Hi, My Name Is Los Angeles

Well, I thought, here I am. Might as well see what the fuss is all about. I was in Los Angeles. “City of Angels” is what they say, right?

I’d just come from Yosemite: Land of Hippies—furry girls, guys who wear flannel. It’s a good scene but it’s different. Whenever I told the hippies I wanted to go to L.A. I always got the same reaction: “Really? Have fun.” As if I’d just said I wanted to go to a concentration camp reenactment. Whatever, I thought. I intended to have fun.

Los Angeles beckoned to me, and I would heed its call. I didn’t know why I wanted to go. I didn’t know anything about the place. L.A. was just an idea, vague and ill-defined in my mind. I wanted to flesh it out, find out what those words—Los Angeles—really stood for.  And now here I was.

Actually, I wasn’t quite there. I’d overshot the mark and ended up in Orange County, just south of Los Angeles County. I’d gotten a ride with a co-worker from the park and wound up at her parent’s place in Huntington Beach.

Not one to be easily daunted, I determined the best way to get my sightseeing in would be to buy a bike and ride the L.A. coast. Google Maps told me to expect 60-80 miles depending on my route, and with some digressions I planned to take, I was expecting about 100 miles of travel on a fixed gear bicycle, all told.

I set out early in the morning and began to wind my way toward the coast. I expected smells of salty air to waft for miles, heralding my impending arrival at the sea’s edge. That was just a quaint, Ohio-boy notion, I discovered.  I knew I’d hit the coast when I saw the beach, and the sky expanding away from me. Somewhere far away it met an invisible horizon, and came shooting back to me on the waves of the Pacific Ocean. What a vast space, I thought. It was empty in the way a big box is empty, or a large canvass blank. The emptiness suggested possibility to me. Possibility—potential—always on my left side, I began riding north into the fabled city, a sea of a different kind of potential. 

I didn’t know what roads to take, or where my route would lead me. I knew I wanted to end up at the top of L.A. I was on the bottom. The biking was kind of boring, as biking is wont to be. Just pedaling, pedaling… all day. The scenery was good, the air was polluted and so were the views. But this was the experience.

The first day was uneventful. A stop at a taco truck, a walk down one of the city’s many fishing piers. I even went and watched a movie, just to have a comfortable chair and some cool air to breathe for a while.

That night, I bedded down beside a cemetery. I spent a lot of time in cemeteries as a part of a military funeral team in the Army. I feel pretty comfortable, pretty familiar, in a place like that. I wish I could say I was just another sleeping soul, lying with the others for a night. The truth is: I was restless, wary of being discovered, and uncomfortable. I kept thinking: they’re going to find me, though I didn’t know who “they” were.

I had only the clothes on my back; long pants, t-shirt, long sleeve thermal shirt. This wasn’t an oversight—I’d intended to travel light. I brought only a backpack and the barest of necessities. I was riding a bike, and a large pack would have marred that experience; impeded me. Avoidance of impediment. It’s a persistent thread that runs through the fiber of my being. It’s why I don’t wear underwear and the reason I prefer to boulder or free-solo instead of roped climbing. 

Huddling on my side to conserve my warmth, lying on the bare ground now, the dead stalks of grass poked my back and I would startle awake to the slightest sound.

Around 2:30 in the morning I awoke because I felt a presence near me. I looked around frantically. With an admixture of relief and apprehension, I saw a raccoon not two arm’s lengths away. At least it’s not a person, I told myself. On the other hand, my time in Yosemite taught me that raccoons aren’t your friend. I tried to scare him. I hissed and pantomimed throwing something at him. He stared at me, unfazed, daring me to do something more. I was lying next to a tree—the better to hide my lumpy silhouette. With insolence the raccoon circled to the other side to try to get to the backpack I was using for a pillow. He moved in that middle-of-the-night way. I hissed and growled at him, and to my relief he relented. I got the sense that it wasn’t because I had scared him, but because he wasn’t willing to put up with my childish antics. He didn’t come back that night, but he was successful in making sure I slept even less soundly until the pre-dawn hour I had determined I would rise (O’dark-thirty, they called it in the Army).

That next day, I took a couple of good pictures of a city steeped in industry and overcrowded with buildings. Beautiful in its own way, I was quite enjoying the experience. I ate donuts for breakfast and biked as close to the coast as I could. Often there was sandy beach on my left, concrete landscape on my right.

I found Los Angeles to be everything the hippies loathed: crowded, bustling, polluted, rough. It was a new chaos to me that acted as counterpoint to Yosemite’s supreme sense of order and its undeniable correctness of being. Yosemite exists, and you say ‘of course’. Los Angeles exists, and you say—what? I still wasn’t sure, so I biked on.

I found an answer later that day. I’d ridden upon concrete and asphalt to the top of a magnificent testament of human endeavor. In the second to last stop I made I found Santa Monica Original Muscle Beach (OMB) and its attendant community. There I found the rings, which I’ve described a little elsewhere and will not now describe. In the people that peopled this place I finally met the face of the city, or at least, what I wanted to believe was the face of the city, Los Angeles.

Beach culture—the idea lightly rattled in my mind, but had no supporting connections to anchor it to any solid idea. Here “beach culture” wasn’t an idea, it was a reality of people. These people were like the climbing culture, but maybe a little more careful of their tan lines. Still, they were accepting, and interesting, and focused on their health. They were awake and alive, and so was I! I recognized this immediately, and decided I had to stay and explore this idea to make sure I had not misread it.

I spent the next two days there. I slept on concrete at night, behind a building under construction. I slept poorly and the nights were cold. I spent them by myself. During the day, I would soak up as much sun as my skin could hold. My nose burned and swelled and my whole body became pink. I reveled in the pain because of where it came from.

I spent all my daily allotment of sunlight at the beach, and it was a complete validation of my initial impression. I’d found my tribe, my people. Or, as close as I might find (I don’t think I really belong to any one people). I felt belonging, and I resolved I would come back and stay as long as I felt like I belonged there.

Los Angeles, I think, the people.

Go-Go

It’s Saturday night and I’m racing through the streets on my bike. The sky is clear and the road is smooth. 25 miles per hour is fast when it’s your body that provides the locomotion. The air is chilly because it’s winter in Los Angeles. All the same, I’ve worked up a sweat and I’m just wearing a pair of jeans and a small backpack. Electronic music is vibrating my eardrums—it will be my soundtrack for this night, but I do not know this yet.  

A traffic light turns red and I come to a stop. Typically, I can balance on my bike at a dead stop. It’s called a track stand, and it only takes a little practice to execute. You just have to balance the bike so, and shift your weight between the two pedals. I can’t find balance; my legs are shaking. I’m not too tired. In fact, my body is humming. I’m nervous.

A couple of weeks ago I was at the beach, socializing and exercising. I’d made friends with a guy who said he worked as a bartender at a club in West Hollywood, and he told me his club was always looking to hire. “Just work on your abs, like, for two weeks,” he said, “Then just come in and apply.” I asked him what kind of job required me to have a nice abs. “I work at a gay bar, and they have go-go dancers on the weekends,” he replied.

At other points in my life I might have dismissed the notion, or I might have felt disgusted at the thought of dancing for men. Now? I felt matter-of-fact about the situation. He said I could make a couple hundred dollars for a few hours of easy work. I just had to dance in my underwear. It might be undignified, but hundreds of dollars, one or two nights, and no experience necessary? How could I say no? considering my present situation, I thought. Dignity can be a luxury, not something necessary to survival. I gave dignity up a while ago. “I’ll work on my abs,” I said.

I’m biking as fast as my heart and my lungs and my legs will allow me. I have the contradictory feeling of wanting to get there as fast as possible—to get it over with—and of wanting to pedal the opposite direction, to flee far away from what I have committed to.

