Pacific
The Pacific Ocean is the edge of the world. A hundred, maybe two hundred miles out, you run into sea monsters and then the world just stops, water spilling over the edge. And if you sail too close, you'll be going over with it, if the sea monsters don't get you first. There's nothing really pacific about it. All of us came here to its shore because we, or one of our predecessors, were trying to escape something and then ran out of room in which to run. All the great cities on the western edge of the New World: Vancouver, Seattle, San Francisco, Los Angeles, Guayaquil, Lima, they're nothing more than dumping grounds and shantytowns for people who wanted to keep pushing on to something but ran into the edge of the world instead. Now we invent and augment our cultures and keep on keeping on while the sea monsters look at us and laugh.
Kinetic Village/Revelation Lake
"But I don't need to bother you, no, I won't play that part
I just want access to the inside of you heart
Access to your thoughts on the way that I should be
So I could start to change and maybe you could access me"-Phish, "Access Me"
I realize that this post is a little late in coming. You get what you pay for. If you want me to post when I say I will, cut me a check and I can guarantee any number of subsequent posts (based on how much you pay me) will be up with all due expediency. But until one of you steps up, you will have to deal with this after-the-fact bullshit. Enjoy
Sometimes you have to cut your way through every layer of bullshit to stab at what you are looking for. This was relatively easy in Spaceship Earth. The dimensions were right, the shape was right, the thoughts just bounced around and the AI would get inside your head, break down the barriers and the inhibitions and, as they say, you could talk some real shit. You can call it a heart to heart or opening up or a sencere discourse or even a mutual expounding of truths of the mind and soul between two or more consenting parties. But it all reduces to "talking some real shit."
You could do that inside Spaceship Earth. It worked to a degree even after the ship itself died and only its brain in a jar was present. But the brain is still alive and sitting in someone's room. He is someone who needs it. New Gibraltar needs Spaceship Earth. But dammit, so does St. Collegeberg. Everywhere needs a brain of Spaceship Earth, but there is only one brain of Spaceship Earth and it is sitting in someone's room in the town of New Gibraltar, which is located in Greater Balboastan. (If you do not know what these places names actually are, try to figure it out. If you do I will give you five ozonebucks, which are good for, well, absolutely nothing.) I am currently away from the brain of Spaceship Earth, in a town called St. Collegeberg, which is located in the northern regions of concretestan. The area is known as Ferdinand's Folley. Ferdinand's Folley is about a five and a half hour drive from New Gibraltar. Can you figure out what these places are actually called?
Anyway, that is not my point. The point is, the world needs people to be sencere both with each other and with themselves. You could do that in Spaceship Earth.
And now that we have no intact Spaceship Earth, how do I do this?
Well it just so happened that I went on a vision quest.
The vision quest was a rite of passage used by the Sioux Indians. Men would sit in a hole for three days with no food or water and would have dehydration and hunger-enduced visions. I did a vision quest-lite. Less fulfilling, but better for you. I went out in the woods for a few hours. The whole team did this during our stay at Kinetic Village.
The place I am referring to as Kinetic Village is a town whose population is less than its elevation in feet above sea level. It is a beautiful place with lots of trees, endless trails, spectacular mountains, and very little oxygen.
Even though I went up there to train with my team in the weeks before class starts, I won't talk much about the running. Most people will not be interested in hearing about my running, and this is not a Flotrack blog, where I could talk about my running and the life lessons I learn from it and how it's so damn important and trancendental with some sort of metaphysical construct placed precariously on top, or if it is Ryan Hall's blog, an awkward paragraph about how his tempo run related to Hebrews 11. Running is not something that is complex and philosophical. It is the opposite. It is life stripped of everything complex and philosophical.
I will talk about the radio stations in Kinetic Village. Kinetic Village and its greater surrounding area are very sparesly populated. Therefore, these radio stations really dont' have very many listeners, and therefore generate very little advertising revenue. These radio stations therefore get to play whatever the hell they want. I don't mean that they can play the slightly less popular Nickelback songs or the uncensored versions of songs that are labeled as explicit. I mean that they play whatever the hell they want. A set could go from a country western ballad to a smooth jazz porn groove to early Jefferson Airplane to a Texas blues. And this was common. One station had the classical hour every morning at eight, followed at nine by the speed metal hour. One show was operated at the hands of an old man who played mostly Old-Timey music and sounded like he was having a stroke when he was talking. He also seemed to have seen most of the artists he played live and in their heyday.
