Ancient Creative Writing

Just another early morning dream. I'm driving alone to LA, heading north on a small highway. Traffic is heavy, and slow but at least it's moving. The sky is dark and cloudy. It must be late evening. The air feels electrified, almost alive. There is so much detail.

Off to my left, a hole in the sky forms, and fire rains down upon the earth. There is no notion of scale, I don't really know how far away it is. Though it is amazingly bright, I feel no fear. I pull out my phone (has camera) to take a picture, but I am a little late. I think I got a shot of it throwing up debris after it hits. In an amazing act of coordination, traffic comes to a sudden halt. People are getting out of their cars, as do I, camera ready... because somehow I know. And it does. Another hole forms in the sky. It is bigger, and closer this time. Again the sky falls. It is red and yellow with a core of white. Many pieces are falling off the main body. I get a good picture of it, and then realize this isn't a safe place to be. I get back in the car and notice the radio is dead. People are starting to panic as we get our cars up to speed. I decide I would rather be home, and find some place to turn around. As I exit, I notice people are starting to shoot machine guns into the air and at passing cars. What a bunch of crazies, I'm thinking.

Next thing I know, the car has been abandoned, and I'm on a motorcycle cruising down a turnoff, looking for a way back onto the main road. It dead ends, so I turn around. Its now morning. Somehow I've also picked up a helmet, and a gun. It seems like most people around me are armed. I even pass a girl on an old 10-speed bike with a shotgun slung over her shoulder. I remember thinking that it was such a small thing for what its done to us. And then I wake up. And start to wonder.

Have you ever looked at your eyes? No I mean really looked at them. Noticed the intricate line of veins running along the whites of your eyes? (also known as the Sclera [sklehr-uh] to you eager young minds.) Looked at the mass of colored filaments that keep just the right ammount of light going in to be processed by you mind?

Its hard to believe exactly how I've taken my irises for granted. First off, it always seems like it should be irii. Secondly, they're named after the greek goddess of rainbows. How cool is that? The most amazing thing of course is their unique characteristics. I could spend hours looking at the details within my eyes. Of course, I'm not the first to become enthralled by the human iris. Other than being easily entertained, I am apparently a bit slow. If you can imagine, the world of iris scanning is vast. people are pseduo studying it , debunking the study of it , using it for biometrics, and let us not forget the coveted Most Irismeister Election.

So what have you learned here today kiddies? I've learned that I have a spot on my eye I really should have checked out. I hope you learned something too. This has been brought to you by the number 3 and the letter I (of course).

Myra Mendoza was there... so was Ben Simpson. Myra looked as young and beautiful as I remember her. Ben was old, not grey, but the strain of age was in his eyes. He had long hair. They were wearing identical green shirts with lots of writing on them. I think Myra was carrying a protest sign. They were protesting against a KKK rally... but the KKK people seemed to think they were just "normal" people too. Somehow I realized that the protesters were just protesting against themselves, with some of them not realizing how they were dressed.

Everything shifted and I ended up in a new place. I remember being stuck in a large hedge maze surrounding a city, with lots of people. There was a group of Asian people, and an Asian guy claiming that everyone there had to follow him. But really he was just lost too. Tim Chen and I walked through the maze together and came upon a large colorful city. A cross between the munchkin land from the Wizard of Oz and Market street in San Francisco. Tim told me that this world was the road to heaven. And that most people got lost along the way. So I guess it would be more of a maze then wouldn't it?

Suddenly I realized that I'd been further along on the road to heaven before. I remember being on a ship, a fire broke out, and many people went overboard on lifeboats... but they were able to put the fire out easily. This wasn't the titanic. I thought I might have been responsible for the fire somehow.

Suddenly I'm back with Tim, running through the city, through dark alleys of glowing neon, and swirling yellows and greens. There are a few paths to heaven, most are changing constantly, and he tells me. Only two are static. Tim knows them both. I remember thinking that I should ask him to show me both ways. And that I should go back and help people in the maze. We reach the gateway entrance. I tell him I know what I have to do and that I'll see him again. He goes through.