It’s a scary thing, to think about putting yourself out there in front of a bunch of strangers. You are vulnerable: unclothed, there for their enjoyment. What if they disapprove? What if they jeer, or insult you? What if they find your body ugly? What recourse do you have? You’ve already admitted by virtue of your attire and actions that your purpose is to please them, and if you do not, then you have failed and that failure is evident for everyone to see. Failure, I am afraid of failure. But desperation mandates that I cannot fail. I need money, success.

I arrive at the club a little earlier than I expected, so I find a café nearby and sit at a table to gather myself. I play music loudly in my earphones to drown out the cacophony of sounds that is the West Hollywood party scene. This part of town is rich—in money, in indulgence, in lust, in gluttony. The boulevard blazes and twinkles, every light designed to arrest my attention and draw me in. Shiny cars pass in both directions, some stopping for the valet, others trolling for one of the good parking spots.

Finally, the appointed time arrives. My friend has arranged for me to meet the club’s manager, but my friend will not himself be here. I walk into the club at an early hour, and it is not crowded. I find the manager. My friend set up the meeting, but he didn’t tell me what to expect. I have made the assumption I would just be asking for a job, maybe taking off my shirt or dancing to a few short songs. You know, just to give them an idea of what they might be paying for. I’m wrong to assume those things.

The manager, Brian, asks if I wanted to dance. Although I feel chary, I say “Sure,” not wanting to appear difficult. “Okay, you’ll work for tips tonight and if you work out, you’ll get the flat rate if you dance again.” I know what tips were, but I don’t know what the flat rate is. I don’t ask.

Brian leads me out the back of the club and to a detached storage/dressing room, five feet by twenty, all cinder block and painted white. The door is locked from the inside. Brian takes out a key and unlocksthe door. Opening the door, he says “These are the girls.” The first person I see is a muscular man in his mid-twenties wearing nothing but a pair of bright yellow underwear, he smiles and greets me. Then as I squeezed into the narrow hallway of a room, I see a young, buxom woman in red lingerie. She is pretty. She also greets me, but she squeezes out of the room as Brian introduces me; “This is Curtis, he’s going to dance tonight.” Then Brian leaves. I am alone in a room with a man in his underwear.

Go-go dancer underwear is no ordinary underwear. It’s usually silky nylon and shiny and cut in a way to expose as much as possible. “Man panties” really is the best term I can think of to describe the stuff. I don’t own underwear in general, and even if I did, I wouldn’t have anything like what I needed now. “Can I barrow a pair of those?” I ask, pointing to his rolling luggage suitcase, overflowing with nylon in all different colors. “You don’t have any drawers, honey?” He asks, admonishing me. I explain I didn’t know I’d be dancing tonight; I’m new. He picks out a pair of man panties with a black waist band and covered in a blue and purple print, “Here, you can wear these.” I’m not afraid of nudity; the Army rid me of any of that fear a long time ago. I undress in front of him and put on the “drawers” he’s given to me. I feel uncomfortable. They cling to me, and they are trying to get into places I do not want them. I look in the mirror. Dear God, how far I have come from where I started, I think. I have a nice tan, a light golden brown from the waist up, and the knees down. My thighs are immaculate white. They’re going to love this, I think to myself.

I take a deep breath, open the door and walk across the alley back to the club. A bouncer lets me in and one of the other dancers shows me a stage that I can dance on. The club is picking up, and it is beginning to get crowded. It’s about 10:30, and I am go-go dancing. The DJ’s blasting electronic music like what I had been listening to on my ride here. I just start to dance as I would with my clothes on.

At first, I am by myself, in my own world, and trying to feel comfortable. I get my first dollar from a man who comes over and watches me for a moment, a mixed drink in hand, and then he pushes a dollar into my waist band. “You’ve got a gorgeous body,” he says. I thank him and keep dancing.

The rest of the evening comes on as a crescendo, a rush that swells into frenzy. The club gets packed, the music gets louder. Smoke and lasers fill the air, which itself becomes humid and warm as men and women dance to the beats, 144 of them per minute.

I am in the moment, and I am suspended in disbelief, alternately. At once I focus on the music, and I dance and express myself, something I love to do, and can do no matter where or what the circumstances (I’m more ready to make that assertion after this experience), and in another moment I leave my body on autopilot and contemplate the fact that I am now a go-go dancer. Never would have imagined it.

Men, old and young, walk to the base of my stage and leer at me for a moment, some ask my name or if this is my first time dancing. Then they slip some money into my waistband. Most want a hug, some want to grope. I am degraded.

There are also the women who have come to a gay club for a good time, or to accompany their gay friends. A few of them eye me, but more shyly than the men. They are intimidated, I gather, and when they were encouraged to approach me, or their friends give them a dollar to give to me, they are reticent to close the distance between us. I just smile at them. They probably think I am gay, anyway.

I dance for three hours. I am pouring sweat, having danced with enthusiasm and not taking a break unless I was told to. Half-way through the night, Brian has moved me to the indoor balcony and I have danced the remainder of the evening in a “cage” of flimsy steel bars, illuminated by blue LED lights on the ceiling. I leave the cage at 1:30 in the morning, go back to the hallway dressing room, and remove wads of dollar bills—and one twenty-dollar bill—from my underwear. I made $40 in three hours, I see. The regular dancers say I should make more, and that this night has been a slow night in terms of tips. $40 is good for broke, I think.  

I get dressed and go see Brian in the back office, which is actually a storage closet under the staircase in the kitchen. It is cramped and he barely has room to sit upright under the sloping ceiling. There is no room for me to enter. I stand at the door and he tells me I have done a great job, and he’ll get me paid the flat rate for tonight. I’ve found out earlier, from the other dancers, the flat rate is $75 or $140, depending on what shift you work. I’ll end up getting $75 for my “early” shift, the other shift going until 3 A.M.

I change the ones for a twenty with the bartender and ride home to the beach. I won’t get back until 4:30 in the morning, exhausted. I don’t even have time to contemplate my day before I fall into a sound, dreamless sleep.

Dreamchasing

I wanted to write about some parallels that I had noticed between my life and the fictional characters in a booked titled "Norwegian Wood" by Haruki Murakami, but I realized I would be too vague for that post to have any edifying effect.

Instead, I'm just going to <ramble> a little bit.

It's not set in stone, but generally the rule I have is to post twice a month on the blog. I feel like it's a good number of posts. Not too many that they all seem too similar, and enough time elapses in between for something interesting to happen.

Indeed, interesting things are happening, but I don't always feel at liberty to post them publicly. That's not to say you will never hear of them (maybe that's not what you want), but right now, I'm in more of a collecting mood. I see this time of my life as an exciting ride. I'm directing it, but loosely. Things are happening, and sometimes (literally, actually) I just participate in my life while I smile at the surreality of it all.

I write often, and I'm trying to write 1,000 words every day (at least 5 days a week). This type of exercise is helping me to become more comfortable using the written word as a medium of expression. It's the type of dedication and exercise I would have needed to maintain in order to achieve something with my visual art, something that I never did.

Thinking that I want to write, thinking that I want to be a writer, thinking that I am a writer, these are powerful thoughts that allow me to practice something that I love. Although it seems ridiculous, I have never before given myself permission to explore possibilities like being a writer. I would fantasize of the things I wanted to do, but unconsciously preclude them from ever happening because I wasn't what I needed to be to do them.

For instance, I've always wanted to be involved in movies. I used to (still do) fantasize about being an actor, a director, and a screenwriter, but because I've never been one of these things, I have always precluded the possibility of me being one of them. As obvious as it may seem to you, I have only recently realized that I must simply be these things. Sure, I must pay my dues, do my research, and go about it the right way, but ultimately I am that which I choose to be. The qualification of "successful" may not come, but if I want to write, act or model, I certainly can try.

As long as you don't wrap yourself up too much in what it is you want to achieve, and it's more about being happy with what you can be, I think there is some deep gratification to be found in chasing improbable dreams. I want to chase my dreams, as stupid as they might be, or improbable, or grand, or whatever.

