Incipient Vagabond--Verily

I was scared to enter it, and thus I told myself I wasn´t going to go there until I had a fixed-blade knife.  So I bought myself a $40 throwing knife... god I miss that thing.  Yeah, it´s of the past now.  That´s because I was out walking, waiting for my bus to leave, when I was about to climb the ramp to a bridge and saw a couple of cops.  They were just finishing frisking and ¨ticketing¨a chico and saw me.  I felt innocent enough and decided to play that full ante and figured they´d let me pass.  But my dumb ass fooled itself.  I was so confident that I said ¨No, no tengo no drogas, puedes buscar¨ That is, I said I didn´t have anything, they could even check--so they did.  And they confiscated my knife.  And while they had taken note of how much money I had, I hadn´t.  I thought I saw only a one-dollar bill and a coupon for two tacos at Jack in the Back.  They started to bolster their case, telling me it was pretty illegal to have a knife there, and I said yeah I was from the US and it was illegal there, but I´d seen the news and wasn´t taking any chances.  They asked if I had a passport--no.  That´s all, no excuses.  I panicked, and all I could think of was that all I had was my four 500 peso bills in reserve in my shoe... and no fucking change.  So when they said I´d have to pay a ticket or go to jail, and inferred that it was in my hands to decide and tell them if and how I could pay, I knew what they were doing... and I hadn´t felt that way since I sat in my room waiting for my stepdad to choose what he was going to whip me with.  My stomach churned; I took out the nasty ziploc with my money and they took it, and almost took 1000 pesos--then thought better of it and gave me back 500.  My mind and heart were racing.  It felt like a bad broma.  I kept thinking--this can´t happen.  Where´s the US cops to help me out?  I obviously couldn´t shout for a US cop to help me out.  I thought about how they might kinda be looking out for their cartel cronies--that´s a shudder and a half.  Well, I made it anyway, cursing in english the whole way back, kicking walls and shouting and convulsing with anger.  What a welcome, huh? 

In hindsight, they probably weren´t looking out for them, as the news reported that the murders there had occurred to mexican citizens, directly related to the drug  business.   Other people have shared the sentiment with me that the government here is corrupt, that the police are highly politicized, and there are protests that some of the murders were political, and it certainly is easy to imagine that with how large the pandillas and drug business are here.

Since then, I spent 25 hours on a bus recording my memories from the past few months, and in agony for the lack of exercise--going from hitchhiking and bicycling and working hard labor 8 hours a day and exploring Santa Barbara each day with friends and playing with fire and bikes and food and alcohol, to not even being able to stretch my legs, was not fun. 

It´s really tremendous what a border does.  I´ve been very much against the idea of borders for a long time, because it really limits our freedom--but it does so much to make America the bubble that it is.  Mexico... really, it´s such a juxtaposition.  Not against America--that bit was predictable; but more surprisingly, it contradicts itself. In the same country, the same towns even, there are Walmarts but few streetlights, donkeys tied to trees and dogs walking the streets but a personal presentation ethic that makes it practically taboo to have hair longer than an inch; really, I´ve only seen maybe one other person since entering the country with long hair.

By far, San Luis Obispo to Santa Barbara have been the greatest parts of my trip so far; the bike ride to Arroyo Grande through valleys and hills and then back along Pismo/Shell Beach to see the variety of colors, shades, and textures of landscapes--I explained to my host Chris the next day something I hadn't realized until that moment, that I had never seen the weather interact with the landscape the way it did there--clouds casting shadows on proximal hills and running into mounts and changing shape and direction... It really was quite magical.  It´s those types of spaces that remind me why traveling is so great; it´s not necessarily the destination that is worth the trip, but the way you get there--enriching your adventure by NOT spending money on housing and transportation, what an earthshattering idea.  The thing is, when I arrive at places, often in those with lesser quality of living, the people are so preoccupied that they don´t get to explore the spaces relatively close to themselves.  This is something that it takes downtime to do--time where you have no needs and must find your own diversion--the kind of introspection and personal or community development that is a luxury of the wealthy or intellectual, mostly.  One might argue against me that there are plenty of poor people who travel--street kids and rednecks, etc--but these people had to first come from the lap of luxury, ie a country that provides its needs even when they dont provide them for themselves. 

So Santa Barbara... I don´t know if I talked about it before, but damn.  I arrived in the passenger seat of a rad guy from Irvine who had brought some other guys north to los alamos, and this was a perfect introduction to SB: full of people who are interesting and interested and active and generally vivacious--they know they are privileged with opportunity and utilize it to its utmost.  That´s absolutely not a bad thing; I´d rather see people who have power using it well, like royalty it gives hope and enlightenment even to those who don´t have it .  People who go surfing and love learning and practice new skills every chance they get; many who share and few who are lethargic, lots of ideas and creativity.  There were people like Mohammed, who went to school for 5 years and now is planning to go to Brazil, He surfs and looks like Burt Bacharach (and gets just as much play :). 

Perhaps I´ll just write some of the stories I have from Santa Barbara.  Having spent a couple months in such a vibrant and proactive place was really enriching:
I found a campsite as soon as I got to isla vista, an open space preserve right on the outskirts of the square mile town.  There were already three other guys squatting there, and it really was a precious sight, these guys being unpestered by the locals, working together to build a campsite and preparing for the coming rain.  I talked to them, met them all, buddha and crazy and jack, or whatever they were... asked them if theyd been bothered and such.  Nothing, so I felt great.  I hid my stuf in some blackberry thicket and went exploring on my bike.  There´s nothing like traveling a new town or any space, really, on a bicycle.  I was *****

I said this morning I was either going surfing or fishing; I chose fishing and was rewarded with a scorpionfish and a boogie board.

Rode down looking for the beach past the Snowy Plover Protection Area

Well hey there!  It's been a while hasn't it; I've got plenty of news to update.  I could regale with every detail, which could be appreciable because it's so different than anything you experience in most life, but it'd be way too long and boring, especially in such a dry forum as this with no color.  It's a bit awkward to write here, because I want to say everything, and this thing has a double identity as a blog and a journal; so do I write for an audience or is this merely a memory book?  When you write down memories, they tend to transform in the process; when you think about it, you can include images, and sounds, and you don't really imagine in words; but since every word has different connotations, even for the same person in different times, let along for different people, you automatically set an ideas fate with the way you say it.  Perhaps the most important thing here is that I get a record to work with in the future, and to develop my storytelling ability, so I will focus on tangible memories and keep the concepts and abstract tangents to a separate, private document.  In fact, I'm going to take all this out now and put it there, and I don't really know why I'm still typing this.  I'm very bad at being prudent, but this is good practice. 

