dream that we are running, the same neurons in our brain fire as when we are actually physically running in real life. 'Normally' (I guess I don't believe in the word 'normally' either) when we enter this sleep phase, the pathway between your motor cortex (which is saying, "Hey body, you should run now!") and the nerves which actually instigate that movement are inhibited. So it's like the brain is sending the message, but your body isn't getting it. There are a lot of interesting disorders associated with conditions where this mechanism malfunctions (animated flailing in bed, sleepwalk murders).

On the other hand, a few times I've heard people report the terror of feeling completely paralysed after waking up abruptly, and not being able to move their body. They consider it a kind of cosmic disembodiment, and THE scariest thing they've ever experienced. I learned that when this happens, it is because the aforementioned mechanism has a natural delay to it- that is- when you emerge from deep sleep, the inhibition of your movement always lags slightly behind. You don't normally notice because instantaneous shift from deep sleep to waking state does not happen very often. When it DOES happen though, you are awake but it seems like you can't consciously get your body to follow suit. Scary feeling, strong mechanism.

Similarly, I would hypothesize and probably some study somewhere would confirm that the same thing happens with the visual cortex. When we see things in our sleep, it is as if we are 'actually' seeing them. Everything occurs physiologically in the brain as if that were the case. This brings up a lot of interesting questions as far as what our definition of 'reality' is, but that's a whole other issue.

It logically follows that if there is an abrupt shift from deep sleep to waking state (say, due to a stressful dream, or just stress), that these images will register in our conscious minds as real, and it can be very startling and disconcerting. This happens to me very often, as I am particularly prone to nightmares.

This manifests in a few ways. During REM sleep, we have what are generally 'situational' dreams. I'm going here, I'm doing this, I'm talking to this person. They usually involve realistic or surrealistic imagery. Think something that you can put a name to, something you can 'see'.

I often wake having a very real feeling that I was just talking to someone who I no longer have contact with, or who is dead.

The other way, which I think you just experienced, is the one that occurs when there is a cognitive crossover during the alpha phase of sleep cycle, where 'dreaming' manifests itself in abstract sensation (feels like rolling hills... sounds logarithmic, looks like electricity) It's very hard to explain these sensations to other people and I'm doing a terrible job about it, but I hope you get the point!

So you experienced a very real sensation of a disembodied feminine presence and as you awoke, your brain registered it as if your eyes were actually reporting it. You 'saw it with your own eyes', which makes it very real to you. That's effin' scary, you're right! I think these are the most frightening types of dream afterimages because they seem otherworldly, as if they should not be there.

As far as dealing with things like this, I find that it helps me to understand the underlying mechanisms of these things. Then when I wake up, even though the instinctive limbic part of me will continue to be freaked out, the logical part gets all excited. So instead of "Eek! Call the shrink!" I'm thinking, "aw.... neat. afterimages."

Stress is a tricky thing. I attribute a lot of things to being stressed out and I think the universal question is how to best alleviate the condition. I always (try, at least, to) experience the negative as therapeutic and necessary, because no matter what we will always have stress in our life.

In this case I always think of my nightmares as my brain's way of efficiently purging stress from my mind. Ever have dreams where something crazy is happening to your teeth? I've found that this is the most common anxiety-related dream. I'm still not sure why. Regardless, anxiety often manifests itself this way in deep sleep, and generally fades into the morning. You vaguely remember being pretty stressed out about it in your dream, but later in the day all you're thinking/feeling is 'man that was weird. I'm glad it was JUST A DREAM', as if that erases the fact that you experienced it in a very 'real' way. It's as if we inherently know what our dreams are cut out to do.

Everyone knows that when you dream, it's very difficult to remember what you dreamt the next day, and it fades more and more as the day goes by (unless you write it down or talk about it, which is also constructive in a completely different way). So when you have nightmares/ nightmare afterimages, just know that your brain is handling stress in it's own way, and chances are, without even having to be conscious of it, a lot of stress relief has occurred.

I know that in the times people have left my life in a painful way, I often have dreams that we are still on good terms. These are cruel dreams, but the more I have them, the more the painful memory fades. It's like Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind for people without fancy theoretical gizmos.

I don't know if this helped at all. Damn, this is a long ass e-mail- but just try to think of these experiences as things that relieve you of your stress, not add to it. It works well for me!

2/23/2006 - Book Review - Mind Wide Open

I am so fascinated by the whole underlying truth from multiple independent sources thing. speaking of which.... I just picked up this book called "Mind Wide Open: the neuroscience of everyday life" by Steven Johnson completely by random at a bookstore. It just so happens that it covers, quite eloquently, a lot of what i've been writing/thinking about lately, as far as neurofeedback and really, well, EVERYTHING i write about.

It's seriously bizarre and uncanny. I highly suggest it to you, I started it this morning, and I'm almost done with it, it's a very easy read. I honestly think the whole thing is interesting, but i'm going to quote this one part for you:

"If the modular nature of the mind is often hidden to us, how can we see behind the curtain of the unified self and catch a glimpse of those interacting components? Several avenues are available to us. There are studies of pathological cases popularized by books such as Oliver Sacks's "The Man Who Mistook His Wife For a Hat", in which we detect the existence of modules through patients who have suffered targeted brain damage that takes out one or two modules but leaves the rest of the brain functioning normally. Or we can experience the modularity of the brain more directly by taking drugs that throw a monkey wrench into its machinery, causing individual modules to take on a new autonomy. Or you can gaze inside your brain directly, using today's brain imaging technologies."

This part struck a particular chord because I just read Oliver Sacks's book this past summer during a roadtrip, often engage in recreational drug use purely for the mental and perceptual exercise of it, and also earlier this year helped a colleague out with an experiment and got a full MRI .DICOM rendering of MY OWN BRAIN. He gave me all the imaging files and also the imaging software, so I can sit here and look at my brain from any possible angle, in black and white, in color, in 3D, or I could just look at the vasculature alone. I can even put it on rotational animation and cut whatever slices I want out of it. I can't really explain what it feels like to be able to visually explore your own brain. I really think I picked the perfect thing to major in! I love it.

Anyway pick up the book, it's cheap, and you'll love it, and then we can discuss it.

kudos!

Jo
________________

Just yesterday I was having a discussion with Anjuli about intuition and some of the fascinating innate skills we've developed as human beings to read each others' facial expressions, body language, hand movements, and intonations. How it's so much more than just words. And then I opened up the book and the entire first chapter was exactly what we had just discussed the night before. Stumbling across this is kind of disconcerting/exciting, as if I'd been writing a poem only to find that the exact poem had already been written.

I think what I like best about the book is how well it explains the profundity of 'knowing your brain'. I'm going to quote again, forgive me.

"Knowing something about the brain's mechanics- and particularly your brain's mechanics- widens your own self-awareness as powerfully as any therapy or meditation or drug. Brain science has become an avenue for introspection, a way of bridging physiological reality of your brain with the mental life you already inhabit. The science and technology today are no longer limited to telling us how the mind works. They also have something to say about how your mind works.

Unlike so many technoscientific advances, the brain sciences and their imaging technologies are, almost by definition, a kind of mirror. They capture what our brains are doing and reflect that information back to us. You gaze into the glass, and the reflection says to you, "Here is your brain."

_______________

Can't recommend it enough. Go out and get it, for christ's sake.

Currently Reading : Mind Wide Open : Your Brain and the Neuroscience of Everyday Life By Steven Johnson Release date: By 03 May, 2005