I'm feeling very good about writing every day, even though I don't write good stories, and I don't really know what direction to take. The simple fact that I write is what feels good. Just do what you want to do. If it's harder to do because you can't do it on your own or with your own resources, I encourage you to find a way. That's what I am doing now, and that's the approach I intend to pursue.

</ramble>

A Treatise On My Personal Freedom

My day to day act of living—my life—is divorced in many ways from the cultural mores of the American culture in which I dwell. My priorities are not those of a large and populous group. I do not pursue prototypical goals in generically prescribed manners. I wish not to define myself such to fit into either a word or a group.

I understand where people are coming from (or why they hold their beliefs). Much in the same way a historian can trace the decline and fall of an empire or a civilization I can see and understand, but that does not make me a part of that world. Surely there is a point where I am invited into society and I must accept the invitation in order for full integration to be complete. Conversely, if I am born into a society, is it not my right to reject my place? At what point am I ever truly compelled to perform a work, a service, or a duty to anyone or any entity because I was born into a place? That sounds like slavery to me, but I am free.

Recognizing that I am free, I also allow that to reject a place in society but to dwell among it is to live at its collective charity. However, if I do so willingly, and the society allows me to, then the situation can hardly be criticized. I will exploit this society as long as it allows me to. At such a time that I am prevented or no longer allowed to use its benefits I would hold no ill will and would agree that it is a fair course. 

I think the constructive thought process of the unbiased observer would be to ask what would make a person desire to reject a culture and all its attendant and implied benefits. A less constructive thought process would seek to remedy the symptom of that desire, which is the parasitic nature of my existence within society.
I recognize that to overtly break laws or rules is to jeopardize my physical freedom. Therefore; I seek to preserve as much freedom for myself without compromising my values as much as possible. I do this through conformance, and it is a compromise I am willing to make within my value system. Yet I am determined never to lose my freedom of thought, and my freedom of action, or inaction. The locus of perception is within me. Therefore, the feelings of duty, responsibility or obligation all originate in my mind. Acknowledging this, it is within my power to control what I feel I must or must not do.  

Different Shoes

It’s 6:14 in the morning.

The waves are dully roaring as they crash into the shore 30 yards away. The air is cool and blowing over your face like a whisper of breath that says “good morning, come join the day.”

The sky is light because the moon is full and the sun is breaking the horizon—unseen because it is behind the city skyline, but it’s reflected to your bivouac on the beach by the hazy smog and the slight fog.

It’s 6:14 in the morning, and you’re waking up to another day in paradise—your paradise.

You don’t want to get out of your sleeping bag because it’s toasty, fuzzy warm.

You want to get out of your sleeping bag because today is great, it’s going to be sunny, and there’s possibility to spare at such an early hour of the morning.

You know you will eat well, be well, and feel well.

Your shoulders ache as you lift the sleeping bag up to push it into the stuff sack. They hurt a little as you fold the military poncho that you use as a ground tarp. The aching pain reminds you of the fun you had yesterday swinging on the rings like a kid, and the people you spent time with as you whiled away your time at the beach. 

You’re careful to stand in the sand you’ve been sleeping on all night. It’s warm, and it feels good on your bare feet.

Bag and backpack packed, you shoulder your bike and walk to the bike path. The sand you haven’t slept on is soft and cold, but the concrete path is firm and warm, and your feet are rewarded for carrying your burden by the tactile beauty of that which is the texture of the beachfront.

Today you don’t know who you will meet, or exactly what you will do. You know a few places you will go and see, like old friends those places are to you already.

There’s the Original Muscle Beach in Santa Monica, and the Pacific Ocean lapping the shore. And of course, the local grocery store. It’s all yours.
You know you will exercise to wake yourself up, and you know you will probably do some light reading as you take in perfect temperatures and a bright, happy sun.

You’ll eat a jalapeño & cheese bagel that you’ll prepare with an avocado and a roma tomato and you’ll eat a banana, too. That’s breakfast. Dinner is up to your whim. That’s later, anyway.

Maybe you’ll talk to some beautiful girls (or guys) today, or maybe you’ll just see some of the regulars at the beach. Either way, someone will smile and say hello.

You’ll ride your bike everywhere and feel good about it.

When the sun sets below the horizon of the sea, when the air grows cold and everyone retreats to their homes to stay warm, or when they go out to party with their friends, you’ll ride a couple miles up the beach and bed down. You’ll be just where you were this morning, and you’ll have a smile on your face because you had a good day, and you’ll know tomorrow will be a good day, too.

Biding Time in Phoenix

It is October 2^nd and I'm still here in Phoenix. I did not think that I would be here this long when I got on a Chinatown bus in Orange County, California, over a month ago.

Yet, here am I now.

I'm undaunted, becoming more fit than I've ever been, and I'm coming to appreciate my Phoenician family in a new way.

Survival of the Most Resilient

Phoenix for a month has been a mixed bag. A blessed journey and a bit of a tribulation.

I witnessed a shooting {BAM!} less than a mile from where I'm living—don't worry mom, I'm safe!—but I don't think anyone was hurt. I get around town by walking because I don't have any transportation. I'm pretty broke, and I really would rather be in Los Angeles. I also stirred up some trouble quite unknowingly and unintentionally in an interpersonal relationship. I've even had some trouble at the rock gym.

Now, I don't want you to think I'm letting this heap of stuff get me down so much as it is propelling me away and (I like to think) forward and toward a brighter future.

All of this is to say, I'm ready to skip town.

I'm going to Los Angeles.

Even with all those negative things I've actually had a great time here. I've reconnected with a lot of great friends that I haven't seen for the better part of a year. And I've made a new friend in my roommate and sponsor, Christian. He and I have many great conversations that precipitate and catalyze personal growth.

Christian is moving to L.A. but before he can do that he has to rent his house out. I'm helping him get it ready, and in the process I'm learning a lot of valuable skills that I'm very happy to acquire. I can now paint like a pro—really, my work is ace—and I have learned some other handy man skills from Christian (he used to do construction and remodeling).

My Dirtbag Workout Plan

The essence of the dirtbag is to compromise everything because of an uncompromising vision. That is to say, one overarching goal, activity or cause is pursued at the expense of everything else. Everything else in your life is compromised in order that that one thing is not compromised.

If you've read this blog you know I've lost my way sometimes, and I even hesitate to call myself a dirtbag in the traditional climbing sense of the word, but it's still closest in accuracy to describing what I'm doing.

Still, dirtbagging can do great things for you by helping you to curtail bad or unsustainable habits. My desire to go do things regardless of my lack of resources (i.e. a car/bike/ride) has helped me become more fit and lose weight and obtain a closer approximation of the body I've always wanted.

I've worn holes in the soles of brand new shoes because I've done a good amount of walking or, as I like to call it, “urban hiking”. In fact, I've walked well over 100 miles in the last month, and with the addition of my frequent running, I'm getting into pretty good shape. I'm even losing weight! I like to think I'm making an “LA. Body”.

On top of the walking and running I've been up to, I also started visiting the rock gym again. I went frequently for a month and my climbing came naturally and felt easier than it had been before. Certainly I was not pushing my personal best grades, but the grades I was climbing were easy and I felt in control. That feeling of mastery is what I think I love about this sport [rock climbing] and any other that I become deeply engaged in.

I also realized that the community was part of what I missed while I was on the road. The friends I have in Phoenix are my original rock climbing family, and as such, they know me in terms of my climbing better than most, so it is they who can encourage me best when they see me progressing, for they know where I have come from.

It's My Rock Climbing Anniversary

I've been climbing for three years, to the month.

When I first went to AZR (Arizona on the Rocks), I could climb V1 (barely). Through the course of 2 years I was able to climb up to V6, indoors and outdoors. Although I can't do that difficult grade right now, I feel more capable and masterful than ever. But more important, I know that my friends who climbed with me for those 2 years also appreciate the progression I've experienced.