AWOL for more than a week; lots to say, I just hope I haven't forgotten much...
I read in a book about a fella (that's my new word, just got done with Grapes of Wrath--that's what I like about education, is that along the way you pick up these little tidbits that help add flavor and color to your life.  I hope I'm as interesting as I feel.) who had done a few trips before, and he tried journaling, but his brain punished him by losing all the memories; and the next trip he took photographs, and he was again punished because the places looked nothing like what he remembered, so the one he was on in the book, he recorded nothing.  I'm going to continue to record,

Last week I was settling into the nomad lifestyle, picking up each day, doing what it demanded of me, taking what came, and settling in at night.  It's comforting to know that you can have a place to sleep no matter where you are.  I got a ride from this woman who looked completely clean-cut, but talked about how her husband had been in a maximum security prison and how visiting him was a pain in the ass, and smoked in her car from the carton of Marlboro's in the back, and then bought me a whole fuckin' chicken and big jug of water at Safeway, plus two half sandwiches and a bunch of granola bars.  I was faced with a major moral dilemma, because I didn't want to offend her, but I also felt obligated to self-respect and because I believe that in simply sharing my personal beliefs I can open up others to consideration; instead of telling them what they are doing is wrong, you simply tell them that personally you don't partake, and then they may inquire or simply be inclined to readjust their opinions of people who do those things, or who they expected you to be, or simply to think about something they'd never heard before, possibly because they'd closed themselves off to the people preaching it to them before.  Anyway, I took it all from her, because she had been so hospitable (and besides, I was famished), with graciousness and geniality.  It was so debasing, though, because I had set myself on being almost vegetarian, and I abhor bottled water, and individual-packaged items, so the whole thing was blasphemy to my own moral philosophy.

Then I got a ride from some guys in King's City (which is hardly a city and certainly not a place of kings) and they said they could get me as far as Paso Robles, but after some real good congenial conversation they proffered that I come with them camping in San Simeon, as they'd be passing back through by  PR on the way back the next day.  I was absolutely for the idea, because I was eager to have good company finally after several days of only minor, superfluous conversation.  The guys car broke down, their friends picked us up, we feasted like carnivores, we got stoned and drank and were gluttonous and went to the beach for hours and I swam in the ocean with this fella who'd just got out of the navy (Omar, my favorite one of the whole group and obviously the most alpha, though they were all on pretty equal terms, respectful of each other, they'd obviously grown up together and I was glad for the opportunity to be a part of it, if even for only two days; these were the kind of healthy and deep relationships that I find myself yearning for when I am out or looking for company or a conversation buddy online... I realize that I have no long relationships, not many people who will go far out of their way to share in my pain or to sacrifice other things to do something for me, at least not men who are peers.)  Anyway, we got back to town the next afternoon and the guy who had so graciously offered us a tow to his friend's shop, took us to a place where the guy wanted a week to work on it and 1500 bucks.  No way.  That meant, however, that I was stranded, because they were headed the opposity direction.  My spirits would have been on the floor, if it weren't for the fact that I had picked up money earlier in the day that my sister sent, $150 woohoo more money than I've had in 6 months!!  I invested it wisely, all but a 5 i gave to this black girl trying to sell me cologne, a horrible salesgirl but persistent, no nuance, just crudely answering my declination with her yes's, and who got me to give her the 5 because she had already asked me for more, playing the can-i-have-a-car-no-then-can-i-have-movie-tickets game.  Anyway, I crashed in Salinas River that night, and hitched the next day down to where the gas station was that the timing belt had gone out on the car, and went in and chatted with the guy who luckily was working again that day, this turned from "hey what's up I saw you the other day you'll never believe why I'm back," to hanging out wasting time with him till I was tired to hanging out with the cashier at a gas station till midnight to go drink and shoot the shit to drinking and shooting the shit and spontaneously going and buying a hundred worth of cocaine and splitting it in his car until 4 in the morning.  Yeah, that's the best part of this whole update and I dropped it in four lines out of 60.  I know, I'm a great storyteller.

So anyway now I'm in SLO, I camped at the creek, climbed Madonna mountain, got sick with the shits and stunk up the backyard and got some CS hosts and found out that the regularly clean the hobos out of the creeks so I'm a little worried about my stuff but I'm getting it today, and mailing stuff home finally so i'll have a lighter pack, and biked thirty miles roundtrip to Arroyo Grande and Pismo Beach yesterday on this bike I stole, a great decision considering it an investment in my travel, but I'm feeling pangs of guilt as well as paranoia that the person who I took it from is going to see me on it.  I justify it by "at least I'm using the shit out of it" and that I had a way more valuable bike which got taken, and I hope they're not too hung up on material posessions, and fuck them because less property makes you happier.  Maybe I'm being immoral and jaded and angry because I know I'm wrong, and anger is a way of coping with it, really in humanity if we are angry it's usually because we are wrong or hurt, which explains why negative energy is so bad, because if you wrong somebody, they are angry because they are hurt, and you are angry because you are wrong, and maybe I shouldn't steal anymore, but dammit, I needed this and it's very useful and I don't take very much, but I've already told you I have absolutely shitty moral fiber.

Today: Hiking Bishop's Peak in SLO and going fishing at the lake. Tomorrow, getting a ride to Santa Maria and biking to Solvang, a dutch community. The next day, biking to Goleta, UCSB's hometown to mack on college kids.

How many days can I go without shoes?  I have flip flops but I'm trying to minimize their use; I wore them once yesterday, in the recycling center.  I'm going to carry them and some hiking boots, but I still want to count; I've been mostly barefoot the past few days but today will be the first official! 



I came up to SF for the Bluegrass festival, I went snooping around my neighbors things and found a bottle of like 25 Lorazepams, which are like Valium, which I shared with my surfers.  I had a total of 6, they were pretty sweet, just two and a beer and you're good for several hours.  I'm done with them now, though, it was something to try.  Now I missed my ride to SLO and have to finagle my way down there; we'll see how quick I can get there!  If all else fails I can at least go hitch.

              I stole a tent from that hobo.  I'd come back from exploring town and he was back (I'd seen him earlier in the day walking out to beg for change), which was unfortunate because I had plans to pick up and be off quietly while he was out.  He started to tell me some stuff, at first things that he'd said before; that he smoked pot with Vanessa Hudgens and how the dude who killed Tupac tried to set him up.  It was alright, safe, because I knew he was just a little gone but besides a time killer, pretty harmless.
              But then he went into more depth about the framing, talking about how the guy had confided in him about the dead body, and how it was this girl they knew, and he saw the black hair, and then the police arrested him and held him because he was suspicious.  Shit, I start thinking in my head, could he be out here because he is hiding from the police?  He also told me about (I stayed through this whole time because I was having some lunch) how (because I had left all my stuff and he asked why and I said I trusted him, but in reality it was just because I knew he was too lazy to move just to keep my stuff, and besides I didn't leave anything valuable, just my sleeping bag and drums, which came to me free) he didn't steal nothin', not from family and friends, except this one time he stole his grandpa's shotgun and his momma's 4-wheeler.
"How come, you hunt?"  I asked him.
"No I was on a suicide mission.  Ya, I wanted to kill myself.  Then I just got angry, y'know, not really for any reason I was just angry at the world, and so I just wanted to kill somebody, anybody."
Shit, sorry I asked.  I got a little anxiety wellin' up at that moment.  I knew for sure I wanted to be gone that night.  But I didn't show no signs of it there.  I contemplated whether I should be getting this guy help, turning him into the authorities, whether they could do anything for him, whether they would do anything for him, and whether it would be better, or whether he was a menace to society.
See, it's those moments when I realize the extent of my autonomy as an individual in this world.  No longer do "adults" have the right answer.  They all have different answers, though sometimes there is more consensus than others, but ultimately it all depends on bias from past experience and temperament. So it's my decision.  Our decision, each and every one of us, and it affects ourselves and others incalculably.