I turn back, remembering the path. I organize the city. Getting people to do jobs to help others lost or stuck in the city and in the hedges. All are promised that after 6 months of service to others, helping others find their paths, I will help them along their own way. Eventually the city becomes like any other well run machine, the chaos having given way to order. I can no longer see a future where I will be able to reach heaven, but that the path I have chosen, to help others, is heaven enough for me. I see the masses moving in waves toward heaven, in a slow rhythm. The visual rhythm becomes auditory. It's piano music. I wake up to realize my roommate is in the living room, playing.

what the?!?

Myra Mendoza and Ben Simpson were friends in high school. I haven't seen either of them in many years. Myra has come to represent the positive aspects of innocence to me. She was very bright, although sheltered and naive at that time. Perhaps that is why she hadn't aged? Youthful innocence personified. Ben always seemed to be burning inside, some shame or anger was consuming him. His drive fueled by the need to quench that flame, which sometimes only made the flames grow all the more. I'd often wondered what Ben would be like without that fire. He was also very bright, and for a time had lived a sheltered life though even then something was burning. He fell rapidly during our senior year.

Why a protest, protesting against mis-clothed fellow protestors? No clue. Why the KKK? I guess it's the first group that comes to mind that people would protest against. I have some vague memory of the mis-dressed protestors being from a union for some reason.

Tim Chen is a friend in the bay area. I've just come back from staying up there for a few days. We'd been talking about religion, life, and what's important to us. The night before I left, I met some friends and walked along Market for a bit. It's very well lit, with lots of color and weird stuff going on. I'd imagine that fed a lot of the city imagery.

As to the ship and fire, I have no idea. Maybe it's from having seen Pearl Harbor a few days ago? I'm always worried that I might be the one causing problems, even when I'm fairly certain that it's because of someone else. Perhaps that's why I thought I was to blame for the fire? There were so many lifeboats in the water though, unlike Pearl Harbor. This is a big unknown.

Why a hedge maze surrounding the city? Why is there some initial obstacle before the "real" obstacle? It's as if there's a predefined challenge before you get to the city, to make you realize that the city is a challenge.. And once you're there, the "maze" becomes more... abstract. The only thing that comes to mind for me would be that the maze is our youth. Strictly defined and contained for the most part. You have options, but they're limited. When you grow up, you enter the city (world) itself. Full of possibility, color, and of choices. There are many possibilities for what you could want, and many paths to get to the infinite number of places. I don't know why 2 paths are always static, and why I didn't find out what the second one was.

Its thrilling for my ego to regain control, almost always in some strange situation, not knowing how I got there or what exactly the last one was doing. Luckily none of the others have seen it fit to let me come to in a prison cell... yet. Some of less fortunate carriers have at least one agressive offender id. As far as I know, other than a few sexual deviances, everyone else rolling around in this meat sack is "normal". Granted having a jumbled, and shared semi existance isn't quite normal, but we manage. I'd imagine that some of the others aren't too keen on me smoking, judging by the bags of health food junk sitting in the kitchen and the "don't smoke" notes frequently appearing on the bathroom mirror.

As far as I can tell, we have at least 3 different places we call home.... unfinished

This morning. Friday, 5am wakeup. Nothing new for the dawn patrol surfers.

It was like most mornings in San Diego, a bit overcast, add in a few drops of rain as I drove to La Jolla Shores. X wasn't feeling well, and decided to not go out, adding to the dreary scene. The waves weren't what we'd expected with the swells coming through all week long. Dave and I went out anyway. The water was cool, not cold. A few decent rides. Some idle chatter. And then it happened. Like a dream. Like someone injected pure happiness into my veins. The sunlight started breaking through the clouds. and it began to rain. If you've never been surfing in the rain before, with the sun shining, its a wonderful thing. I highly recommend it. Rolling along with the waves, with thunder clapping in the distance. X suddenly appeared beside me. Coughing and hacking away, off to catch waves and return with a smile.

