Keep Going

I know that you and everyone I or you or we see has their own journey flowing through this mystery.

What is your destiny?

If you ask me, it's to enjoy the cosmic symphony and make the world happy by spreading joy through every place you be.

Good luck!

Festival

There was a kite festival today along the bay.  After spending most of the morning and afternoon packing, I finally traveled over there to check it out.  The kites were being flown in a park next to the marina, where I was able to park the car, so the experience started out in the boat yard.  As I walked along the boardwalk by the sailboats taking pictures and enjoying the sunlight reflecting on the waves of water, I realized I might as well have been on Long Island.  I felt like a young boy hanging out in the shipyard before going out on The Willet with my family.  I haven't been on a sailboat in ages.

When I had had my fill of boats I walked over to the field and saw the kites flying high: butterflies, ships, dragons, rainbows, and even a T-Rex with an ice cream cone.  I listened to music and took photographs and wandered around the grounds.  It didn't take long for me to get deja vu again, although this time I wasn't in Long Island, but Bonnaroo.  Open fields with pathways surrounded by kiosks and brightly colored objects flying in the sky.  It was more of a family affair, and much less crowded, but the idea was the same.

Eventually my wandering took me over to the bay, where I found a seat to stare at the waves.  The clouds had covered up San Francisco and the Golden Gate Bridge, but the sun was still sparkling on our side from time to time.  I had a nice mental reminiscing session, remembering the journey from the East to the West, and everything that had happened in the strange new city.  I've been away from New York for 14 months, and living in California for 11 months, the Bay Area for 8.5.

I'm looking at almost three weeks in New York starting this week.  It will be the longest I've ever been away from "home," although part of the whole journey is making wherever you are your home.  Even so, it's hard to imagine what it will be like to see New York City, Cambridge and Lake Champlain again.  Although I am flying into NYC at the start, most of my time in the city will be spent during the last week at home, the week of August 11-18.  I'm not completely set on the dates yet, but that's what seems like a good guess right now.

I can smell the campfire already...

Hi

I

AM

BEN

I've started writing a book.  I hope it will be fun, for you and me.

This is where I share my thoughts and experiences about the one story love song on the magic spin ball

First thought:

WELCOME!

Isn't it good to be alive?

There are infinite creative ways to express your loony love to the world, and words are just one wonderful way to do so.

I would rather listen to music and dance with a beautiful woman on top of a mountain or a pyramid or in a lake than sit in front of a computer, but variety is the spice of life I suppose. 

I'm not very good at playing musical instruments or painting pictures. Fortunately, plenty of other people do that perfectly well, so I don't have to.

Instead I've learned how to tell stories so that people appear interested and don't tell me to shut up and stop wasting their time. I guess that's the most basic requirement for being an artist.

More importantly, I've learned how to both view life as a journey and to literally transform my life into such time and again.  If you try new experiences you're bound to learn something and get great stories.  I used to be a huge coward when I was younger.  The bravery, intelligence and friendship offered me by the universe propelled me to a higher destiny.

I have been developing a certain unique enthusiasm when it comes to crafting a crazy cosmic circus tale and perceiving poetic patterns within the plethora of puzzle pieces that providence is projecting into (or out of?) my pineal.

Every day I perceive a dreamy reality within my I's imagination, and every day it appears to be bending the "rules" of reality that someone else thought of but can't completely explain.

Which leaves me with an encouraging thought:

ANYTHING is possible.

Right now you're something instead of nothing, so why not?

Never let yourself limit your imagination. It's the foundation of creation.

I don't know why the universe sent you to this web page, but I'm guessing and hoping that it will somehow lead to you being more genki. That's a Japanese word. I don't speak Japanese well at all, but I did just live there for a year. Every morning I would ask about 100 energetic incomparably cute kindergartners how they were, and the enlightened ones would bounce up and down, wave their arms and shout an enthusiastic: GENKI!

I told one of my adult students that it was my favorite Japanese word when she asked, and she surprised me with a carefully crafted calligraphic expression of the Kanji for genki on a t-shirt for me. Thank you, Kazuko!

Genki: Energetic, enthusiastic, lively.

Sounds nice, right?

If anything matters, that's all that really matters. Are you feeling genki?

I hope so.

At the risk of hogging your time or appearing self-indulgent, I'm going to tell you a little about me, the resident storyteller on this web page.