Is it possible that I am simultaneously more vulgar AND more noble than most?  To some I am too sweet, and to others too dirty.  My value system, perhaps, simply doesn't mesh.  I have ideals which are unwavering, such as respect and harmony with nature, but some of my means are less welcome; considering euthanasia and sterilization of those who are unfit, allowing that survival of the fittest is natural and necessary, even with humanity; but then compassion and gentleness and discipline and eloquence, the things of civilization and culture, are subjects of appraisal in my mind as well; so individuals who are greedy, and irrational, and emotional, and impulsive, are not friends of mine.  I allow for mistakes, but flaws of temperament I too often cannot look past.  I would like to return to this subject more, later.

To capture the moment of the young man sitting there, leaning against the rail (a recurrent symbol in my view of the world), not idolizing but simply contemplating the cold survival and brutal existence of nature, and how distant man is from it.  The people standing at the railing, watching the racoon and taking its picture, as if to say "Oh hey, that's where we put nature."  Certain patterns of survival repeat themselves, like reactions in physics; I am like the coon, stealing in the night what humanity denies me in the day.

The only other thing really noteworthy in the past couple days is the street kids.  It started with just Tye-dye Andrew and his girl, strummin' down on the rock wall by Fisherman's Wharf; I approached them to get some socialization into my head to help calm my nerves before I tried my own hand at spanging.  We hung out, Andy hubo tocando la guitarra and I was singing along as he did some Johnny Cash, Sublime, Shinedown; today I'm headed back to play my drums alongside while his girl with big ole' doe eyes holds a sign; I'm gettin' a cut of the profits for finding cardboard and helping him remember songs with my laptop, so he can re-hear the songs and the words; plus with my drums and chatting with people.  So I oughta have a few dollars in my pocket soon enough.
This is all made easier by the fact that Monterey is a HUGE secret.  I was thinking about it when I got here; I thought "What's all the fuss about Santa Cruz?  Monterey is where it's AT!"  This I say, because there is a high proportion of natural spaces to home spaces here, the people are uber-friendly, and there aren't that many vagabonds--more homebums (old stationary chronic bums, all either alcoholics or mentally deficient or simply comfortable) than street kids and wanderers, though the street kid situation is different right now because thousands and thousands of kids are in Norcal right now, looking for work trimmin' bud, and Bright Eyes and Andy from Indiana and his girl are all talking about how most of them are probably being dumb about it, while I just sit here and listen, them full of knowledge about a world I hardly new existed until today.  That's the way of things, you know there are SO many communities that spread their networks across the globe, gamers and yachters and marathoners and fashionistas and furries, street kids and squatters, stamp collectors and surfers; all of them with their own body of knowledge which it's taken a lifetime to collect.  I'm awful tempted to join this culture for a week or a month; to become a street kid, to pick up their slick-talking ways and don't-give-a-fuck attitude, "Be content with nothing and believe you own everything."  Well I wouldn't put it that way, but yeah, I'm considering not having money for a month even though I can, whereas before I had no money simply because I couldn't.  "Have nothing, have everything"  perhaps?  But no, if I get money I will continue to be thrifty, and move up and say fuck them because I can get what I want and where I want and stay healthy and even though I love the present I can also plan for the future so I'm not chronically attached to any form of work, but instead maintain that flexibility that is liberty from attachment: for even these kids are attached in ways they don't realize.

These kids have balls though; sleeping in bushes and having open containers of pot on the side of the walk, talkin' bout pot trucks fronted as taco trucks right on the sidewalk; asking passersby if they happen to have a million dollars they can spare, and seeking out and utilizing all the empty spaces; we found a space last night in what Andy thought was a bunch of businesses, mostly closed, but I pointed out was a college campus, right fuckn across the street from the Wharf, which is weird as hell; and as we're sitting here drinking and talking a motherfuckin' deer shows up, a four-point buck, and we talk about how he's just one of us, wild and pickin up what the world--nay, humanity--is putting down.  Still, I'm thinking how the hell did a deer get all the way up here to the coast through city streets and all those other facets of civilization?
Like the deer, like the raccoon, we are wildlife, real life, existing in our moment and not capturing ourselves and clambering to be anything beyond; I am not fully one of these I speak of, for I record for you, and thus I already deny myself like Moses, the one cannot fully be the other, for instantly he is committing treason and denying his membership as one or the other.

I am too real to be a badass.  My actions speak fantastic things about me; my personality falls short and gets hidden in the shadows below them.  Perhaps someday after I'm gone I'll be fictionalized as some kind of distant rebel; already I am there but the world doesn't know about it yet, can't know about it until after the fact--this is a way of things.  Perhaps my writing this is an effort at vindicating the rebel--he is not so straightforward as we cast him.  He has a momma, he knows empathy, and struggles, within and without his deeds and ideals. So I am writing down everything, and I leave it to my future editors to cast and recast my image in a form designed for better consumption.  Perhaps this will be me in a distant state, and if so I ask you to take your time trying to recall all of the senses behind each word, memory, idea.  And also remember that everything I've written could have been said in a different way, and sometimes I simply reached for the nearest word in my head, and so feel free to correct some things, for integrity to the essence of each statement is much more important than integrity to the word.

Anyway, it's getting on into the afternoon and I've got to get stuff done.

Walking forever on the beach... I only had two conversations today, and one of those was with myself. Fortunately, there was some diversion.