Maybe, just maybe, that is the root of power that resides in the idea of family. I'm talking about the special quality of family to be able to appreciate who you are in spite of—and because of—where you have come from. They are (usually) the only ones that have known you your entire life, and if they like you still, that's some pretty strong validation.

I want to thank you if you've been part of my rock climbing family, no matter where or when we met.  

I'm a Mad Scientist—My Life is My Experiment

Changing Tomorrow

I have been immersed in a new life for the past two weeks. Los Angeles is still in my heart but I am no longer in Los Angeles. I will return shortly.

Here's what's happened: I was adrift in the cement expanse of L.A., looking for work, passing time, staying happy. But, I was growing apprehensive of my future—my real, concrete future—and how I was going to manage my life. I decided then, and indeed had felt—ever since I quit the job in Yosemite—that I needed to determine how I would make my way in our world.

Too long I have waited for my break. Too long I have dreamt of a future that I did nothing to actualize. I have taken the next steps to self-actualize.

Renewal

It may seem to you that I am always restarting from the beginning, but I think what truly happens in my psyche is that I become refreshed, reinvigorated, and I experience a renewal of motivation. It is encouraging to me that with these renewals I am always coming back to the same solution, the same resolution.

Like a scientific experiment, if I always arrive with the same results, aligning with my hypothesis, then I am very convinced that my hypothesis is correct and I can begin using it as the basis for further thought and experimentation.

It's not lost on me that I'm continually dissatisfied with some aspect of my life, that I try to change it, and that I become aware that I am dissatisfied with another aspect of my life.

However, through the process of experimenting with possible solutions I continually:

• Meet new, exciting, dynamic people
• See new, previously unimaginable beauty
• Experience new situations that force me to grow

I won't stop|can't stop doing this. I can do it better. I will.

A static life does not appeal to me. That's not good, and neither is it bad. It just is. I want dynamic people in my life that promote new discoveries and cause me to continually respond to them in a meaningful way. No rote interactions here, please.

I can't imagine a happy life where I don't stretch my mind's idea of the possibility of natural beauty. I want to and have pursued places that stir my heart, and I must continue to do so lest I become stagnant and my heart should sleep.

Within the context of new places and dynamic people I find the exciting and completely unavoidable probability of having to do, go through or be in an uncomfortable situation. When you are uncomfortable and don't know what to do, those are the times where your resourcefulness and creativity will shine through. Those are the times for you to demonstrate what you are made of, how you operate.

Why Change?

Why not just settle for something close? I can't say I'm a perfectionist, so it's not that I'm incapable of settling. Actually, I think I've settled far too often when I really ought to have started fresh and tried again.

Until I am satisfied or until I am too weary to carry on, I believe I must strive for what I want. To do less is to create and then to carry regret until the end of my days.

When I was in the Army (it was actually the Army National Guard), I had an opportunity to go to Airborne school (parachuting out of airplanes). I decided not to attend because I was homesick, even though Airborne School was one of my long-term goals. I have regretted making a short sighted decision on a long-term goal ever since. But I have learned from that experience. I can never go back and change that decision, or earn the badge that I would have been proud to bear for the rest of my life. I can use it as an experience to remind me of the importance saying “yes” to opportunities that lead to the achievement of my long-term goals.

I am in such a fluid place in my life that opportunity is seemingly everywhere. While it may not be true, it feels like I can do nearly anything, since at the moment I am doing almost nothing.

I can no longer do nothing, and I cannot settle for something I regret. I feel I must do something and it must be the right thing. It must be what I want. I am changing tomorrow to be what I want today.

Phoenix→Los Angeles→The World

Like I said, I'm in L.A. no longer. In fact, I'm back in Phoenix.

Through my search for work (particularly SEO work), I came upon a web-based company that offered employment. I then remembered that one of my Phoenix friends had mentioned doing the same kind of work, so I called him to get the low-down and find out if I might like doing it.

Turns out he wants to move to L.A. to pursue a new career but he has a website development company. I made the natural offer to jump on a bus to Phoenix, help him pack his house, and in return, have him teach me what he knows (hopefully so he'll employ me). It's working out really well for both of us so far.

In the near future he and I will both of us move to L.A. and I hope to establish there for a time, and then move forward.

Of course, as I have come back to Phoenix because of connection, I expect I will return to L.A. and any other place where I leave a little bit of my heart. The world awaits me but I can't wait to see it. Today I cannot travel the world, but I am changing tomorrow.

Muscle Beach

Gone are the mountains. Here am I now confronted by seas; of people, of oceans, of cars and buildings. I'm in Los Angeles.

This is a new experience, yet not wholly unfamiliar.

The ocean is the western border. From its vast emptiness in the offing to the shore and beyond toward the east, there is an exponential build up. As one were to run in from the sea to the city, you would be challenged first by the throngs of people on the beach, then the homes and hotels that stand shoulder to shoulder, all held back by an invisible border. Then there are the roads and highways. The Pacific Coast Highway, #1, and more after. Beyond and further comes the urban sprawl and then the commercial buildings and in some places instead of all the aforementioned, you'll find the industrial sites of shipping and oil.

Oh, L.A., you are dirty, and you are mixed up, but you're not altogether a lost cause. For let us not forget the the reason your soil has become burdened with millions of people and their assorted handiwork.

L.A. Sits between low lying mountains and the coast. It is an oasis, a place of temperate weather and easily navigable terrain between the daunting yet open ocean, and a craggy desert lying beyond and back east. L.A. is a port, a hub and because of the confluence of these factors, it has life.

There are people who are truly alive in this city. It is not a city full of walking dead or anthropomorphic robots, no! Instead, I have found a vibrant group of people on the Santa Monica beach, soaking up sunshine and displaying tremendous dedication to bettering their bodies and talents. It seems that there is here a capital that one would not and does not find in every other place in the world. Here, there is a currency of beauty, and it is bought with time and perspiration, but also with joy and fervency. This is not the toil of the industrialized gym and weight room I have seen before.

And there is more than that, people here that carry beauty in talent—those that have taken their passion and brought it to public forums. Street performers dance, sing, and play. Crowds gather and disperse. There is a regular rhythm to the days. There is a pulse. The city is alive.

I drove down to L.A. after spending a week in Yosemite sans job. During that time I did little, thought much, and waited patiently. I spent my nights in a cave just outside one of the villages, my days sleeping inside to hide from oppressive heat. I did get to spend some time with my friends, and I particularly enjoyed baking pizza and hanging out with Cheyne and Jess. I'll miss you guys.

The next leg of my journey was a drive down the eastern side of the Sierra range. I do enjoy that area very much. It holds immense beauty. The type of beauty that is aesthetic but slightly threatening (I hope you know what I mean).

My coworker, Kathy, had injured her shoulder and needed someone to help her drive, so I had a [driver's] seat in her car. She's from New York, but her parents live in Huntington Beach, a city in Orange County, at the southern edge of L.A. County. Her parent's home was filled up with visiting family, a product of unfortunate timing in my case.

I had sold my bike in Yosemite, and I decided I needed another bike in order to get around the city.

Then I had the idea of getting out and seeing the city from the saddle of my bike. So, the day after I arrived, I bought a bike and set off to ride the coast of L.A.

I didn't know how far the distance nor how long it would take, but I intended to spend 2 to 3 days on the journey. I set out on Thursday, August 17^th.

The coast (from Sunset Beach, north to Will Rogers Beach) is a mere 60 mile stretch of land, however I took 2 days to complete the journey, riding at a leisurely pace and making frequent stops for photo ops and dining and sight seeing, as well, on the second day I doubled back over some of the ground I had covered in order to make it back to Santa Monica Beach. Ah, Santa Monica Beach, the original home of “Muscle Beach”, that place of energy and vigor that rests peacefully between the chaos of Santa Monica Pier and corrupt Venice Beach.