On the surface I'm a pretty normal guy, but I've learned that the surface of life is only so interesting for so long.

If you start getting creative and innovative and searching for mysteries and magic in the sunlight and the shadows of the soular system, then infinite imagination takes hold of your I and the dream becomes a beautiful place to be. Anyway, that's what happened to me.

Like many other people, I am been fortunate enough to be alive, experience love, travel and adventures, perceive poetry and move with the music. And like most other people, I want more of it. Why? Because I know it's out there, and I'm just as qualified as anyone else to make the most of it. Hopefully you feel the same way. Just remember that the energy of an experience is always amplified when shared with another ego.

Feel free to listen to any of these stories. If you imagine you're sitting by a campfire with a moon (crescent or full, it's all good) rising high in the starlit sky, you might find your eyes smoothly rolling along with the ride.
I love living, feeling, seeing and being life as a magical mystery tour that has infinite ability to feed me "genki" so I can tell a story and spread it around the universe of BE.

I think that a stare or a touch or a laugh or a moan say more than a billion books I could build. I think that whatever form of communication you're dedicated to, your life will be richer if you add more, so if you've never been one for words, I highly suggest you reconsider. Brilliant and beautiful books provide the most romantic and intensely insightful imagination I've ever experienced, and they've led me to experience the layers of life at a much higher level.

I think words matter even if everyone's life is just some solipsistic dream world within infinite possibilities of experiences. They contain both the punishment of limiting an experience with labels, and the pleasure of providing a picture of the other person's perception. They both build walls and help us jump over them (or blow through them with some sort of large cannon, if that's more your style).

As much as I love words and stories and poetry, experience knows that music is the best bliss.

Listen to Hiromi Uehara, The Beatles and the wind blowing through the trees and you'll understand what I mean.

If the universe continues to team up with me, I'm going to continue to express the most entertaining, engaging, enlightening and energizing tales that will come from me.  All I know is it's up to the present's future flow.

Then again, life always comes first, and art second, so for now I get enthusiastic about the world's beauty and keep it going in new ways as best I can.  I want you to be and do the best you can possibly do, for you, for me, making us brave and free.  The best we can be.

As for listening to me:

THANK U

U

                Do you have any idea how much you make the universe smile, and how much wider that smile becomes every time you improve your style?  Flying the moonlight mile…

                Keep going!  We love it.  You are amazing.  And if you’re ever worried about whether or not you’re amazing, do something to make someone smile.  And if that doesn’t make you smile sincerely, then be more creative somehow, or find a way to make it more challenging so that your heart has to beat faster for you to win your treasure.

                Don’t worry about the people that confuse you with their behavior.  Leave them alone.  The universe takes care of it.  Go love.  Every day.  Share your way.

                The world's everywhere, always vibrating through you and me and everything we see.

                U make us happy!

Grand People

When I was new in the world, I thought that my grandfather was the greatest and grandest human on the planet.  He loved people, worked hard with his body and mind, told stories, had wonderful love and family and friends, spontaneously broke into song, and was always open, kind, helpful, warm and hard-working on behalf of just about everyone he met.  He also had a temper, a sense of humor and a sense of rebelliousness that sometimes got him into trouble, but mostly when he was younger.  He was one tough guy.

My grandmother loved all of us, and was loved in return.  She was very intelligent, loved teaching others, and had an amazing ability to put herself in other people's shoes so the world could understand and enjoy itself more.  She worked hard breaking barriers and spreading the news to help everyone's journey improve, and encouraged all of those who learned from her to do so too.  She suffered pain, but that healed, and it brought her to her husband.  They enjoyed life and shared it with each other for over sixty years.


I am thinking about luck I enjoy from life, work I can do for the best ways to be, and love the world gives me.

Poetry Explorer

We have this book in class called Reading Explorer.  I'm starting to get reminded of just how long I've been at my job because last week we finished all the readings in the book, and now we're back to #1.  I remember it well, because I taught it my first week of class.

The first entry is titled "A Writer's Journey" and then the subheading is "The Poet's Trail."  It's a three page reading about the 17th century Japanese poet Basho.  He went on a long journey through Japan by foot, and wrote a book about it called The Narrow Road.  It is considered a "timeless spiritual map."  He details his trip, uses humor, makes philosophical musings, states religious ideas, wonders at nature and complains too.  They said that at the beginning of his journey he was chubby, and by the end of it he was "thin and tired" but "filled with joy and knowledge."