The Miser and the River Crossing

I passed a group of kids and was walking along, ever toward the smokestacks looming in the indeterminable distance. There was an old man ahead, and as I played my bongos intermittently, he glanced back toward me. I didn't know if I was close enough for him to fully hear my music, but I knew I was getting lazy in my drumming for lack of pressure to perform, so it wasn't always great noise. Soon I stopped playing, but kept approaching. As I got to him, he bent over. I saw he was picking up a sand dollar that was clean and mostly perfect.
"Ahh, nice find," I said.
"Not a good one," he replied, and tossed it back down with the jerkiness of age.
I didn't say anything back, but kept walking along. Suddenly I was looking down, and considered that since we were so far away from most of the public access, there was probably a lot to find. I began scouring the shoreline with my eyes, and sure enough, I began to see sand dollars. I picked one up; his miserliness and materialism had infected me. Now I was slowed down, gathering and looking. I decided to leave him some good ones as well, since my youth allowed me some more swiftness in my searching; surely I would go farther than he and there would be plenty of good ones beyond. Then I realized he probably did this on a regular basis; one of his hobbies. I imagined he had a room full of coastal memorabilia; cluttered with shells and coins and natural trinkets. How sad, I thought, to be so attached to things.
As I kept walking, I realized that my desire to collect what was suddenly valuable had allowed the old man to catch up with me. I saw ahead that the waves met the river; I wondered about how deep it was. It struck me that I would have to cross it, or go several miles around. I paused, scanning the area. When the man got close enough, I asked him where I could go to cross it.
"I'll tell you if you give me some of those sand dollars that you took." I couldn't believe he was saying that!
"You mean the ones that I didn't leave for you?"
"Hardly a favor. I'm sure you've got all the best for yourself."
Naturally. Still, I left some great ones for you, or so I'd think" I gave him a couple anyway. I knew it wasn't what I wanted, to be greedy, but it was hard to fight it. I gave them to him for the principle of it, anyway, to prove that I could transcend the issue.
He took them, saying, "You've come too far. You'll have to walk on back a mile and take the road at the top of the stairs, and walk up another 2 miles."
I considered his words, working them bitterly in my head. I wasn't about to walk 5 extra miles just to get past 20 feet of water. I told him as much. He said I could try wading it. So I did. I rolled up my pantlegs to my knees, and tentatively stepped in. I got a couple of feet, but it looked dark and therefore deep ahead. My spirits sank. Still, I went back and set my stuff down, deciding to test it first without endangering my things--specifically, my laptop.
The old man walked away. I decided I didn't mind the water, I just didn't wanna get my clothes wet. So I stripped. Full buff. The man had gotten some distance back, and I knew he wasn't gonna loop back around; he could just cross the dunes back where he was. I saw some people in the distance ahead across the river, but it didn't matter. I got out in the water, and crossed au naturel. The first crossing I hit some deeper pockets; it got up to my thigh. So I decided to try closer to the lip of the delta. I stepped tentatively as I went, feeling for shallower ridges. I made it with nothing higher than half a foot. I tried a few more places, and finally felt secure enough to do it. I went back and grabbed my bag, but made sure to stay on the side of caution. My nerves were up, because I could not stand the risk of dropping my computer in the water. I walked slowly, feeling every step gently. It went according to plan. When I was almost to the other side, I was about to jump through, but I caught myself and kept walking slowly and certainly. I did not shout with joy until both feet were on flat, dry sand.

Now on the other side, it was absolutely worth it. The beach was littered with gems, both of rocks and shells; I gave up all resistance for about half a mile and collected the best ones, walking at a slower pace. I justified it to myself that I was going to craft something with them and sell what I could, so I didn't have to beg. I thought about how funny it would be to try to sit in town and sell to the folks in the street my wares, which they could simply go collect themselves. But I'm glad of it! Now that I'm in Monterey, I'm gluing together rocks and seaweed and carving into shell and I plan on selling it all down at Fisherman's Wharf on a blanket; I reckon I can translate 30-40 bucks.


In La Selva Beach, I returned to a struggle that has been pervading my self for years. I must fight against myself to stop from going back to my old ways. Darkness is dangerous, not for me, but for the world around me. I begin to think of ways to take what I want when nobody is around; I masturbate, and check security and make up excuses as to why I should and can take from other people. But I shouldn't. I need to respect that others own things, and I have no ability to judge how much somebody cherishes something; I may be taking a surfboard from one who has three, or this could be his primary passion, and he only just now got it as a gift from his family. Even whether or not the person deserves the item, I shouldn't do it simply because it plunges me over into illicit territory: anarchy, where anybody can do anything anywhere, and there are no common values and we do not work together, but instead are only returned to primitive, base, cruel and painful competition with the rest of nature.

In the few months past, I have been primed and eager to leave American soil. But as I encounter others, and consider what it will really be like in other countries, I start to realize how much this place offers. It is as exotic and dreamy to others as Colombia or Africa are to me; I still want to leave this land because other countries have histories of culture that are nothing like ours, but

I am putting faces to the words; learning the reality of culture, and difference of culture, and learning to cope with people of different backgrounds. I am seeing and feeling fear, and reaction.

My struggle between the laws of society and the laws of nature. I am at that highly unfortunate boundary between the two where I can be animal or I can be man. Having no money, I must sleep where there is spare ground, and cannot rent space on somebody else's land. It is a problem vagrants deal with daily in cities and towns across the planet, where all land is either private or government-owned; nothing is simply "public." Rules abound as to where you can lie down. What is one to do, simply not sleep until they can afford to? Of course, the answer lies in the gray spaces. We can sleep where officials have turned a blind eye, or have neglected to search. Test the limits, until someone pushes back. The other thing is food, which I can collect wild, or take from dumpsters. Many before me have thought of this, and some places put "no scavenging" signs on dumpsters, and lock their dumpsters. What gives? "I don't want it, but you can't have it?" That seems just spiteful. Yes, it is discipline, to force our hand into finding jobs to plug into society. It is to prevent "pests" from latching on and growing. Anyway, those are my thoughts. I'm not trying to come up with a social conclusion, just coloring in a bit of the picture.

There is nothing new about escapism. That I know; plenty of folks before me have sought ways to get away from the system, society and all its seemingly silly and useless rules, to live life one's own way. A part of me is an escapist. But that isn't most of me. I think of myself as looking forward, and trying to manifest our collectiveness, not my disdain toward what exists. I am all about the connection of the people, beyond the commercial and superfluous connections made by media and business and the internet; real people interacting and sharing in real ways. Now that just sounds like a whole bunch of horseshit rhetoric, but we'll see if I can't live it.

I'm on the lookout for a travel buddy. I want somebody to share part of my trip with me. But the route I'm going, I haven't encountered but one other traveler. In the days to come, I'm sure I'll meet plenty of vagrants; while I skipped through Santa Cruz, Monterey oughta have a few. The problem is most of them are dirty, dumb, or old; I want somebody who's competent and wants more than just to drink themselves to shit. So we'll see; maybe I can find another couchsurfer or somebody on the road who's free. I just need to get some real time online in a warm room so I can get some shit done. See, there are consequences for my actions--this is what I get for leaving before I was really ready.