I checked out Rockreation, an indoor climbing gym (nothing as great as any of the gyms in Phoenix, alas), and I saw a couple movies. I spent three nights in Santa Monica. I slept “on the streets”; beside derelict buildings, in a cemetery, and in bushes. The trick is to go to bed late enough that no one witnesses you bedding down, and all normal business hours are over. Then I wake up at 5:30, about 15 minutes before sunrise and vacate wherever I have been sleeping. Again, the trick is to pick a place with traditional business hours, sleep in-between them, and lastly, to make sure you're as far removed from sight as possible, keeping in mind that darkness is your best friend (which is part of the reason for leaving before dawn). Basic fieldcraft also dictates you vary your location and ingress/egress as well as maintaining noise and light discipline.
Because I have a little bit of money left, this was all a game and quite fun for me, but true homelessness is no joke and the lack of security and the social stigma can weigh quite heavily and I don't envy anyone who winds up in the same circumstances unwillingly.

Life can be harsh and it's easy for me to see where I'll end up if the bottom drops out and I can't find a job. Partly this is why I practice these techniques; so that I will have survival skills.

I wax romantic on Santa Monica Beach because I have strong feelings for that place.

There you can find an outdoor gym the likes of which I've seen nowhere else. And indeed, I've heard it said that you can find some of the apparatus nowhere else in the world, save New York, but that only being a shadow of the Platonic Form that is “Muscle Beach”.

Let me take you there.

The sun is lighting up the flaxen sand like a nuclear bomb. It's warm in the sun and cool in the shade and there's always a sea breeze to damp the heat. The warm sand insulates your feet and there before you are looming grey steel scaffolds, about 30 feet tall that dangle chains with swings or steel rings on their ends.

There a structure 35 feet tall bears flying gymnastic rings. And people are using them!

Indeed, this is a place of activity, not the impotent dream of an urban planner.

Men and women, boys and girls are playing and toiling on the apparatus. Some are performing feats of strength or skill that evidence their commitment to this place and demonstrate that this is a discipline, not a mere exercise routine. Others are obviously neophytes getting their first taste.

There are parallel bars, uneven bars, ropes (for rope climbing), still rings and pull-up bars. In the evenings, the people come and there are slacklines set up between the steel pillars. One night I was there and 3 slacklines were set up to intersect at a floating point, that is to say, a typical slackline is anchored to an immovable point on either end, but this setup only had 3 fixed anchors, in a roughly splayed array and they met and were anchored to a ring in the center. When tensioned, this formed a floating point and allowed 3 people (or more!) to walk the lines simultaneously and meet in the middle, floating above the sand. It was really fun, and kind of mind blowing.

Then there are “the rings”—the crown jewel of Muscle Beach. These are found only here and an older substandard version can be found somewhere in New York.

Five large 'n' shaped hoops are 30 feet tall and a beam runs down the middle from which hang 10 chains with steel rings on their ends. The chains are spaced about 6 feet apart and are suspended from the sand 8 to 10 feet from the ground (the ground slopes away toward the water). The simple means of movement is to swing from ring to ring similar to monkey bars, but the beauty lies in how one can create arcs and spin on the free swiveling rings to create a balletic movement that is graceful and strong and something a little short of fully controlled by gravity.

There is also a square sward that is primarily used by yogis performing acro-yoga, juggling, and fire spinning (more accurately, the LED powered substitute to fire spinning). That is the practice of spinning a baton with both ends on fire, or two meter-long lengths of chain that hold a sort of torch at the ends and are spun in rhythmic, somewhat mystifying arcs.  Real fire is rarely used in state parks or heavily policed areas such as this beach, so the substitute is an LED powered globe of light that typically changes colors, instead of a torch.

Sometimes there is live music, and during the summer there is a DJ on Sundays.

This place is really vibrant. Muscle Beach is between a pedestrian path and a bicycle path, and right next to Santa Monica Pier (which is like a small county fair with a roller coaster, Ferris wheel, and other games). It can be pretty busy, and the constant passage of people from the paths to the beach beyond means there's a steady stream of gawkers and photographers and just plain curious folk that are trying things out, asking questions, and applauding the occasional performance of a tour de force.

It is this place that is calling me.

I want to move to Santa Monica. I want to be part of this scene for a little while, until the curtain is called and it's time for me to move on. But will I move on? Could I stay here?

I've told everyone I've talked to about this place, and about the woman I met there that has captivated my thoughts. I'm confused but for now I want to win her heart. I've only had a short conversation with her but unlike my experience with many women, it has left me wanting more. You'll think me a pessimist if you're a pessimist, and a realist—at best—if you're an optimist, but I have to at least find out if she's as good as she seems or if (as I am wont to suspect) she is not all that.

I'm looking for work here. I need money, I don't have enough for the rope access certification, and I need money to live. I recently heard about Search Engine Optimization (SEO) and I want to learn more about it, and indeed, it sounds like it could meet my needs better than rope access work (you can work remotely and by contract and it's something you can run as an owner-operated business)

I hope you enjoy reading about my life and I hope you've felt like part of my experience along the way.

The Manifesto Revisited

I feel like I'm not reaching my potential. I feel like my absolute potential is beginning to dwindle. This should be a manifesto but instead it reads as a eulogy of my unseen abilitiy.

I want to be strong, I want to be respected. I think that people should know the mettle that's inside me—realize that I'm not the average loser that they thought I was. I'm not average. I feel different, maybe I feel I'm the exception to average; to mundane. I want to change my beliefs about untested talents into records of achievements. I want people to say of me “he has it.” I want to be on the cutting edge. That's the only place it's still happening. There's more to be done in this world and I'm not doing any of it.

I don't know how to go about it, but I know I'm not doing it now. It's time to step up, to take the yoke, to take the burden and hold the mantel of accomplishment and travel into the undone, the not-yet reality of new feats.

I blend in because I don't do anything to stand out. I'm scared to try, scared to fail. I think I'm strong but I time and again prove myself wrong. I try things I think I should be able to do, and I fail. Perhaps I'm kidding myself, perhaps we all are. By definition, the majority of us are average in our persuits and accomplishments. Why should I be different?
I think that by thinking I should be better, different, that that is the start and a key, but have I started that line of thought too late? Have I decided to become something unacheiveable? Akin to saying I want to be a teenage prodigy at the too old age of 26? Clearly impossible. So what is possible? What is possibility? Surely not just the statement of potential, without regard to likelihood or attainability. What's my possibility? What can I become from where I stand now?

Here's what I want: climb V10 and harder, climb 5.14 trad, sport, whatever. Run ultramarathons. Date/marry/live with/whatever the most beautiful woman with the best personality I've ever met.

I want to set standards, raise bars, and be unlimited.

Feeling the Pulse of Reality 8/21/2012

I wrote that on May 16^th. It’s freeform, stream of thought and probably only took 10 minutes or less to write. I regularly write similar manifestos as they relate to issues I’m dealing with in my life. They serve as a means of cathartic release and to organize sometimes scrambled thoughts.

Instead of posting this, I decided to write The Manifesto—a more palatable, less authentic and more humble version of my secret thoughts.

However, as I continue to grow, I continue to seek the sincerity that attracts me to others. Through that process, I realize I must also become more sincere and remove more of my barriers between my honest thoughts and their outward expression through my words and actions.

The woman I met at “Muscle Beach” (mentioned in the post above) is as far as I can perceive, the embodiment of one of the goals of my life—read that with all the import that I mean.

My pessimistic side expects failure in the endeavor, but as I have said, there is a part of me that is ever hopeful (could I be a closet optimist, or is this something different?), and I want to stay here to see this part of my story played out and concluded with finality. I know I’m still young when I’m conducting my life and actions according to the song of my heart, but if I am young then let me act as such, and amen.