In mainstream America circa 2009, you don't play a song because you like it, or even because you think it should be played. You play it because it's what people want to hear it. People want to hear it because other people want to hear it. This may be a bold statement, but I doubt that more than 10% of the people who consciously listen to the song "Birthday Sex" actually enjoy listening to it. It's popular and it has novelty. And what about when people want to sing along? You put on "Don't Stop Believin'," because we all know the words and it's catchy and singable. I'm sure that a lot of people, in the rare moments when they are honest with themselves, don't really like "Don't Stop Believin'." They like it because it is a cultural common ground, something that everyone can agree upon. But when you go up to Kinetic Village, where the air and population are spread thinner, you get DJ's who really don't need to rely on what people want. It's a beautiful thing, if you don't mind having your relaxed mood, created by listening to the Bach Cantatas, suddenly interrupted by "Enter Sandman."
My vision quest involved a lot of climbing rocks, for some reason. It was something I wanted to do. I saw a cleft on a rock face, and wanted to get there. By the time I got there, I had decided that it wasn't cool enough, and wanted to go to a cleft that was higher up, and would therefore require more climbing. I had a notebook with me to write down my thoughts. I kept climbing up these rocks until it got really steep and I had to carry my notebook in my teeth so as to have two free hands. I ended up yelling at myself a lot, and singing Phish's "Access Me" for some reason. I realized that Phish could have been recognized as a really good band, and not just a really good jam band, had they taken their studio efforts more seriously. As I knocked loose rocks hundreds of feet down, I was reminded of the Chinese proverb about moving a mountain by moving small stones, and how I could theoretically move this 9,000 foot peak if I just had enough time on my hands. I saw the entire valley as this sphere and I was swirling around in it. I climbed up to a cleft and looked out at the mountains in the distance and knew that on the other side there was nothing but desert and casinos and concealed UFO crashes. I knew that behind me lay a subcontinent that I call my home, but that I will never truly understand. I didn't see the ghost of FDR, I didn't speak in tongues, I didn't see the face of the Virgin Mary on a tortilla. I just knew that being afraid was pointless, even though the slightest clumsy motion could send me falling hundreds of feet, and that I would die wearing those stupid sweatpants with snaps on the side so that you can rip them off. I yelled at myself because of all the things about myself that I hate, and how I am inheriting all of my family's problems and shortcomings.
I could resurrect Spaceship Earth, the whole thing, enough mind power and willpower and it could be whole and functioning and one foggy day we could get in and then go, some place. Even if you go in circles in Spaceship Earth, you are going somewhere. You figure things out. We can talk about what happened on the day when the windshield of the world was smashed and a whole new reality rushed in. You don't know what I'm talking about and it's better that way. I just want to figure it out. But I can't. Everyone has a demon, some event that haunts them. And my problem is that my demon is someone else's demon.
Some runs will make you faster. Some will challenge you. Some will make your quads stronger. Some will reveal secrets. Some will show you things about others. Some will tell you what you lack. Some elevate your mood or crush your spirits. But there is one run that reveals who you are.
There is a lake near New Gibraltar. The trail around it is a fourteen mile loop which gains a net total of at least 1,000 feet of elevation, possibly closer to 1,500 feet. I ran this loop four consecutive Sundays this summer, and I saw who I am. I do not like who I am.
But in Kinetic Village, I saw what I can become. And I like what I can become.
Then one day I'll come back to New Gibraltar and chase the demons out of all of you.
Preparing to Elevate
"And we all got to ride this river
And we all got to feel the rain
And we all dig what we're given,
Even the pain"
-The Yellowjackets, "Even the Pain"
I want to sit down with the people I know, I just want to have those conversations we always would have, where we talked about everything and nothing at the same time, where stories were swapped and hypotheticals were discussed and allegations of dude-kissing were made. Even on runs, I want to talk about something other than what we're doing. I miss my old team, with Brondello's childish spirit and wit, Robert's racist ramblings, Baffi's comments that were nutted by the line that separated the lewd from the philosophical, Ross's attitude of a 400 meter runner, Colby's contrapuntal opinions, Bongman's occasional gems, and Budge's depraved sexual fantasies. I never thought I would miss that but I do.