Flashback:
One year ago I was on a narrow trail in Yellowstone National Park, walking a 12 mile path to a campsite along Heart Lake.  This journey had not been intentional at all.  That is, my journey across America was intentional, and hiking somewhere in Yellowstone was intentional, but the journey to Heart Lake was not of my choosing.  I got to say yes or no, but it wasn't my idea.

The thing was, I had been traveling around down in Utah when I met these two girls from Oakland who liked my canoe.  I got their numbers pretty quickly and then went on my way.  A few minutes after I gave up hiking Angel's Landing in Zion I got two texts: one from a great friend quoting The Simpsons, and another from the girls' calling me "Traveling Man" and telling me to get my butt up to Yellowstone.  That was the plan anyway, so I drove ten hours up to Wyoming the day before I turned 28.  The next day I had to drive over a steep scary section of the Grand Tetons to get to Jackson, Wyoming, but then it was smooth sailing.

That's when I decided to buy a few books for my journey.  After all, I was born on Jackson Street, and now I was in the town of Jackson on my birthday, and I was a writer on the poet's trail, so why not give myself a few books to celebrate being alive?  That's how I picked up Paulo Coehlo's The Pilgrimage, George Bernard Shaw's Man and Superman, Bill Bryson's A Walk in the Woods and Henry Miller's Tropic of Capricorn.  They were all very true, and they were all missing out on amazing truths.  Paulo's book was about a poetic religious journey filled with magic, omens, persistence, courage and wonder.  George's play was a 19th century British comedy about how women don't like men who worship them, and really only want the badass guys who don't want to settle down and remain free at all costs.  And then of course they end up yielding to the woman's charms and "surrendering" eventually anyway.  He's right and he's wrong.  There are many love songs.  Bill Bryson's book was about his attempt to hike the entire Appalachian Trail in the eastern US, and had a not-so-comforting picture of an enormous black bear on the cover.  And Miller... well, that was something special.  I was only interested in reading him because he had come heavily recommended by one of my roommates in Japan, and he was well regarded as one of the greatest twentieth century writers.  He lived abroad and traveled a lot, supposedly.

After buying those books I made it to the girls' campsite right before dusk.  It was a little eery because one of them was scraping the skull of some small rodent for her bone collection and wouldn't look up the first few minutes I was there.  But then we had dinner together, got to know each other and looked at the stars above the lake.  The next morning we hiked a mountain together.  After that they had a plan to move on, but their RV wouldn't start the next morning.  So while they waited for it to be fixed, I took them out on Yellowstone Lake in my canoe, and they weren't so unhappy about the RV troubles anymore.  Then again, they kind of messed with my joy ride when they got engaged in a serious argument about whether or not you should shoot a polar bear or a hobo if given the chance.  Besides that they were cool.  That night we had a campfire with some of our camping neighbors, but their RV had been fixed by then.  They left the next morning, and wished me luck with the bears.  I was finally free to go explore the wilderness camping experience on my own.  I enjoyed the company, but there's nothing quite like being young, brave and free.

This was a milestone for me because I had never camped in an area where there were grizzly bears before.  Grizzly bears are the nastiest monsters in the United States.  That is, besides humans.  If you come face to face with a grizzly bear on the trail and they don't like something about you, feel threatened, or worse, you're near their cub, then you're done.  It's over.  They run faster, they're stronger, and their paws and teeth would mangle you in seconds.  Luckily, they mostly mind their own business.  Even so, you can never be sure, and they strongly advise you against hiking alone because you're an easier target and less intimidating, or hiking at night, because that's when the grizzly bears mostly come out.

My first hike fittingly began at Inspiration waterfall at Artist Point, where I hiked a simple two miles to Ribbon Lake, although just before dusk because I like hiking before, during and after sunset.  I stayed there for two nights, but it was close enough so that I could go back to my car and explore the park during the second day, since it wasn't a very exciting campsite.  During that time I returned to the back country office to find a more serious endeavor.  That's when the man told me about Heart Lake.  The only catch was that it was a Grizzly Bear Management Area.  That didn't mean there were any guarantees of contact with bears, but if it was likely to happen anywhere, it was there.  So I shrugged and said okay, got my permit and went on my way.

