Thank you to people who have given me comments on my book. I’m appreciative for the feedback and it’s encouraging to me. I haven’t been writing. I’ve been watching Olympics and playing Wii golf and making things in C. I’m not sure what I’m going to keep doing. I’m feeling pretty reflective tonight. I’m cultivating a certain mood. One day aside, this last month has been extremely balanced, which is no accident and does not come easily to me. I’m going to be an uncle in a few months. I want to be a good uncle. I want to be loving and present but only in ways that are desired. I’m tired of being angry with people. I think that I’m at a place in my life where I still think that, if people are to be measured, that there is a lot of suckage going on, in me and others. But I’m tired of measuring it because I don’t like the way it makes me feel. That doesn’t mean that stuff doesn’t suck when measured, it doesn’t mean that. All it means is I’m no longer measuring. Is this the fatality of growing older? I don’t think it is exactly. This is a release, and a surrender. You could call it a sadness except it without the emotion of sadness…it is a loss, an intented loss, a desired loss, a calculated loss. What I want now—what I want in a day—is balance, simplicity, and, essentially, art. I want the art of washing dishes, the art of shoveling snow. I want the art of writing and reading and reflecting and programming and building and creating things, and talking with the people who make sense to me, who are cut from the same fabric as me. I’m not sincerely interested in impressing other people, I have found, at 32. Psychologically, that’s not my real need. In domains where I have made half-steps because I was only in it up to the point where I proved that I could accomplish whatever end, that was about showing myself that my belief in me was well-founded. I don’t have to do that now…because I have over and over successfully proven to myself that I can do x,y,z…and I have over and over found that proof to be ultimately unassuaging. It doesn’t mean what I thought it would mean. I think I am now free to play. Everything I said was shit, was shit. I was as right about all that stuff as it’s possible for a person to be right. But it doesn’t make me feel good. This doesn’t fix anything. The world really is in a terrible shape. Parts of it are in wonderful shape. A lot of it is in terrible shape. That is all true. But I don’t feel like I will try to fix it. That is not, before anyone suggests it, some attitude that represents maturation or mellowing or growing up. There is a distinction between pessimism, apathy, defeatism, and yet still between self-care. I will never give up on the world. I also won’t delude myself about its state. What I will do, what I am doing, is—while I’m adding to it in the couple of ways I know how—I am drawing inward, letting a shore buffer me from that crazy world that I love and that, as best I can, I make things for. I have dreams that dogs I love are biting me. That imagery fits here. For some, the advice is not to bite the hand that feeds you. Right now, for me, it’s to protect your hand from the mouth of the dog you love.
Dream that I left my house on a bike, which affixed to it was something like a balance beam tightrope walkers use, and I rode down the courtyard and down the sidewalk and down the street and onto the boardwalk near a Santa Monica/Ocean City looking wharf, and it was beautiful, and I rode far far far down the boardwalk and it eventually turned into an impossibly long, impossibly populated, impossibly stocked buffet of shops and people and happenings, this miles-long street with bike paths on both sides, and shops on both sides, and beyond the shops on one side the ocean and beyond the shops on the other side the city, and I rode all the way to the end of the boardwalk where there was a ship waiting and you entered the boarding dock of the ship through a seafood tavern, and there was a high school girl there as part of a field trip from some faraway land and she had the kind of pertness that attracts me and she had the kind of alertness that attracts me, where everyone else’s normal eyes are dead and then sometimes you meet someone like me, whose eyes are alert, whose mind is aware…she was one of those, and we talked immediately, and she wanted to see me later, and I wanted to see her later, and she was one who even if I, in the foolishness of societal politeness would have left our later meeting to chance, she wouldn’t leave it to chance, and even though she didn’t have a cell phone we would meet later as I would write my email on a receipt, and she was young and rebellious and showing me that the receipt I had just gotten wasn’t really printed on heat-sensitive paper, but the heat-searing-looking markings on it were black instead of blue, as they should have been, indicating that this receipt was instead photocopied to resemble one that had been printed on heat-sensitive paper, and with that we went on to investigate the dots of a colon which were suspect for a different reason, and when we looked out the little window at the waiting ship and its ocean beyond, we did it at the same time, and we weren’t afraid, even as we first met, to have our heads close by each other so that we could look out of the little window at the same time…and it was one of those moments and one of those energies where all at the same time we didn’t mind being close because it was simply the practical requirement of looking out the window at the same time, and why should we not look out at the same time, since we were looking out at the subject of our conversation, the boat, and its leaving to take her and her classmates on the next segment of a field trip, but yet we wanted our heads to be close as we looked out the window, and we wouldn’t have kept them apart even if there hadn’t been any practical requirement that they be close, but yet if we hadn’t have wanted to be close for any other reason than the practical, we would have been close for that reason, and not been concerned with the implications. We were that kind of people, who can unselfconsciously like or not-like each other many times throughout an interchange and our behavior be totally unchanged, totally undisturbed, by our motivations: if we liked each other as boy and girl, we would have had the same conversation as if we hadn’t, we were that true. But we did like each other, and we would later act on it, we both knew. She would take my email and write me later from some overpriced internet cafe on the boardwalk, and we would meet and continue our relationship. When I woke up from this dream of bicycles and boardwalks and oceans and ships and fieldtrips and mates, I knew that starting today, in my waking life, everything would start to get better. In the waking haze coming out of this dream, I know my life hit a vertex today. Yesterday, today, was a vertex in my life, a turning point, after which the rules of progression are changed. There is a definite high school energy to this dream, and I will never be me in high school again, and do not want to be, but there are some aspects of me from that time that I know are active again now. I had to go through everything I’ve been through to get to be who I am on this day, and some of it produces a me I’ve never been before, and some of it washes out, revealing a me I’ve been before. My childlike path of simplicity/abstinence with respect to addiction is part of why I can feel this way today. My intellectual and social experiences up to this point are another part of why I can feel this way. I am older than I have ever been. I am younger than I have ever been.
Also, in the dream, one of the young lady’s classmates pointed out that I was floating some inches above the ground when I stood or walked. Riding a bicycle, a symbol of freedom for me, but also, my feet would not quite bend to gravity’s will that they touch down.