And then the rainbows came. We'd noticed the beginnings of one earlier, masked by clouds, but now off into the ocean, two rainbows appeared, one behind the other as if to form a path. It was magic. And for what could have only been half an hour or so, I knew and felt joy the likes of which I've seldom felt before. A celluloid dream come to reality. And even now its with me. That feeling. And I know that no matter what happens, a part of me is already in heaven.

its not the heat that gets you. its the humidity. i stepped off the plane and resisted the urge to step right back onto it. anywhere has to be better than here. but the plane wouldn't be going anywhere anyway. two weeks of this. what was i thinking?

its been a while. i lived here for a year, between the millenium change. things were the same back then. i was different though. a japan addict. i'd been studying japanese for a few years during undergrad. a year abroad in tokyo seemed like a great idea. if you've never lived abroad, i highly recommend it. not only will it show you what you're made of, it will give you a grand adventure. just the simple act of walking to the store to buy some milk can be an adventure.

All of my thoughts are of this thing... nameless, for to name it would be to limit it. It courses through my mind like lightning, charging everything it touches. yet I don't know what it is. Is it just a feeling? Or is it more? Something else perhaps? How can I decide? How can I comprehend? Why can't I understand it? To attempt to observe it is to change it, to become part of it, for it to become a part of you.

If you live in the moment, do you die afterwards? A moment. Short is it? That span of time? As you appreciate that which could be lovingly seen forever. The fluffy clouds rolling by in the sky above cool water, as you sway on the bosom of the pacific ocean. The way the light plays across your lover's breasts in the early light of dawn, her hair splayed across her chest. The feeling of that first of many kisses on that night so long ago when you became... experienced. The way you feel for what we commonly agree to be mere seconds, but which last a lifetime. Caught forever in the web that is our memory. It was memory. Alas, already changed. And I was so enjoying that.

We're deep in a chess game on a early saturday nite. Through a combination of good thinking and Pofi's idiotic moves late in the game, I recover from the early loss of my queen, finally taking his. I set the piece back down and then it hits me. I can't believe I didn't think of it at any other point during the day. I'd finally done it last night. Some how, some way, I had a lucid dream, and then promptly forgot about it.

But I remember. Alas the details are fuzzy now. Certain things are as clear as day though, as dream recall goes, this seems to be normal. I remember thinking that I'd just seen something that was significant. And then realized that it was part of my reality check. Alas I cannot remember which it was. My dream signs have become more and more numerous. Every time I look at a clock, I check. Every time I look at my idle computer monitor, both at home and at work, I check. I ask myself if I'm dreaming. And last night I remember thinking to myself, "yes, yes I am dreaming." So I decided to run, and I ran... I ran faster and faster. For some reason, while going through the whole lucid dream experiment, I'd always thought to myself, I won't fly, everyone does that. But sure enough, as I ran faster in my dream, I thought to myself, "I'm going so fast I could fly." And suddenly, I was flying =) and lemme tell ya, it was fucking wonderful. I wish I had more to tell... alas, I recall nothing after flying. I do remember quite a bit of the flight though, of controlling direction, and speed. I seem to recall thinking that it was more enjoyable to fly at slower speeds, but I don't know why.

Conditions: Being a friday night, I was pretty tired. I crashed around 1am or so. The week before had been quite busy, leaving me with less than 6 hrs every night. I remember waking up thirsty at 4am. Then I woke up a little before 9am (internal work clock I guess) for a trip to the bathroom. And back to bed. Sometime between 9am and 11 when I woke up, I had my first consciously realized and recalled lucid dream.