Of course I got a late start the next morning because I had to hike two miles out of my campsite, and then I decided I really did need to do some laundry before going back into the wilderness for two more nights, and then the driving to get to the trail head, and the last minute packing.  Because I had different clothing for different temperatures and the possibility of rain, plus several days of food and water, I ended up carrying my big bag on my back and my normal bag on my front, with a water cooler in one hand and a walking stick in the other.  Overall the baggage must have been around 80 lbs., not counting the water.  It was all very heavy, and I had never hiked that far or with that much weight before, or with that many grizzly bears around (in theory).  I didn't even get started until 2:30.

By the time I reached Heart Lake, the sun was already setting behind a nearby mountain, and I still had four miles to go.  It was then that I met a park ranger and some young trainee disciples of his, and they were astounded by how much weight I was carrying, that I was alone and that I still had a ways to go.  But they wished me well and said that at least the remaining miles were mostly flat.  But they were also through the woods, where anything could be concealed.  Somewhere in there was an hour of dusk, and then an hour of darkness.  But I had a headlamp and a bamboo stick to make noise by smacking it against just about everything I passed, and a loud voice to yell, "HEY BEAR!" so they knew that I was coming and that they should either applaud, let alone or fear my presence, depending on what type of bear they were.  Just because they are all grizzly bears doesn't mean they're going to treat you in the same way or want the same thing from you or this forest.  And even the same bear might want different things throughout the same day.  In any case, I had bear mace if it turned out they were one of those types of bears.  Even so, I'd never been in that situation before, and I didn't really want to find out what it was like.

There was never a feeling of panic, but there was concern by the time it had gotten completely dark and I wasn't quite sure if I was near the campsite or not, or if I had missed the sign or not.  All I could do was walk faster and yell, "Hey Bear!" louder and more frequently.

Luckily I made it to my site sometime after 10 pm, and was able to set up my tent and fall asleep, completely and utterly exhausted.  That's another reason I brought so many clothes: my current clothes were completely soaked with sweat.  It was July after all.  Meanwhile, the moon continued to smile brightly above Heart Lake.
_________________________

Eight years ago, on this day, I was having an enormous party with many friends to belatedly celebrate my 21st birthday.  I saw many college friends I hadn't seen since I went to New Zealand, many friends from Cambridge, and my great friend from the Long Island days.  Even two of my American friends that I met in New Zealand made the trip.

It was strange though, because my grandfather was on his death bed in our house.  He had just returned from the hospital after suffering with pneumonia for several weeks at the age of 94.  We knew he might go any hour.  So I moved back and forth between raucous volleyball games, greeting late arrivals I hadn't seen in half a year, and hugging my Alzheimer's-suffering grandmother after she had just said her final good bye to her husband of sixty years.  She was evidently shaken and upset about something monumental, but you could tell she wasn't quite sure what it was or how to convey it.  But she knew it was very important, and she wanted me to know that I had a lot of work to do now.

Then all of my friends went up to the campfire on the hill to begin the real festivities, while I hung back to help out for a little while.  My grandfather needed to be turned in his bed, so my mother called me in to help flip him over.  I remember his eyes.  They were so wide.  You could tell that this man who had worked his butt off well into his 80s didn't like the idea of needing to be turned over by his grandson.  But I think he also appreciated it.  I said my good bye to that great man who built a foundation for my family and played a part in me being me beyond my understanding.  Then I walked into the hot summer night, through the woods in the dark, up to the campfire with my friends. My grandfather is Irish, so he would understand that the festivities had to continue.  My mom says she later opened the window when everyone belted out "Happy Birthday" to me on the hill, and that my grandfather was able to hear them sing to his only grandson.  Meanwhile, his only granddaughter was meeting her future husband that very night in Berlin.

The next morning "Papa" died.  The rest of us who were still in the journey ate pancakes and pretended not think about that kind of thing.  We passed around a ball, told stories, laughed, made fun of the fact that this was going on and we were all so hazy from the party.

It was a sunny, warm and beautiful day. 

__________________________

Today I taught my students about the Poet's Trail.  Then I reviewed Joseph Campbell's "Hero Journey" and "following your bliss" as simply as possible, before moving to the grand finale, Henry Miller's Tropic of Capricorn.