Let’s face it, I’m preaching to the choir: anyone who reads my blog is already interested in me and what I’m doing, and that’s really regardless of what content I put into the blog itself. That notwithstanding, I feel like I owe you, the reader, something more than the perfunctory updates that a blog like this might be expected to carry.
In that way I hope you will grow with me and share in the story of my life as I see it.

I am first and foremost aware that every story can be told by many different characters—each with their own perspectives. In my story, I am the protagonist. In your story, my story might be a subplot, a plot twist, or completely tangential.

I strive to find the balance between playing over dramatic, and under reporting the drama I do find in my life. I also trust you to apply your own critical thinking and reading skills to discern the truth from the dramatic flair or the understated treatment. 

Taking a Stand, Making a Change

This summer in Yosemite is coming to a an end more quickly than I had expected.

Indeed, I have quit my job and am looking toward tomorrow to see what the horizon of my future will bring.

At the moment, it looks like cities and beaches are to be my new home, but I shall see.

I quit my job because a moment arose in time where I could quit and also take a stand at the same time. I had feelings of disquiet and restlessness, but I had determined to stay until the end of my obligation, which was sometime in mid-September.

However, I felt that my obligation changed when my co-worker was fired unjustly and without dignity.

He was fired after returning late from climbing The Nose route of El Capitan, an accomplishment worthy of a lifetime goal.

To quickly summarize the situation, he was let go, said my ex-manager, because he had [twice] broken the rules and not notified the management of his absence. Each of his absences, however, was insignificant to the function of everyday activities and one time the phone lines were down, and the other time he had another person call in for him, because he didn't have cell phone reception.

Regardless of the merits of the decision, when my co-worker was fired, the manager was not present. To me, that was egregious and very disrespectful and an indicator of that manager's sense of duty toward any one of the employees. And so that was the final straw that kindled my ire to the point of resignation.

It is all a minor thing. This was just a summer job, and it won't affect my co-worker that he was fired, but all the same, I couldn't stand by and be witness to such an undignified injustice without doing anything. To voice my protest would have been impotent and inconsequential and his firing would have been overlooked and my protest ignored. However, I believe I made the strongest protest by quitting immediately after he was fired. It was obviously not in my own best interest (superficially), but that's part of the power of the gesture. Indeed, my ex-manager noted that everything would have been fine if I had not quit right after he was fired, but now they are in a bind because they are short on people. Additionally, in consequence one other co-worker has decided to quit as well, and several others are seriously considering quitting within the week.

Again, it was all a rather minor incident, but it's also empowering and it has given me a new sense of possibility. I'm “on the precipice” as you [I] might say.

I do not regret the decision at all.

I'm very happy to cross off “Quit a job based on principle” from my bucket list.

Currently, I've moved out of White Wolf, and I am now down in the valley, awaiting a ride.

I've been invited to Los Angeles to check it out, and I'm thinking I will take the offer up. I still need to make a little more money for the certification I wish to earn, so I would work and live for as long as I care to, if I like it there. If I don't like it, I will streamline my possessions a little more, and then hit the road.

All in all, I like the turn my life is taking.

For the Record

It's high summer in the land of Yosemite and I'm aware. The air is soft and woolly, with a fuzzy feeling when you breathe it. The light of the morning sun is bright and vivid, but there is a tinge of softness about the edges. The mornings are cool, the days are heated, and the evenings are a reprieve from the scorching light and the simmering heat.

The palette of the mountains is soft yellows, faded greens and dark greens, and grey and grey-blues. It's accentuated by baby blue skies, earthy brown tree trunks and wildflowers blooming in purples, oranges and white.

Life is at ease.

There is less time for me to reflect and build the necessary cache of thoughts, ideas and motivation to write what it is that I feel.

Regardless, it's time to put what I may into words and onto digital record.

I live in a beautiful place. I think that is beyond contest. The beauty has struck me at certain times and in certain places so suddenly that I ache and experience it on an emotional level rather than an objective cognitive level.

I often long to photograph what I see, but as so often is the case, I leave the camera behind.

It has become an impediment to me, and I would just as soon experience the moment rather than stand on the outside of it and put it into the rectangular box of my camera's viewfinder.

However, the ache I feel is often tinged with a shade of regret for my inability to hold onto what I see with the power of my camera; the inability to save for savoring that which is so special, so ephemeral.

Alas, but there is little to be done, for to carry the camera is not to solve the problem, and to forgo the camera is freedom but compromise.

I'm tired of complaining. I'm complaining about complaining. I feel stuck in that rut. I'm building, building, ever building the motivation, the resolve and the plan to strike out on a new course. For the last year my life has been lived in unique stages, each one a precursor to the next, and each necessary for the progression and transformation that I seek.

August 28, 2011 I quit my job and sought direction. During that time, I committed to climbing the hardest boulder I had ever tried, and by September, I had succeeded (Moonstone, V6). Then, I ventured out to the Utah desert to climb and live for most of October. There I made new friends, bonded with my best friends, and learned about a different way of life: the dirtbag life.

Indeed, not all that I did did I do of my own design. I was invited, encouraged, or found the opportunity. What was more key was that from the moment I said “I quit”, I began to respond to and act on a little flutter in my stomach, a little beat of my heart—an instinct and a prescience—that I've long been aware of but only recently been bold enough to trust.

Through the winter I solidified plans, prepared for spring, and formed new friendships that I hope will have a lasting power.

I jettisoned the detritus of a ruined life and prepared afresh the foundation for a better life. That is, I threw away, sold and donated anything that was not necessary. I changed my mind toward the want and desire of physical things. Not wholly or completely, nay, but dramatically and thoughtfully. I became thoughtful and conscious of my spending, consuming and eating. Aware I was and aware I am. I don't have any claim to a “best” way of living, and I don't presume to proselytize what I'm doing.

Here's what I say: I'm happier now than I was before. I'm more satisfied with my decisions and I'm making attempts to improve myself as best as I may see fit based on my circumstances and priorities. Improvement is encouraging and fosters hope.

Enter Spring, the coming of fresh life and new hope. I made last preparations and struck out into the the Utah desert on March 14, 2012. A sea of pink, orange, red, and brown rock and stone. The sea is a place of unlimited travel opportunities; you can pilot yourself across the water in any direction you see fit. And so I felt of this desert, and I feel of all deserts. They are a sea; vast and of unlimited destinations. You need only be deft enough a pilot to reach any destination you choose. I feel and felt that the desert was fitting and a good place to start my journey. Until the waning of Spring I stayed in the desert, by Canyonlands and Zion. I traveled to Yosemite and became enveloped in this deep Grand Vale, surrounded by those grey grey-blue walls and the trees, ever green.

One year (a little less than), and I have come a long way from the Curtis I used to know.

So many retrospective focused blogs I've written.

But what about the future?

I've been told about a line of work generally referred to as Rope Access work. It's a catch all term for work that requires one of two certifications that are designed to ensure worker safety while working at height. You can find rope access work on an oil rig, in a construction site, at a wind turbine farm, or on the side of a high rise.

It pays well, or at least as well as what I was being paid as a mid-level employee at my last real job.

The reason this line of work has caught my fancy is that it doesn't require a permanent location, since the jobs are typically contract based or remote locations, so you're transported to the work site, you finish the job, and head home. I don't plan to have a home. Also, because of this nature—of contracts and remote locations—there is a lot more equality between time worked and time off. Working at height and with my hands sounds preferable to me, so this line of work is as good as any, as far as I can see.

I'm saving my money earned here to pay for the certification which is obtained from a company in Reno, NV. I plan to take the course at the end of the summer/beginning of fall, if all goes well.

So that's my plan, as good or as bad as it is. I don't know if it will work out, but I have to work and live in such a way that I don't feel like I'm wasting time away. Whether the work is as I believe it to be, or whether I'll ever get that job, I don't know.

I'll talk about climbing later. It's a stressor to me right now and I don't have my thoughts ordered well enough to delve into it.