I snacked on dandelions and pickleweed, though I didn't eat very many of those for they need some cooking to get rid of the bitterness. I need a pot so I can cook or boil water whenever I'm somewhere I can make a fire. I hadn't thought about making fires when I left, for I left my stove and figured I'd just live on raw food or share cooking with CS hosts or something. But I've been spending a lot of time in the natural world, and whereas in the US we expect to be told when and where to do everything including shit, in a lot of the rest of the world things aren't quite so clean and sanctioned.

But then just after writing that last passage, I got a smooooth lucky break in Moss Landing! A man who showed up and was setting up what looked like a book club picnic, allowed me to talk to him for a few minutes. When I was about to leave debating about whether or not to ask him for some food, he asks: when was the last time you had a real meal?
I replied that I've had pickleweed and dandelions and a tortilla with instant coffee and honey today, but if you count the donuts and coffee yesterday morning, that was then.
"Here," he hands me a twenty, "There's a restaurant over there, and Casters' is over that way. When I was young I spent some time on the road too."

Woohoo! This is amazing! He has no idea how far this can go. Yes, I could hop on over to the restaurant and order myself a fifteen dollar meal, and have a fantastic experience, but then be back right where I was before an hour later. No, instead I will honor his charity by being uber-efficient. First, I'll get something small, like a 6 dollar burger or a snack bar, and then I will catch that bus I saw back a ways to Monterey. Hell ya! Monterey tonight! Then, as I was about to enter "Haute Enchilada," I keep walking back behind it, being curious. I see a small store beside it, and judging by the font of the signage, probably owned by the same folks. But then back farther I see a market with produce. Perfect! Nine ears of corn for a dollar! Tomatoes 79 cents a pound! I pick out a full basket of food, and it rings up to less than 6 dollars. Damn, I am in heaven. I rush back to snack a bit and thank the guy again, and then get to the bus stop and hope like hell that last bus hasn't gone. It hasn't.

So on the bus, I realize how badass I am. I get on and go to the back, and wrangle my back resecuring the wires holding it together. Then I pull out a full ear of corn, husk it, and chomp away. This girl ahead of me glances back once, and then doesn't do so again except through the vanity plate on her make-up thing. I laugh to myself about how long she's doing her thing; about as cliche as you can get. The rest of the bus is poor, dirty, blue-collar (and worse) fellas, and later, families of ethnic background. Very few white folks. I'm not judging, just observing. Long story short, I end up chatting with the girl because we're both trying to make a connection to Monterey in Salinas, I give her the shirt off my back, she gives me a cigarette, we chat, she tells me she was homeless in Monterey for a little while and knows some good places but won't tell me because last time she did that for a cute boy she found out he was a slob and he fucked up the beautiful, natural space. I told her I could understand that, and I told her about my Leave No Trace philosophy subscription, my goal in life to leave the world more beautiful than I found it, and an anecdote about cleaning up a ravine up north a bit and the Japanese rock tower I built there. I realize this is stupid, because I'm obviously trying to convince her that I'm worthy of her knowledge, and could just be a slick sleazy bastard, but oh fucking well. It's honest. She at least points me in the direction of some park space near the bus stop, and the library for the morning, and then throws her number down on a piece of paper. "Call me tomorrow and let me know what you're up to." she says. I don't tell her that my phone's dead and I can't.

I get down to the park and start lookin' around. Plenty of brambles, too few trees, and thick with litter and foliage. I know there's gotta be something better farther down; so i keep walking. I hear a fella singing. I leave my stuff on a tree and walk down barebacked on the path to search out a better space, and maybe some nice fellow vagrant. I find a nice one, but I didn't ask for one with brains; this guy is a damn fool, and a drunk, and probably a bit schizo. Oh well, I can handle it. I'm a bit sad I can't play some tunes on my computer, cuz I sure as hell don't wanna fight somebody for my laptop in the middle of the night, but it's alright still. So I crashed with this nutso hobo who kept repeating himself and telling me about all the famous people he's met and kept calling me an angel and a devil and a police informant and said I should go to school and become a cop if I'm gonna go that way anyway, cuz we need more good cops, but I better stay good. I just kept playing along, giving him shit and fucking with his logic and mocking him, most of it went over his head, and then I busted out the bongos and he sang some old rock hippy music like Johnny Cash and the Doors. Then he drank all my alcohol after I went to sleep. He'll probably tell everybody I was Jim Morrison come back from the grave to sing with him and share secrets of the afterlife. Oh well. I saw him this morning with a styrofoam cup walking downtown. I'm a damn hypocrite because it pisses me off to see more than a couple travelers who are obviously leeches, bums who don't work and are dirty and steal public services. On that note, I'm gonna go wash my laundry in the river now that my computer's done charging here at the library. It ain't easy livin' free.


Half my life's in books written on pages (Aerosmith)

And a joke:
What did the elephant say to the naked guy?
"Fine, but can it pick up peanuts?"

I have decided to take a journey around the world, through every continent, and taking several years (obviously)... The idea is to take my time and to really listen for what the world has to teach. This is my story.



Day 1:
I embarked today. I failed immediately. I left late, forgot my sunglasses, my water bottle, was unable to sell my rock climbing harness, am broke, and JUST as I found a community of people who I appreciate and who appreciate me, I have to leave. But nonetheless, I am in a very good mood. I was humoring myself earlier that I could speak spanish, and almost eerily immediate after, I got a phone call from a girl I had accepted as a couchsurfer who speaks better spanish than english and asked for complicated directions to my home. I failed.
The weather out is phenomenal. Lots of fog, moreso than Frisco, sweeps up and buries Skyline Blvd on what is probably a regular basis. I was steeped in awe when I was descending the Pacifica side of the hill and was treated to a duskset vista of the sun behind fog, so thick that it looked like the moon, but with yellower light, and completely removed in my vision from the reflected colors on the ocean. Though I'm not one for mysticism, I felt it like a premonition of a dying planet, the sun in its last years.
The reason I am in such an infallibly good mood, is my circumstances. Perhaps I'm lulled into a sense of comfort from the niche I carved out and am fleeing from right now, but I feel set at the beginning of a new stage, the birth of an adventure, after a period of tenuous self-torment and chaotic turmoil, the moratorium of my 20th year completed; I have found my reason in nothing, and a sustainable way to live, to auto-educate, to share my life and beliefs and a way to put myself into again, after the detour that was San Francisco. We shall see. Carpe Omnius.
Spending tonight along some fine piece of California coastline, listening as the ocean coos me to sleep.
I'm currently trippin' on the fact that I have no responsibilities, yet a general mission, which combine to allow me a self-developing itinerary which I contribute to with minimal energy on the daily, making progress, forging ahead, but with no pressure except what the day puts in my way. To pick up a craft or to read and volunteer and meet folks and explore is my sole vocation, to learn from and about nature, nature including people just as it includes physics.