The objective of my life: [this space intentionally left blank]

I'm beginning to suspect that my problem is simply a lack of a concrete goal. Or is that really a problem? I guess long term yeah. But how much would it really hurt if I just kicked back and enjoyed life for a while? Stopped worrying about the future and just lived. Make a mental note that sometime in 2003 or so I should just kick it into high gear and make that first million. Responsibility. Thats why. Sigh. Always trying to forget that. Paying rent, running businesses, helping friends in the more turbulent parts of their lives... responsibilities.

I'd make a horrible objectivist. I'm glad for that.

Of course, people only know what they are, and for the most part, are happy being what they are. I've decided that there are truly not enough hours in the day for me to be everything I want to be. But thats ok. I hope I never actually become the person I want to be. Of course, once that happens, I will have nothing else to look forward to in life. I don't want to be perfect, nor even strive for it. I want to be imperfect. Pefection is boring. Pefection means you have no place to go but down. I kinda like looking up.

T4nG3n7!!! ok wtf is up with this girl singing that she would walk a thousand miles to be with her ub3R d00d tonite? Yeah, I'd walk from here to SF and back, just to be with you tonight... what a load of crap. I bet that girl wouldn't walk a freakin mile, probably call her guy up and make him go pick her up. Shesh. Bitter? Me? Nah. I just wish someone would actually think about what they are singing about, and at least be real, ya know?

"breathe" i tell myself. yet i can't. the room isn't spinning. but its definately swaying in some form of antagonistic mannor. even the room is against me. i feel it pulsing. breathing. shit even the room is breathing why can't i? in a seeming paradox, my vision begins to fade to black, though the reds and oranges become ever more vivid. i slip from the upper stages of reality. somehow i know i'm breathing again, beyond my control. leave it up to the ol' bod to take care of itself. i know i can't do it. i'm floating, it feels as if its an old habit, easily returned to. i don't remember floating before. its so hard to remember anything. except pain. sorrow. longing. i become bound within these emotions. ever familiar. ever hated. squeezing me as if i were a childs toy. again i fade to black. dreams. dreams are all i can remember. reality itself has become just another dream. something brought to the forefront of my mind as a subtle reminder of all i'd lost. of all i was spared from. i live now as a character in a story unfinished. a truly demented and unskilled author has penned the story thus far it appears. no clarity of character development. a confusing jumble of lessons this writer is trying to teach us. it is a greyscale world, where no one is entirely good or evil. where hero's steal, and villains are capable of compassion. where a good turn is as likely to be punished as it is rewarded. i do not understand myself. the complexities of so many years have created within me a jumble of rules, ideas and ideals. right and wrong? i used to know them. i used to understand them. right and wrong. white and black. a greyscale world. nothing is right. nothing is wrong. its all in between. logical. but only in a fuzzy way.

a passionate cry gently wakens me from a light sleep. it is long and beautiful. a wailing wisp uttering in an unknown language. it calls to me. as surely as a plea for help. it calls to me. i am no savior. the voice falls silent. the song ends. and i drift back to sleep. it will be a long night.

I am looking for the name of the individual who wrote the following:

"attain the plateau peace of mind
ropes dangling on the rock face
this high ideal
forget the feasting hall
the ugliness of languished power
observe that here
created for itself alone
are all the mysteries of life of death
is all there is
and in that garden by that hillside tomb
the missing words proclaim that there
the self is buried
that mystic good
has overcome the evil matter holds
that sin is dead
I hold her hand
this angel shepherdess
now walks with me in evening cool
et in arcadia ego"

It has been called this-ness, living in the moment, often found deep within meditation, within dreams. Intelligence is nothing more than having more thisness than someone else. Your mind, like any other, is a tool whose potential hasn't even begun to be tapped. They say we use a mere 10% of our brain's capacity. Imagine the possibility of tapping the rest. Its not that you're smarter, you just process 10x more information than a normal person would do in the same amount of time. Incredible reflexes, seemingly amazing powers of deduction and logic, you would have the ability to heal thyself, and be completely aware, in every way, of your surroundings.