Also, I know I've repeated myself a fair number of times, and I'm sorry if I've become monotonous. I'm aware of it at the least, if I'm not quite able to figure out how to say something fresh at the most.

Also and additionally, “Girls—all I really want is girls.” - The Beastie Boys.

White Wolf Lodge, Yosemite

Life has taken a new turn.

I now work(!) at White Wolf Lodge. It's a High Sierra camp in Yosemite. Outside The Valley, but inside the park. I'm at about 7,800 FT. ASL and I work as a “camp helper”. My duties include dishwashing, housekeeping, serving and other odd jobs as may be required by the camp.

It's a pretty fun job, mostly because I enjoy the company of my coworkers, and because I'm still situated in the park.

I'm meeting people, making friends, and I'm not worried about my finances as much as I have been.

All in all, I'm happy with the change, although I don't actually like devoting such a large portion of time to a job, or to work, which does not directly benefit me. After nearly 11 months of job-free freedom, it's taken some grit on my part to adapt to the demands of waking up early and doing things when I don't feel like it. I don't request your sympathy—I'm only observing the facts.

A little more freedom will be nice, and I still have a plan to achieve that.

I'm not sure how long I will work in the park, but the job I have now will definitely end September 10, so I know I will be making another change at that time.

I'm still climbing, but the climbing by White Wolf is sparse and mediocre. I hitch-hike into the valley on my weekends to boulder, and I'm enjoying the climbing much more for what it is, with less expectations.

Now that I'm working, I'm just appreciative of being able to climb some good rocks, instead of feeling like I need to be pushing grades. Now it's more about just trying to tick a lot of problems and see some different spots.

Although I'm not climbing as much, I'm running more, and I like that I'm running at a higher altitude than I have before.

I'm hoping to make some major progress in my running fitness while I'm at White Wolf.

Other than that, there isn't a lot to update.

I don't have internet, and there is no cell phone reception (not that I have a phone) at White Wolf, so the only time I can connect is when I head down the mountains (east or west).

We do have electricity, but it's generator generated and that's only from 6AM-11PM, and only in common areas.

I'm living in a tent cabin with a roommate. We have a wood burning stove for heat, and it was necessary a couple weeks ago, but now the temperatures are very mild and pleasant.

I know this is all very matter-of-fact but I just wanted to get an update out since it has been a while.

I'm planning on writing something a little more imaginative for a later post.  

One Month

Well, I'm a sentimental person and being in Yosemite for a month seems like a milestone worthy of some kind of update.

I'm climbing, these days, but I'm always comparing myself to people that are climbing harder and better than myself, and I can never accept what I'm doing as an adequate effort. I never feel like I belong with those that are self-professed climbers.

There is a feeling I have that I don't really try as hard as I know I could, and I wonder how much better I'd be if I could find a way to invest myself into climbing 100%.

I have not been on a wide variety of routes, although I've started free-soloing which has opened up the possibility of ticking a lot of routes off in short order.

I have also started to boulder a little bit more, although it's not how I've done it before.

More or less, I am able to incorporate climbing outside into my schedule like you might run an errand. A quick bike ride and I'm at some classic wall or boulder, I climb for a little while, and then go about my day.

I haven't made mention of it until now, but I've reapplied for a job here in the park, and I'm waiting to see how that pans out. I have plans for the future and I will discuss them later.

Right now, I've passed the HR interview and I would have one more manager level interview before being hired. The last time I applied I had made it to the same stage but was not hired.

I'm spending more money than I should or can afford, but I tell myself it's a coping mechanism for when I get discouraged. That it is, but it's a cop-out to let myself keep doing it, so I'm going to try to rein myself back in before it's too late.

I feel lonely sometimes, and I find myself more and more eyeing the ladies around the park, making pretend romances up in my head, but I have to remind myself of what I'm working toward and that a warm body is nice, but not just any will give me the companionship I seek.

So, while I suppose some people would say I'm living the dream, in my own words I would say I'm going to “soldier on”. Not exactly what you would expect someone truly living the dream to say.

I wonder sometimes how I can make people laugh but it comes harder for me to make light of my own situation in a way that makes me laugh. I suppose a sense of humor is just a matter of developing a certain intelligence that is actually apart from its effect.

Life as I live it is still the best that I've experienced. I mean, how can I complain about not working, being outside whenever and as often as I want, eating well and being physically fit? It really is something I'm glad I have brought to myself, and it's nice to know that it's always there for the taking, if I am only willing to reach for it.  

Possibility

Dusk.

I lie on the ground in the open, among the tall grasses and short saplings. I don't stand; only crouch or lie down to avoid presenting my profile. I'm apart from those who pass by mere feet, those tourists and workers and who knows who else, but “them” nonetheless.

A light, a sound; I freeze.

I am not in dire circumstances, mind you, but these are precautions I take nonetheless. I just don't need a concerned tourist reporting a “strange man in the grass” to the law enforcement rangers.

The sound becomes sounds, and the light sweeps spastically. I hear voices, and now footsteps. They're getting closer.

I have willfully placed myself in this particular situation. There are alternative locations, but I am here, several paces from a path, in scrubby foliage. My camouflage is dubious.

Foolish, you say? I suppose. Lazy? Most definitely, but those are my hallmarks, and it simply would not do to contradict myself at a time in my life when I am looking to define what I stand for.

There's also a certain exhilarating feeling that accompanies me during these times of heightened insecurity.

It's that familiar feeling of possibility. Its the sixth sense of knowing your life could take a momentous turn, possibly or probably for the worse. It is the precipice.

The precipice is the most exciting place to be. As a moment of time, the precipice ranks as one of my favorites. It is that special place that allows for the most imagination. It is the the point in time that strikes the most superior balance of allowing you foresight to your possible future, but without resolution, which is the key to unleashing your imagination (and sometimes trepidation).

You cannot fathom what you are unaware of, therefore you must know where your circumstances are leading to enjoy a certain level of prescience. However, once set on a course, by nature and virtue of being on a course, you know where it may lead—how it may resolve. Inevitability carries its own significance, but I don't enjoy that feeling, not nearly as much.

Of course, the precipice is also where you begin a climb. And when you stand at the base of a great precipice, your mind can run wild with possible outcomes. Certainly, you may wish for a certain conclusion, and the fact that the precipice sets up the possibility of mutually exclusive outcomes is part of its allure.

I live now, more than I have before, in a continual state of being on the precipice.

The light is fickle and momentary, then gone. The children, the tourists have crunch-crunched the gravel all the way past me. Their high-pitched chattering fades. I am alone again.

I feel like I'm going feral. This would be a good thing. It feeds into my pre-existing self-concept. I have playfully over the years thought of myself as a “manimal” (credit to me, though I think I've seen the term used before), with man used in the general sense. I would describe the feeling like this: you operate comfortably and naturally in primitive conditions. I'm trying to relate the idea that sometimes you can surprise yourself with your innate ability to adapt to a wild environment. It's an almost animal quality. I think that may be why travel shines so bright in the eyes of so many. For travel is the opportunity to adapt and thrive in a new, “wild” place. It is an opportunity to be resourceful. 

And that is what I find myself yearning for, is a chance to thrive. An opportunity to see how I will deal with an environment heretofore unexperienced. Once my course is set, however, I lose interest, as the outcome becomes more inflexible. I'm learning this about myself as I type, stream of consciousness. But it's true. Sometimes, seeking opportunity is more enticing than seeking success.

If you know me, you know I'm at least a fatalist, if not a pessimist. But you may not know that I am eternally hopeful. And it is that combination of hope and desire for opportunity that drives my travels and my endeavors. Certainly, I have dreams but I'm not a terribly ambitious person. If I have or will accomplish anything extraordinary, it will be through serendipity, and not sheer force of will.