Day 2: The Night of the First Real Day of Trekking.
Today I made about 70 miles, met a felon, picked blackberries, encountered an old acquaintance from a year ago, picked blackberries and random fruit (one was both sweet and spicy), learned that bamboo is freakin' delicious, and got to hang my hammock for the first time. We'll see if I get good enough with it and have a streak of nights being able to use it, I might just ditch my sleeping bag as I get farther south. So I started out early this morning, walked down the last of skyline blvd to downtown Pacifica where there were several stoplights in a row which made for prime hitching territory; unfortunately the first guy who stopped only took me over the hillside to montara--though to be honest I'm kind of glad it was only this long, for this guy kept talking about how just that morning he had been in handcuffs, and the only reason he was out was because he had a surrender date; I suspected him of being a meth maker because he was making vague excuses about "as long as we clean our shit up". Well, I wasn't gonna press it. Not long after, however, I caught another guy to drive me clear down to Half Moon Bay; good distance for a couple of hours of unknown. Then I hit a dry spell; almost an hour of nothing. Finally this guy drives up in a brown van with his cat--haha how cliche. After today, I'm starting to see the truth in many cliches; Santa Cruzans all dress the same, even the kids, and there's STILL VW's with peace signs on the back and flowers in the front. Oh well, culture is culture, and it's kind of nice to know that some things are static. Now I got this fine set-up down in Capitola for the night with a hammock in a tree on a cliff by the sea :)
However, I was wondering at myself earlier today as to why I had no urge to stay in SC--in fact, to keep moving. I finally realized; I have taken to the idea that I need to do work, real physical work, and Santa Cruz is still too close to all that ennui and solitude and boredom that was San Francisco for me. I need, psychologically, to get some more distance between me and it to feel more comfortable with slowing down. But the rest of California doesn't really have much draw for me either--I've already done Santa Barbara and San Diego, and Los Angeles just looks like one big filthy heaving tumor; so I'm torn between the safety of the US and the adventure but unknown of South America. Finally, and in swift closing, I am about out of food since I left my non-perishables at the squat (a bit silly of me, but I was trying to be good about waste and take the stuff that I would decay if I didn't eat it, and leave the boxes and cans for Dan), and I don't get money until October 4th. Gotta stay creative and have my eyes open for all the free food I can forage.
Event: Sitting on the cliffside with my hammock and bongos playing along to Jerk It Out eating bamboo watching the water under the full moon

Day 3:
Already this has been a great trip. Perhaps I should just refrain from judging, because for probably every one of my high moments there will be an equally low one. Oh well.
First I must express that, had it not been for the serendipitous connection with the kids of 509, this may never have happened. Were it not for the silly self-ascribed necessity of saving face when having set a date and failed to embark the first time, I would have delayed yet again. But that is the wonder of community: others can push you to do things you would have never expected alone. This can go up or down; but the fact is the phenomenon.
Now I have seen already many wonders of this everyday world; comedians in Los Angeles, neighbors running into each other in distant places, Barack Obama's inauguration as president, survival while climbing seemingly doomed cliffs, sea otters swimming up to me, waterfalls and badlands and great plains and the vast instance of time that is life on earth; but this journey stands well on its own already. I intend to make it one of my life's works, and thus I must do it well. I have walked half the distance of Monterey Bay just today, playing the Bongo's Fred and Ted, talking and smiling and laughing and jumping the whole way. The natural life in this area is spectacular as well; badgers, racoons, skunks, cats, dolphins, crabs, spiders, ptarmigans, seagulls, other birds I've only seen before in National Geographic.
Needless to say I was pleased to the brim, and it expanded every time I encountered some wonderful friendly person who shared my love for life; and on the flipside my cynical self jumped to the surface every chance he got, creeping in with every disdainful judgment toward folks with issues I've steamed over in the past. Hopefully soon this will fade into a distant whisper; already now I am beginning to love/cherish those I used to despise for their flaws, mistakes, shortcomings, and oversights. As I experience different niches of reality I increasingly develop my awareness that life is still the same, the same phenomena pervade life from physical phenomena, to single-celled organisms, to individual humans and societal organizations. The latest example of this was when I realized that organisms have been "manufacturing" proteins, chemicals, etc, forever, because this is the most efficient way; so it follows that a higher level of organization (corporations) will tend toward that same most efficient conclusion. And that is all okay; we can learn to channel our world, to nourish it and to take appropriate preemptive action to avoid the more dangerous aspects of our nature. Life is still the same and will continue to fight fiercely and enduringly until the world grows cold with old age.

So it turns out the bamboo wasn't bamboo; they are some kind of reed, and they are still damn difficult to get the right stuff out of. But that's okay, because it was a learning experience, and that's exactly what I'm out here for. I love (though sometimes hate) that I am learning by trial and error. That is the way I learn how to make a good bed, to find the right food, what to do when entering a new town, and get practice making momentous decisions. FINALLY, I can become coordinated and capable and action-oriented. This should complement my academic education well. The thing is, so often we get caught up in being told what to do, everything has been done a thousand times before, so we can be assured that anything we do, we can do the right way the first time, or at least have a fail-safe. Not so in nature, mon frere; do or die. So far, the worst that's happened is that I've had to walk a few miles back to town to take care of some business, and have had to climb over a high wall to get to a water fountain, and had to find my way by flashlight and been a bit uncomfortably cold. Hopefully my common sense stays hardy for the bigger stuff in the future. I am cautiously optimistic--okay, a little more than cautiously optimistic.

On a slightly less dapper note, It's very easy for me to start getting down on myself. To start feeling like the stranger. I wander into a new town, LaSilva, and start to worry the locals are going to judge me, to look upon me as an intruder and a morally degenerated individual who slacks off and leeches and is generally useless. But then I remember my experiences in the past, even in hometowns, and I realize that most people are earnest, though they may be a bit wary and apprehensive, though some are totally cool with the wacky stranger. I also still totally can't believe Kaeli was down with me. I feel like it was a trick; way too good to be true. This BEAUTIFUL girl took my compliments in stride and stuck with me; she was even messaging me and apologizing for little things I wouldn't expect others to even hardly pay attention to; absolutely sweet girl, maybe she's just free with her love? I don't know, but I do know it makes me feel like the luckiest man in the world and eases some of my more depressed moments like a little honey on the finger.