Henry Miller is a strange, brilliant and confusing character.  He's incredibly intelligent, knowledgeable, poetic, passionate, energetic and mind-blowing with his command of the language.  I often found myself identifying with his experiences, his observations on life and his intense passion for movement, whether it was emotional, physical or intellectual.  Poetry in action, yet all over the place.  Also, before you read, you must know that he's also a horny jerk, and sometimes he doesn't really care about anybody at all because he's so caught up in all the chaos (especially NYC in the 1920s).  I mean, every guy is a horny jerk at some point in their life, but this guy really had some kind of syndrome.  I'm sure he made a lot of it up for humor or bragging, but the book is mostly based on his true experiences.

I read the class a section from the book where he tells a woman he's going on a journey to California, when really all he wants to do is be with her, but he walks away anyway and goes through with his plan.  Then he realizes just how unfathomably alone he is, how horrible the world truly is, and how disconnected from humanity he has become.  He feels hopeless, desperate and insane, as if there is no reality anywhere in this world where he would belong.

But then, somehow, most likely by letting it all out, his mood reverses and he becomes completely blissful and happy.  He loves everyone in the world, and says just about the most poetic things I've ever heard in my life. 

"I am at home everywhere."  

"I love everyone in the world.  I know that somewhere at this very moment there is a woman waiting for me and if only I proceed very calmly, very gently, very slowly, I will come to her." 

"The world is a map of our love."

We ended class with a word game.  After all, it is only an English as a foreign language class.  I love my class very much.  They're all wonderful people and I have learned so much from them, but I know that in the long run I have to apply myself toward something more sophisticated and challenging within the field of my bliss.

As I walked home along the street, I was still immersed in Miller's words.  Even though I bought the book a year ago, I didn't finish it until December.  That's because I had gotten into the other books, I was still on the road and hiking and hanging out with new people a lot, and then I worked harvest constantly after that.  On top of that, Tropic of Capricorn doesn't really have a plot, and he starts out as a pretty mean narrator, so I wasn't really into it.  He was complaining about New York City and I was feeling ecstatic in Montana, so I didn't want to listen to him.  But I got back into it when I moved to my first independent American place to be in over three years, and I'm ecstatic that I did.

His book was a much-needed call to arms at the completion of the move, because all I wanted was to rest after a long journey and inexplicably hard physical labor.  I finally had a bed and walls around me, and it was winter, and I was in a new city, and all I had energy to do was read, occasionally meet people through my temporary roommates, eat, sleep and explore the city.  But Miller was there at the right time to remind me that I was still on "The Writer's Journey."

Sometimes, when I read the following passage, I imagine that it's not Miller's friend who is coaching me so passionately.  Instead I imagine that it is a woman from Heart Lake.  I don't know if there is the woman from Heart Lake, but like most humans, I feel that even if there are several or many, either past or future, eventually, on the whole, there is one romance that outshines all the rest.  I don't care if such a sentimental sentence disqualifies me from women who prefer men who treat them terribly.  They can always go enjoy being constantly disrespected by some man who doesn't even care about them.  

Right now I'm on my own and somewhat free to be whatever I want to be.  I don't want to tell anyone what to do, do you?  I mean, I'm here to help you, and if I care about you then I care about you and you know I'm going to help you, but beyond whatever flow we find together, what else should I do?  In the moments that truly matter, the strongest, deepest, clearest and happiest ones, I feel from deep within me an intense truth that if there is a destiny, and if she really is the kind of person who would enjoy being with me, then I imagine she's hoping for me to be the best I can be.  And because of my choice of trails through the "one poem", that means I have to keep moving forward on the writer's journey.  That's why when I read these words, I imagine she's talking to me:

87   You need something to steady yourself.  You’re scattering your energies.  Why don’t you throw yourself into something useful?  You don’t belong in that job—you could be a big guy somewhere...I don’t know what exactly… Listen, that’s what’s the matter with you — you’ve got nothing but sex on the brain.  No, I don’t mean that either.  You’ve got a mind and you’ve got passion and enthusiasm… but you don’t give a damn what you do or what happens to you.  If you weren’t such a romantic bastard I’d almost swear that you were a.....  It’s different with me—I never had anything to look forward to.  But you’ve got something in you—only you’re too damned lazy to bring it out.  Listen, when I hear you talk sometimes I think to myself—if only that guy would put it down on paper!  Why you could write a book that would make a guy like Dreiser hang his head.  You’re different from the Americans I know; somehow you don’t belong, and it’s a damned good thing you don’t.  You’re a little cracked, too—I suppose you know that.  But in a good way...