And so, here I am now; Yosemite. I love the feeling of arriving in a new place and wondering how I will thrive there. That feeling comes and goes in Yosemite, as nothing is certain here. I have settled into several routines since arriving here, and each one I had need to change for different reasons. Until recently, I was sleeping in a pile of boulders that provided good protection from the elements. I was there until a bear or a human (I don't know which) tossed my belongings. Nothing was broken or missing, but everything was displaced and a toiletry case was unzipped in situ but mysteriously unmolested.

This incident necessitated a change of quarters, which led me to my current situation. A storm or bad weather or some other unforeseen event will necessitate the next change.

While it would be easy to become angry or aggravated by these constant changes, it should be evident by now that I in fact, find them to be exciting twists in what could otherwise be a monotonous routine.

Surely, there is inconvenience in each minor upset experienced, and there is uncertainty, but that all leads me back to being on the precipice—a more exciting place to be.  

The Manifesto

Let this not be an epilogue full of hopes and wishes unfulfilled.

Lately, I'm feeling strongly that I'm not living up to my potential. It's a gnawing feeling that undercuts any accomplishment I might achieve and takes away fulfillment from otherwise enjoyable activities.

Platitudes echo impotently in my mind: “It's time to achieve your potential”, “just do it”, and etc.

The thoughts I have reach beyond simple short-term goals.

It's easy to psych yourself up for a short time, but to become excited about a new way of living doesn't it take more than a mood change?

I think that I should be judged on what I have done, and what I have striven [acted] to achieve. I want to be judged, and I want to be judged favorably. I want to judge myself favorable. I want to look at my past and be proud of how I spent my time. I want to see that I have done well by my own standards. I don't want to lower my standards in order to feel like I have reached my potential. It's no solace to know that the only way you passed a test of character was through a dilution of the standard.

I refuse to believe that my highest potential, my absolute potential, limits me to pedestrian achievements.

And if potential is not used, is it not wasted?

And of course, here comes the rub: I don't do anything. I don't try anything. That is, anything that would be of importance, anything that would elevate the status of my self-concept. I try things, but I don't succeed at them. I don't truly try hard enough. I ask myself where my fortitude lies, and where I might find the grit to push through a barrier of low expectations, and I cannot find within myself the determination necessary to break out of this oh-so-ordinary rut.

I use injury as a scapegoat, to pass the buck, to excuse my failures. I use injury to mask the fact that I know I could try harder but I'm scared. I talk about my sprained ankle, my elbow tendonitis, and the flapper on my finger. Even the sore shoulder I received from belaying from a weird stance.

I no longer believe that athletic achievement (especially as related to climbing) relies solely on the athlete's conditioning, or their superhuman strength. Rather, I believe once a person possesses the necessary strength to master and maneuver their body to a certain degree, that difficult routes or problems are reduced more to the commitment of the athlete and the athlete's understanding of their own body's limitations and the physics of their movement. Therefore, after a certain strength base is achieved, I believe the limiting factor in an individual's climbing is their comprehension (intuitive or cerebral) of the physics of climbing movements, with fear acting as an auxiliary factor.

Fear cripples my mind. To quote Frank Herbert, “fear is the mind killer”. I allow it to short-circuit my intuition and prevent me from doing what feels right. It stops my natural movement and hobbles my gracefulness.

I think that I have allowed fear to rule so long in my mind that I don't know how to operate without its input.

I am a human being, and humans are naturally graceful, beautiful.

I feel I've lost what is natural to me, and replaced my nature with a nature of reservation and trepidation.

I want to reach out and grasp that which is innately me: that natural movement and ability that resides within my person as reflexes and intuitions that are too primitive to be learned or influenced by my more cerebral limitations. The limitations of which I speak are those limitations which I have learned (I think) as a way to protect myself, and which surely do keep me safe, but what is a life free of danger than a life free of excitement?

I know my body wasn't made as a vehicle to pass time. It is intended to navigate and survive (thrive!) in this astonishing world that is so full of danger and excitement. My body is purpose built to interact with its environment—whatever that environment is.

I can choose my environment, I can choose my interactions.

Let this be my prologue.

Reflection and New Directions

My season at Indian Creek finished, I have pulled up my stakes, collapsed my tent, and packed away my gear. In fact, I have already passed through Zion National Park, and am now re-situated in Yosemite National Park, in Yosemite Valley.

The highest priority I have in looking back at my last two months out here ('here' being this expansive world I now live in, without boundaries or schedules) is actually just to make some lists.

Let me show you what I mean;

In two months I have:

Eaten 12 pounds of creamy peanut butter.

Traveled 1,370 miles (without owning a car).

Consumed over 2 liters of hot sauce.

Slept in the open under an expansive—sometimes astonishing—night sky 57 times.

“My season” is more than just a description of time. It's more than the description of a process. My season is a reference to a period of time in my life where I am truly living, truly able to respond to my self. A time of reflection and a time of preparation. Your season is a time of self-actualization. It's a time to respond to the influences of our lives and to make changes to improve or mitigate our circumstances, no matter what they may be.

On the road, I've experienced frustrations and every day has not been idyllic [bliss]. Regardless, I am not dwelling on the minutiae of every day. Instead, I'm trying to see the bigger picture.

These are times of self-improvement. Not the false, manufactured kind of improvement that swaps a new part for an old one. This is the kind of improvement that maintains the integrity and performance of the original design, but makes it better.

Of course, while my time may be finished at Indian Creek, my season is ongoing.

I've had plenty of time to reflect on how long I could prolong this lifestyle, and currently, time (or more accurately, money) is running short. Be that as it may, I've come to realize that one of the primary aspects of living the way I am, is to maintain a certain attitude. A certain mindset. A mindset is a habit, and I want to make a habit out of my current mindset. What I've accomplished in my two months so far is to familiarize my thought process with a flexibility and acceptance of circumstances that allows me to be more consistently happy and to overcome feelings of depression or sadness more quickly than before now.

But for all of this vagueness and hyperbole, what does this mean to you?

It should mean that I am happier. And if you enjoy my true (happy) personality, then you will see more of it, and you, therefore, will have greater enjoyment.

That's it.

As with most things personally related, my growth and experience will only have tangential effects on you.

I think I write about these subjects because I've heard so many “you're living the dream” comments. I don't want to correct anyone: I certainly am living my dream. But more importantly, I want to point out that the dream doesn't mean that life is easy and everything goes your way. “The Dream” is just a mindset coupled with the power to actualize favorable circumstances. It's agency in your life.

I took agency by force, without restraint (perhaps a little to my own detriment). That's how I do.

I quit my job while I was living paycheck to paycheck and I had no bailout plan, $23,000 deep in consumer debt.

I sold my car knowing I needed to go somewhere, but not knowing how I was going to get there.

I sold or threw away anything that seemed non-essential to a lifestyle I wanted to lead. And that's kind of the point: I shaped my circumstances so that the obvious direction for me to take was the way that I have now begun to travel. The circumstances were most conducive for me to hit the road because I made them that way.

I hope that inspires you.

Post Script List:

In two months I have:

Taken 1,704 photographs.

Laundered my clothes 0 times.

Spent $364 ($40 for a shoe resole, $30 gas contribution, $17 to settle a credit card dispute, $17 for a cell phone bill, $260 on food or miscellaneous items).

Read Starship Troopers, The Sun Also Rises, The Great Gatsby, Dune, Interpreter of Maladies, The Quiet American, and Jitterbug Perfume (in that order).

PSS

I realize I have not spoken of climbing in the least, and indeed I did intend to, but maybe that's not as important to me right now. 

I do hope that my climbing libido will strengthen, and I think it will as I come into balance, as I see my desire and passion as a function of my overall health and happiness and this is as true for climbing as anything else. Climbing is certainly something I am involved in, something that possesses imminent importance in my decision making process when I make plans—something I center my life around, but as the axis of my life, it's doing what I need it to do for me without me crushing rock every day. Instead, it's more important to me that I have the freedom to climb whenever I want to, rather than wanting to climb every day.