I am at the gates of paradise. Perhaps it will not last, but that is okay. Now that I am here I realize that paradise is a perspective, not a place. Paradise can be all around us, in fact omes from within us, but we must be coaxed into letting it speak; for it is the Tao, Nirvana, Atman, enlightenment. It is personified and set apart as God, but this is only because of the limitations of language. But all this has been said before, so I must return to my experience.
[Post edit: After seeing the sunset at Le Selva Beach tonight, I am reconsidering these flowery words above. Paradise can definitely be made much closer with a physical realm that is supportive of life, promotive of our survival. What I mean by that, is seeing the confluence of so many sensory pleasures (colors, sounds) and land, sea, life, and man living in such clean harmony, makes one think that there is plenty for all of us to share, and to continue surviving. Nonetheless, some places require much more energy to be considered as this way, or to be made this way]
I realize, at least, if this turns out not to be Paradise, that this is at least a good life for me; or at least a good period for what should be a whole life for me. For I am able to travel, and work, at my leisure; there is no shortage of distance for me to explore, and presently I may be completely present and not want for anything. Thus I may stay and read and write, moving with the seasons and the weather; I may take refuge in the abundance of humanity's collective achievements, learning skills in exchange for energy and skill and tactility, a few moments of my youth; and by that same vein I can use the wonderful tools of knowledge and common sense to find food for myself; already I have come up with ways of collecting berries, discovered a wonderful shoot which provides a maize-like sustenance, combined foods I would have never thought of before for meals (cucumber, milk and honey?), and volunteered time, work, and conversation for leftover hotdogs, marshmallows, and donuts. In closing, I am at peace in this moment, for I am glad that I can live what I've thought, and do what I speak.

I'm caught in a struggle, an internal struggle, between going full-on capitalism and rebelling against it altogether. I know I could win pretty well at it, but I want to maintain the integrity I have obtained by putting myself into the position I am in. Little waste, harmony with my environment, but I don't have those little pages of power that I can use to obtain travel, services, and other products which I cannot produce myself. I don't want to compromise my liberty, though. Should I get a job, and if so, where? I know I shall, and with income without outflow, it can accumulate and I can purchase assets (a boat, tools, adventure gear, et al) so that I can increase my liberty in the future. Yes, this is the best route to go about.

So where should I work? Should I market my skills as a specialist and work freelance? Should I plug into the job market and become mainstream, working for Macy's or Pretzel Palace or Sunglass Hut? What if I find myself in that dreaded position of not-yet-itude? That is the biggest fear. Oh, I might get a promotion. Oh, I spent too much money, I need a little more. I have goals, and I must maintain a passionate vigor at all times in reserve, to attain these dreams at all cost. I have done it before, getting to work for Greenpeace, move to San Francisco, meet Kevin Danaher, go searching for my father, etcetera. I must continue this pursuit and avoid the pitfalls so abundant in modern life; the visceral pleasures which take hold of our hearts and souls; pursuit of partying, lasciviousness, shiny and expensive things; they will be all the sweeter after achieving my more noble objectives first, and shaping out the right place in this world for myself.

Now if I believe, truly, that the world will fall to chaos, that human society as it is cannot be maintained for long, then I have two primary options that I distinguish for myself. The first, is to figure out alternatives and begin living them now, making a place for myself to live capital-free, locally and with assets to myself. But this means forgoing some of the more fantastic opportunities available to us in the first-world, which I may never get the chance to take if I wait. Should I ride the party train to hell, so-to-speak, a short but marvelous ride at the cost of my soul and longevity? That is, say fuck the environment, not enough is being done, we're damned if we do/damned if we don't, so drink heartily from the glass of now, riding trucks and flying and building grand buildings and consuming voraciously? I shan't, but it is a seductive option I fear numerous others will take.

I live here.

It's kind of illegal. Illegal enough for the cops to arrest me if they enter the premises and find me here. Which is kind of exciting but makes for very tentative friends when it comes to visiting. The true friends still come over, though :)

It's been an interesting, exciting, sometimes lonely and depressing, but mostly awesome and mindwarping experience. I have reconciled it with my existence, and my roots, and formed it into the image of something I want to be associated with. I've always had trouble turning ideas into concrete realities. This has provided me a fantastic venue for it; it's exactly what I was hoping for. See, I moved in out of necessity. At first, it wasn't pretty. But I put some time into it, and risked quite a bit a few times, but because I stuck with it, I have thrived. When I began, all I did was hop a fence and find a concrete awning which would protect me from the elements, threw down a sleeping bag, and crashed. I lived off some residual cash I had in the bank, along with the goodwill of a few friends, and their ramen. But I could tell (or I at least felt it to be so) that I was putting strain on our relationship. So when my scholarship came in, I bought them a 30-pack and ditched asap. Since then I've gotten arrested, had to lie to the assistant dean, accrued some utensils, built a firepit and a garden, and collected a bunch of things (though after a while I get to feeling bogged down and purge my possessions to the bare necessities).

It was interesting, because from the start I had access to the building but it was so creepy I would only venture in there a few times, to look for useful things and perhaps devise a way to set up shop in one of the classrooms. But I didn't have any tools so for the time it was tough luck. I finally got to climbing on the roof, and after I got threatened by the cops to get out within 7 days, I dared to move to the other side. While at first I was hesitant, I haven't regretted it since. The new side has a concrete ground, except where there are plants, trees, and shrubs around the perimeter (these are courtyards, if you can tell in the photo). I was tentative about moving over, because I was sure the drug addicts were on that side (I found evidence of drug addictions when I found boxes of rubber bands, needles, and antiseptic wipes). But they weren't. They've come back twice, since, but I bugged 'em out, I think, with my positive and productive attitude. I wasn't having their shit, and I let it come through in my persona.

Yet I soon discovered that I had close access to answer my prayers, so to speak, for a classroom to convert into a living space. As much as I enjoyed the fact that I had a zenful, beautiful, and clean place to make camp, I was concerned about a coming rainy season and was glad to have this opportunity to become more 'civilized' in my alternative lifestyle. It actually started when I was sleeping one night, and was awakened by the queer sound of showtunes coming from somewhere on the other side of the wall perpendicular to my head (actually, you win... my admiration... if you can name the song, it's the intro to Antique's Roadshow but it's a classical piano piece and i can't think of it). Some kids were in there, and as I came over to hear it, and realized that I could see into the building, I thought of trying to get their attention and having them try to open the door. I thought better of it (I didn't wanna scare them off) and instead climbed over the building and snuck up on them (one of the many perks of living here). I introduced myself as 'sandwich'; I made it up on the spot and it actually kind of worked. Anyway, come the next day I went in there and found that there was only a metal plate and some screws preventing me from conquering this room.

It's comfortable now, I have a king-size bed and candles, a stove and water tanks; a meditation pad and a burgeoning garden. I've become a freegan and haven't had money in my bank account for the better part of 8 months; instead I can devote my attention to schoolwork and volunteering with organizations.

I wrote out a few lyrics about this:

Ain't got a dollar,
Not even a dime
Got just a few friends
But it's no paradigm
You see I survive
Oh yes in fact I thrive
And I've got plenty of time
I pursue my own ends
With no compromise

So I've vindicated myself; now I think I'll post more diddies with shorter timespans in the future; I'll ask for inspiration and post some of my tribulations, share some anecdotes and fun projects. Ciao!

Oh, hey didn't see you there.
Okay, this layout is boring. I'm going to fix that.