I need real people. I'm sure that everyone on this team is a real person, but the problem is that there is only one thing that unites us: we are runners. In high school, your whole team grew up together, you lived in the same town and you had to bullshit for the same teachers. Now we're just a bunch of kids from all over the state who have one talent and interest in common.
And the workouts, they all make me so tired. So much damn running, drills, abs, even stretching takes a couple lifetimes. I'm eating healthy, which means nothing that you enjoy eating. My calves are shredded, my quads are twitching, my hamstrings are tightening, my hip flexors are quivering, and my butt is, well, let's just say I feel like I've been dropping some proverbial soap quite often.
So what do I do in times of adversity? Do I take advice from my pianist Joe Zawinul and cry out "Mercy, Mercy Mercy!" No, I grin and bear it, because I know that I can put up with bullshit for longer than the universe can throw it at me. Have you kicked aversity in the balls today? Because I have, and I shall continue to do it on the daily.
Major bonus points if you got the "Mercy, Mercy, Mercy" reference.
This Is the Place Where We Live Now
"Never had a home like this
And the prophets said 'be careful what you wish'
Never had to think twice
Always knew my home was in paradise"
-The Disco Biscuits, "Home Again"
Home is not the place where you want to live. Home can be a place where you have to live, or a place that needs you. If you don't want to improve your situation, you lose the creative stimulus that is hardwired into the human brain, and you stagnate. The way I see it, if you are satisfied with where you live, you need to move. Therefore, achieving complete satisfaction causes a loss of humanity.
Now, here is my problem: I am not making much of an effort to improve my situation. The immediate impediment is that I don't have the energy to do so. I know I need to do laundry, but the Vitamin Hospice has exorbitantly priced coin laundry machines, and I'm not sure how if that would put me in danger of being detected. I have a team meeting in less than three hours and I know I should do laundry before then, but I am not willing to make the effort. I don't want to organize things because I my room has taken on a state of Zen impermanence and I know that it may be futile.
I'm home and I love it and this is the place where I live, even if I may be squatting, even though I will be moving again very soon. I may live in a reality that is not reality, but that is what I'm used to. We live in a place that is not the real world, and not some fantasy or parallel universe. We live an an in-between microverse where things are real but only to a certain extent and time is not slower, there is just more of it. This is the place where we live now.
And I will not improve my situation to a very great extent. That is because I have to be uncomfortable. Discomfort and pain need to be routine. I need to wrap myself in it, bathe myself in it, lather it up, rub it behind my ears. I have found that doing things that make me comfortable or cause me pleasure don't necessarily make me happy. I am happy when I have work to do, I am happy when I am consciously deciding to be uncomfortable. And that is what I will have to do, I will have to transform myself. This is not going to be enjoyable, but I have work to do and sometimes you have to stop being a bitch and get the work done. This is not what people want, people want to be comfortable and always improving their situation, but I want a situation that is uncomfortable so that my creative stimuli come from breaking free.
Walking back to the vitamin hospice on one Sexy Sunday Night I was walking back to the vitamin hospice. The sidewalk was crowded with groups of people going the other direction and having fun. I'm walking towards them and they don't move and I don't move. Maybe I shouldn't be allowed to walk on the sidewalk, maybe I'm a second class citizen in this depraved society simply because I am willing to not enjoy myself. No, I am not moving off this sidewalk! I walked through throngs of drunk and staggering fun seekers, they were surprised at my audacity, because they knew I was different. And I am not the same as most of the rest of this microverse, but even still, this is my home and this is where work needs to be done.
Squatting at the Vitamin Hospice
"I'd invite you back to my place
It's only mine because it holds my suitcase
It looks like home to me alright
But it's a hundred miles from yesterday night"
The Police, "Man in a Suitcase"
I no longer am sleeping on a couch. I have a bed. I even have my own room, for the time being. It is not my room really, but it is also not my room that is not my room, if that makes sense, which it doesn't.
I am partaking in a proud American tradition that goes back to the Pioneer Days. I am a squatter.
There are two other freshmen on the team, and they are staying in an off-campus dorm. Since classes don't start for another few weeks, their suite is mostly empty, and I am living in one of the empty beds. I will refer to this dorm as "The Vitamin Hospice."
I am a shadow, the Phantom of the Vitamin Hospice, a formless enigma, a Ghost in the Machine and the last sane man on this parody of a planet. And it feels like home already.