88   Sometimes I think you were born in the wrong time.   If you had just a little more confidence in yourself you could be the biggest man in the world today.  You wouldn’t even have to be a writer.  Don’t laugh—I mean it.  You haven’t the slightest idea of your own possibilities… you’re absolutely blind to everything except your own desires.  You don’t know what you want.  You don’t know because you never stop to think.  You’re letting people use you up.  You’re a fool, an idiot.  If I had a tenth of what you’ve got I could turn the world upside down.

Now that is what I call a timeless spiritual pep talk.  And if you don't feel like you could be the biggest human in the world today, somehow, in your own special way, then how are you spending your today?

Anyway, that's why I tell the stories every day when I get home from teaching in person as a warm-up for teaching in the form of the written word.  Lately it's been the new book.  I feel lucky to be alive and writing anything for anyone, and I want it to be as great as it can possibly be, for you and for me.

It's kind of like carrying 80 lbs. for miles through spooky forests with monsters about: despite the bountiful beauty, it doesn't exactly feel like bliss all the time.

If I get to swim in Heart Lake, then I will definitely do whatever it takes, with every grunt and groan and "Hey Bear!" making me care and helping me walk the narrow road of the poet's trail so I will meet her there.

Writing

I was born at 11:41 PM, 7/18

It's great to be here with you

Art Crafts Experience

A year ago I was looking for the experience of art.  This search had taken me through much of the world's art project, and this night it took me on a walk through Zion in the dark. Luckily I had a headlamp on, and the path was easy.

I had just walked up to the Angel's Landing area.  I didn't hike to the end of that path, but I approached it again.  At the time, it had been two years since I'd first visited this land of adventure and beauty.  It was covered in snow then.  I walked up to the start of the Angel's Landing hike, and made it halfway to the view of the valley.  I turned back halfway because there was so much snow, the sun had already set, and there was a 1,000 foot steep drop on each side of me.  I had a wall to protect me on the left, to which I was clinging.  On the right it sloped more, say, downwards, with a layer of snow to protect me.

I hung there a minute or so, took a few pictures, tried to step and had the snow crumble, and thought of someday loving someone and having a family together, however large that family would be, and that maybe that was more important than risking my life at such a critical point.  After all, this wasn't the view that had inspired the journey.  It wasn't even the poetic finish line of the journey.  Just another beautiful challenge open to everybody.  And there was still this glorious view and experience at this moment, for me.  But maybe sharing something like this with someone else was why I could walk away from it for now.  Not necessarily even this place, or hiking, or even nature, but simply the beauty of the world in any of its forms, however they come.

 

I turned around and went back to the area with wide paths, but then realized I was soaked and it was 20 degrees outside.  Then I ran back to the road, and a French neurosurgeon gave me a lift in his family of four's rented RV.  After returning to safety I slept in my tent and hitchhiked to Bryce Canyon and Las Vegas.

In 2012, two years later, I was back in Utah, and then back in Bryce Canyon, and then back in Zion.  So of course I went back to Angel's Landing.  It was summer after all.  And of course I had to wait all afternoon for the heavy thunderstorms to pass before attempting.  And of course I met all the people who turned back or, worse, got stuck during the thunderstorm, and decided to head back.  And naturally, I was the only one there when I got to the trail head, and it was in the midst of dusk.  I was aware of the last bus back, and I would have time, but visibility would be an issue.  Last time the "snow" warning mattered.  This time the "dark" warning mattered.  Not to mention the mud.  I got really pumped up listening to a few gangsta songs and rushed into it with full enthusiasm for ten seconds, climbing up and down swiftly, and it was even more vertical than I remembered, and then I remembered the whole lesson of the previous journey and said "forget this".  I went back and decided to try that other really lovely path that a lot of people had recommended.  That path went even higher, it just wasn't as close to the valley, which, once again, would have been past sunset.  Although it was dusk, and it was still spectacular because it was totally quiet and peaceful and I was in solitude.  Even better, I could see the entire expanse of the course ahead of me, and it looked insane.  My course was insane enough as it was.  I was happy I had abandoned it.  I wasn't born to be a dedicated rock climber.  I just liked the basic physical challenge and exhilaration of moving my body amongst the beauty of the natural wilderness.