Have I told you that I have a list of ideas a mile long? It's filled with such gems as:

Stopping at the convenience store to pick up some smokes and a cup of jokes

Dreams can carry connotations of surrealism, lack of awareness, and delusion, for dreams are a product of our mind and therefore susceptible to all the flaws inherent in being us, and at the same time mysteriously immune to all the laws of physics.

I love you, I just realized (but don't take it personally).

Yes, it's dangerous-I should know-I try to do it as often as possible

These things are all kind of jumbled in there together. I want to organize them, but I'm not sure how I should. This is separate from but symbiotic with my journal; in fact all of my creative efforts rely on this for inspiration. I keep it because I tell myself I might someday use them for writing rap songs, or directing movies, or writing stories. But how should I organize them? One-liners, journal entries, miscellaneous, or what they regard, such as science, art, daily life? Is there a service for this? Do I even want to do this?

And while I'm conducting this reverse forum, what do you think of my writing? is it too wordy? Is my message jumbleD? Is it too esoteric, and abstract and difficult to follow?
What about my ethics? If you are here, then you've probably seen my facebook. Why do you think nobody talks to me? I really don't have any friends. I'm not sure if I push them away, or give bad vibes, if they try to avoid me or if what I say just plain doesn't invoke popular reaction.

Next question; this is what my hair looks like write now.




What should I do with it? Cut it, let it keep growing and pull the hispanic pony-tail look, spike it, mousse it back, mohawk, dye it radical colors?

Let me know, I guess. As of write now I plan to let it grow so I can slick it back kinda, ponytail it, an antonio banderas/hispanic thing.

And now, since I told you before that I'd have "tangible" tales, stories of real experiences that I've had, I'll just give you a preview, and you can ask me which you'd like to hear. I've got plenty: living in an abandoned school, going from San Francisco to Ventura, then on to San Diego, to find my father and get to a training session so I could learn to install solar panels. Or there's the time I did crystal meth by accident, or rock climbing at Ocean Beach, in which I found crabs and a pair of Rhythm Heavens and got stranded at high tide. So there's your preview. Maybe I won't have any responses, maybe this post is too early in my journaling life, but hey, it's good practice.

It is for my garden, at least. Not so much for my lifestyle. I have taken to swimming again, and started a rock climbing class that I paid for with leftover scholarship money. Yet, my schoolwork suffers. I've noted before (to myself, to others, in my journals, perhaps to you) that I cannot study anything prescribed to me by others for that merit alone; there must be something otherwise compelling about the material or I feel that it is the last thing I shall do to get done what they prescribe. Perhaps there is some underlying psychological disorder in that. That I take the world as secondary to my own internal being. Yet, on the other hand, I am intensely lonely so often, only to be reintroduced to this world with ephemerals of light. How doth one fit in with the outside world when they are so consumed with developing themself that they neglect even their studies? That is ironic, I know. Just suck it up and do the damn work. But it is not so easy.
I search for signs that I am not the only one in this boat, that it is more deeply-rooted in a sociological problem. The rationale is there; video games are more addicting and more intense and more involving every day, the internet provides 24 hour entertainment for any individual, I am in college and am American and have not been raised with discipline or respect for work before play. But it takes one of such poorly-threaded moral fiber as myself to succumb to it all in such a pathetic way. I live in an abandoned school, that I may avoid a job. I stay up all night, that I may procrastinate and accomplish all my work without compromise. I succumb to my nearly every indulgence and pressure from the outside world.
I have recently read two works which support my sense of self, and another which revolts against it. The first are the book Steppenwolf by Herman Hesse, and an article on Thomas Jefferson by some guy who wrote a book about him (source). It is known that Jefferson had an agile mind, one of the powerful intellects that collided to set the foundation for this most wonderful country (as far as you believe the textbooks... I guess I do). Yet he is commonly criticized for having held slaves to the day he died, was a womanizer and has various other moral blemishes on his profile. He was no master of self-discipline, though he was pragmatic and tried to distance himself from emotion. This verberates in harmony with my own dyscordian rhythms. Same with Steppenwolf, I am incapable of reconciling the wolf and the man within me. I become anima, and loathe myself for the dirty scary uncivilized thing I become; I become human and loathe myself for losing touch with nature and adventure and sensation. i haven't finished the book yet so hopefully it will give me some insight on how to reconcile this.

Finally, after so much deliberation on how pathetic I am and incapable and paralyzed and incorrigibly burnt out, I begin to read Siddhartha. Hesse is the master of young male psyche struggles. I feel so predictable and silly for going through these crises that others have worked through, and have been universal themes of the passage of life since thought.
Now what really stood out to me in Siddhartha was the passage

"He already knew to feel Atman in the depths of his being, indestructible, one with the universe."

So beautiful. This became my new mantra immediately, and within moments I was reciting it to invoke the sense of capacity it offers. I CAN DO WHAT I WANT. I AM INDESTRUCTIBLE! I called out the day after I read this, from the dunes of fort funston after meditating at the midpoint of my run.

And to say all that, in the end, at least I feel. I cannot regret anything I do if it leads me to a deeper empathy with the universe, or a sensation or emotion on which to hold for the future when (godhelpme) I become trapped. Hopefully my writing will simply improve and I will be able to find a niche expressing my experiences (less in such an abstract and superficial way and more in a compelling and universal-truth-discovering journey-way).

So, more tangible posts to come. In the meantime, I'm going to create a mandala

I have found a new skill important for achieving my fullest potential; to only occupy my time and head with what is important for me to learn, think, and become. So no more pornography, little consideration shall be devoted to video games or purchasing "stuff". I must discipline myself, forcing my attention to character-building, skill development, goal-assessing, and scenario-preparedness exercises. Learning acting, reading people, recognizing patterns of reactions, I should keep (or develop) a though-exercise book for downtime, for guided, constructive mediation. For a significant problem of the self-educating man, is lack of structure.
Technique 1: You should imagine yourself into life or death situations, or social scenarious, where you need to get at (or away from) something. Then vividly go through the numerous possible results. The problem here is that it is easy enough to fantasize the appropriate supplies lying at hand, or a reaction you were looking for, but try to avoid that, and take the exercise beyond to alternative reactions, supplies and bumps. But also just simply trying to truly visualize how the whole thing will play out is helpful. Perhaps you will practice getting mugged, at knifepoint, in spanish, against a wall. Being solicited for drugs, or sex, or coerced nto a bar in a foreign country where known criminals are. That way you'll never be bored and you'll (hopefully) be prepared--or at least in a proper state of mind--when your next adventure drops you right into a live minefield.
Other exercises may include reciting proper procedures for gardening, cpr; escaping crashed planes, building shelter, getting food, and signaling sos; naming body parts, symptoms of sickness, or carrying flash cards of some skill or hobby you are trying to pick up.