Going anywhere in the building usually involves avoiding eye contact with most people. I know one RA here, and she is entirely okay with my squatting, but I hear that usually RAs will kick squatters out. I want to avoid any suspicion. We keep our windows facing the courtyard closed. This makes me feel a little like a fugitive, and therefore like a little more of a bad-ass. I am entirely dependent on my roommates whenever I need to enter the room or enter the building after 9 o'clock.
The one advantage to squatting at The Vitamin Hospice is that anyone can buy a limited meal plan. Students living in nearby apartments sometimes buy them, since it is all you can eat. I have enough meals to last me for maybe another week. After that runs out, I will have to use the floor's kitchenette to cook my remaining spaghetti and canned beans. But by that time I may be moving again, going to altitude to train. However, that is a question mark, so I am prepared for the long haul.
I eat, sleep, and shower inside a building which I have no business being in. At home, I felt that my room was not my room, that it had a presence that was almost hostile towards me. Now I am in a room that is most certainly not my room, and I feel comfortable and welcomed. I feel that if I had to be more secretive to avoid suspicion, I would feel even more at home. I'm not sure why this is so, but I am still a little too tired to analyze anything very deeply. (This is why my recent posts have not been very good.)
My interactions with other members of the Vitamin Hospice (aside from my roommates) are very limited, both because of my sketchy living arrangements and my lack of willpower to socialize, which stems from my tiredness and emotional residue. (I suppose this last item is what most people would refer to as "baggage." I may not take myself seriously, but I at least try to avoid cliches.) I took a dump for an hour and read a science fiction book when people were over because I didn't really feel like socializing. Lame on a stick. Now, it was a good book and I enjoyed myself, but I realize that this is not how you win friends (or for that matter, influence people).
Since I do not have my music, the average quality of the music that I listen to has declined. In the house that I was living on, I feel like an inordinate amount Blink-182 was played. In some ways, this doesn't feel right. I almost feel like we are too old for that. At the tender age of thirteen, I somehow got my hands on a copy of The Mark, Tom, and Travis show, at a mall in... Utah of all places. My parents didn't know about it. After I got home from middle, before my parents were home from work, I would listen to this album. I loved it. I loved the mindless hooks and stage banter. They were swearing. And talking about sex! This was cool! I showed it to all my friends, because it would make me cool, because they were swearing and talking about sex!
I will always associate Blink-182 with the false maturity of middle school, when you think you're growing up but instead you're going backwards. This teen angst was emotion for morons, the catchy guitar hooks and simple chord progressions was music for morons.
But now I realize that Blink-182 is most the guys I went to high school with. They feel angst over strong yet surfacy emotions and cliche social situations, they can kind of play guitar, and they won't pass up the opportunity to make a good Cock Joke. And for better or for worse, these are the people that make up the world we live in. That's ok, Cock Jokes will never get old.
I want to listen to Bitches Brew in the cockpit of Spaceship Earth. (My brain is fried to the point where typing the word "cockpit" causes me to audibly chuckle. It must be all the Blink-182 I've been hearing lately...) I'm sitting in a room where it's permanent enough to unpack but not permanent enough to organize things, and I don't have the initiative to go out and meet people. It's Friday night, and I know that everyone I know is doing something fun while I waste my life trying to write things I don't have the intellectual capability to write and run at velocities that I am incapable of. I want to call someone, anyone, but I know I would just be taking away from their funtime. If someone were sympathetic enough to lend me an ear, I would probably become like my uncle; he stays with us and he just doesn't leave. He basically lives with us. He just showed up unannounced and didn't really leave. Now there is kale in my fridge which is not my fridge, back in New Gibraltar where the fog keeps feeding souls and gives them the energy to run in all directions and never sleep. Maybe they're even having fun on Mondays now, right when my compatriots and I all jumped ship.
I brought one belt down. And one day, that one belt is going to break. It's getting a little frayed. My belt will break and I won't be able to wear pants. Then I won't be able to go outside and... wait, that won't really change my behavior at all.
I said that I wouldn't be like this, I said that I would be outgoing and shake up the routine. The one thing that I did that I said I would do was vote. I voted absentee, so I don't even get a sticker. I am not entirely alright with this. But I did vote, and I (maybe) made a difference. And I kept a promise that I made to myself. So as long as I am squatting at the Vitamin Hospice, I achieve by simply existing a sane existence.