To celebrate that, I took three pictures in the lingering light.  One was of me standing on top of a pyramid.  It was the same pyramid which was the original aim of my journey through southern US in the winter, and one of the reasons I first walked away from Angel's Landing beyond imminent danger.  I had not only survived, I had continued to take new world-expanding risks and made it to my goal.  The second picture was of me standing in San Francisco in front of City Lights Bookstores.  I didn't have to keep subjecting myself to intense dangerous behavior anymore.  I just had to move to San Francisco and write a book about it.  After all, last time I made it to San Francisco after hitchhiking through Utah to Las Vegas, then to Death Valley and back.  The natural world wasn't there to conquer anymore, but to be enjoyed... or was that really true just yet?  After all, I didn't know this at the time, but I would go on to hike alone at night through a Grizzly Bear Management Area in Yellowstone Park, stargaze on my back in a canoe on Jackson Lake by the Grand Tetons in Wyoming, do the same in Glacier Park in Montana, and climb the steepest highest and ultimately snowiest mountain of my life by myself... twice.  Then working at the winery and living in the stressful and semi-dangerous place in San Francisco when I didn't really have any true commitment to either.  Speaking of which, the third picture I took was in Tokyo, Japan, on the day I eclipsed my personal record for living abroad, the same year they had the earthquake.

They all reminded me that even though each milestone had been glorious, I had made many mistakes along the way, and would continue to do so to this day.  The range and extent of mistakes have evolved through time and experience, but life is always new and sometimes you're not quite sure what to do.  Yes or no?  Keep going or turn back?  Is this the fight?  I know I should be fighting for life, but is this the best way?  Is enjoying this going to make my life better overall?  Will it make it worse at all?  Which things matter and which don't?  Depending on the changes in your life, these questions will come at varying intervals.

After I made it down from my Zion hike, in the dark with a headlamp light, I saw the bus coming, ten minutes ahead of schedule.  Luckily I was high enough up to see it, but that also meant I had a ways to go.  So I sprinted down the trail, over the river and through the parking lot to the bus stop, where the bus stopped for quite sometime because I was the only one still out there.  The man driving the bus was a smiling character, a guy in his early 60's who was enjoying the early stages of retirement after a lifetime in some kind of energy source industry where he got to travel to other countries.  He fought in Vietnam and lived a long hearty life, and he was mostly glad that he was still alive and had so many great people in his life.  There were still so many new things to be enjoyed and explored.  He asked me a little about myself, and I shared a vague summary of my travels with him, and he said I was doing it right.

When I walked off he said, "Good luck to you, young man," and smiled as he drove away.

He called me "young," and I was two days shy of 28.  What a great world!  In theory I have a few more decades to do things like that.  But there are other priorities.  Like that pyramid journey, and that book, and those travel memory milestones that make them both possible and worthwhile.  Those and eating lots of vegetables and less junk, with more comprehensively healthy consumption, for body and soul.

Today I didn't do anything too special besides teaching people words, asking them their wishes, and shopping like a good consumer of the world.  I walked to Amoeba music and picked up my first Art Tatum CD.  It's been a long time since I've gone to a store, looked through the rows of records and then bought a tangible copy.  I still get physical CD's from time to time, but usually online.  It was great to be out and about, exploring yet another new neighborhood and finding something good.


When I went to the counter, the guy asked me if I played piano.  Why does everyone always bring that up when I demonstrate a love of the music the instrument produces?  Why don't they ask me if I play guitar or drums when I buy a rock album, or if I rap when I buy hip-hop?  Are people that suspicious of pianos?  Anyway, I said no, I just loved music and had heard he was perhaps the greatest jazz pianist ever.  In my experience that title goes to Hiromi, but then again, I'm not a pianist, so what do I know?  The man pointed at Art and said, "This is God."

We talked a little more about music as I paid, and he told me that he thought one of the most underrated pianists in the world was Errol Garner.  He's one of Hiromi's top influences.  I knew who Tatum was because somebody on a jazz comment board likened Hiromi to the reincarnation of Art Tatum's spirit.  Then this other guy got in a long argument with him about it, and I got bored about them comparing two totally different people.  It's always fun to notice a resemblance, but beauty is beauty in all its forms.

Now that I'm home, I can say that I do not disagree with the man's choice of vocabulary when describing Tatum's place in this world.  Then again, I wouldn't disagree with him about most people he would call God.  But if there is some sort of elite quality club, Art belongs there.