We soak up knowledge and sights and sounds like a sponge. Think of how much more the average person has experienced in these times compared to one who lived in the dark ages. Imagine never having traveled more than 20 miles from where you were born, living, working, and dying in the same spot? What a sore existance we might judge it to be. Think of how much more a person in the future will know, will be aware of, perhaps even just on a subconsious level that you or I could never hope to reach. Will they also be so quick to believe us to be veritable slaves? What freedom of movement, of thought, of believe might these people enjoy?

Can we speed up our evolution? Is that even the right word? The tools are there... have we never picked them up? Or simply forgotten how to use them? It is a commonly held belief that we can learn to improve our memory, our powers of cognition, our very minds... though exercise. Are we doing the right exercises? Should we focus our energies elsewhere? Away from that horrible sink for time known as entertainment? I think so.

I am a dream I had, once when I was a child. Curled up in my warm bed, the blankets wrapped tightly around me, mummified, as I was so prone to do at that time. My thoughts drift to and fro on the winds of a mind still awake, restless in a sleeping body. In an imperceptible moment I turn to thoughts of the future. In my innocence and naivety, I created a picture, a recipe, a plan for happiness. I saw myself as a creator of worlds, a builder of wonders, with some secret smile splayed across my face, glowing blue in my monitor's light, during that featureless time before dawn. I was a wizard of the world I created, arranging bits and bytes with a precision of one who knows. I knew the world with a clarity that I had never experienced before. I was the controller of destiny, the shaper of lives all the more amazing than my own had been.

An old song plays softly on the radio. Its words drift softly through the air, betraying the substance of both the air and the music. Their weight, each in their own way, both measurable and yet defying classification. Defying reason. Beyond logic. The song is a subtle reminder of some past emotion, triggered by a group of long slumbering neurons, eager to fire me back into the past.

Even now I dream. I dream I am that child. And through that child again I try to shape what I am to become. An endless cycle of child and man. Each dreaming of the other. Each wishing they could be the other, never realizing that at any moment they could easily but wake up and command their own destiny.

It is the simple things in life... the simple choices... the simple actions... the simple truths... that make life beautiful. Are the waves of ones mind not just as awe inspiring as the lofty music which leads to their creation? Like so many waves crashing on nameless beaches of long forgotten lands in my minds eye. I wish to dream again. Dream of my future. Dream of my past. Dream.

I curse the writers of old, creating such worlds of mystery and wonder, breathing the life of joys and sorrows into so many stories that shaped my view of the world around me. Curse them, for they have left me nothing. I am no hero. I am no bard. I am no small child, an underdog in every sense, following a journey befitting my idols. Surpassing great odds, always somehow succeeding through trial after trial, seeking my sleeping beauty, my queen, my love. Fighting for a cause worth fighting for, living and dying for all that they believe in. I realize that these characters, these people, who live in the minds of millions, can do nothing but win. For it is in our minds, in our desire to be what we cannot be, to do what we believe we cannot do, that they survive. What would our heros do if faced with the cold harsh reality of failure? Of loneliness?

What are we? What type of people are we that do not pursue such lofty goals? We that do not fight for all that we believe? We that do not risk our lives to do anything more than drive through morning rush hour.

I want to believe in something more. I need to believe in something more. Alas I was not one given to believing in another's gods. Shaped instead by the world around me. I am my own god. Yet I am a fallible god, given equally to acts of cruelty and kindness both, like so many of the old gods. I am, because I choose to be.

I forgot who I was in the flash of anger, an anger without value, purpose, or direction. I forgot who I was in the heat of passion, riding waves of ecstasy, enjoyed and taken for granted. I forgot myself in a twisted craze of bittersweet emotion, of easy pleasures gained with a hidden price. I forgot what I was. Finally it has come back to me. That feeling. I have remembered. And once again, I believe. I believe in my desire to do everything I ever thought I could do and more. I believe in myself. What is the power of knowledge compared to the awesome power of belief?