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From 09/13/2005, regarding driving in to San Diego from the dry summer air of Phoenix:

Back then, I could smell the salt in the air all the way out in Alpine, forty miles inland. I’d be rocketing in from El Centro on I-8, windows down, stereo sweating. Pulling deeply, I’d savor the indication of the ocean, dowsing my emotions in water. Eventually, I’d only be able to smell it standing on the cliffs in Pacific Beach. People are adaptable like that, and sometimes I despise it. Sometimes, it’s disappointing to adapt. Sometimes, I want to suspend change. I want to smell the salt again.

And now I smell the autumn air. It hit me harder this year; more noticeable, more prevalent. There’s a distinct briskness to the air. Paired with a a confluence of other factors, of evening traffic home with the sun already set; the accumulation of ocher, tan, and sienna leaves, bare branches reaching toward an empty azure sky. There’s something about the chill you can smell; it delicately frosts your nostrils on a sharp inhale.

I’m reminded of trick-or-treaters, of the long desert drive home for the holidays, of the nostalgia of Stegner’s Crossing to Safety. There’s a placid stillness before the whirlwind of impending holidays. Hot cider appears on the menu of local coffee houses and pumpkin spice shakes at the ice creamery. It’s a SoCal autumn, where you can get away with a single layer during the day, and only need to burrow into a sweatshirt at night.

The salt smell reasserts it’s dominance, and I’m reminded of my childhood, my transplantation and resurrection. Of find and re-defining myself in this town, a mere twelve years ago.

Where has the time gone?

In the spirit of yesterday’s post, here’s a small list of things I’d like to do, try, or do more often:

• Run through sprinklers with my clothes on
• Visit Hawaii
• Spend a week drinking coffee and writing in an outdoor cafe someplace I don’t understand the local language
• Sell a 20” x 30” print to a complete stranger
• Wander Angkor Wat
• Eat a candlelit dinner on the beach in Ko Tao
• Call in sick to work when I’m not
• Study martial arts – in China and Japan
• Learn something non-trivial that has no discernable value
• Eat food from some country I’ve never been
• Drive around America
• Save a life
• Learn to fly a plane
• Watch the sun rise once a month
• Learn to salsa
• Bath in the Blue Lagoon and play in Porsmorck Park
• Learn to play the piano
• Teach something
• Publish a novel / novella
• Revise this list
• Change the world (for the better)

My friend’s fiance wants things. She wants a new car, a new laptop, a new piece of furniture … things that are bigger, better, faster version of things she already owns. She whines plaintively about not having these things, about getting these things, about the joy of eventually having these things. I don’t believe she whines because these things out beyond her means, and that they are not beyond my friend’s means, but because she worries. She worries that her life is too stressful, that events won’t work out, and these smaller, older, slower things she already has provide minor annoyances that grate on her already frazzled outlook.

Material things will not ease an already troubled mind.

I have things. I’m currently trying to get rid of things; to pare down to the necessities (of both utility and beauty.) Although I believe I currently have too many things, there was a time when I had even more things. There was a time when I was pulling in twice what I make now, and my cost of living was half – I had four times as many things.

And I can absolutely tell you, more things don’t make you feel better, more relaxed, less stressed, etc. If anything, you have to worry more about losing said things, or repairing them, maintaining them, all of which only adds to your stress. Of course, there are the obvious exceptions – a new bed can definitely help you relax and get a better nights sleep, thereby improving your wakeful mind, but these are not the things I’m talking about. I’m talking about the things you’ve gotten along without thus far.

These new things are distractions, they don’t address the problem. The problem is the troubled mind. Stress relief comes from removing or dealing with the stresses themselves, not the feelings they produce. Sure, maybe life seems a whole lot easier when you get that new bedroom furniture – you have room for all your stuff, and it’s so easy to get to everything! – but ultimately the stress and worries of life will manifest somewhere else. You think, _ if only I could do the same for the garage,_ but it never ends. Once the distraction becomes banal, the stress returns and you go looking for a new distraction.

Getting new things is generally treating the symptom, not the source.

Now, I’m not against owning things as a principle, but one of the problem with the consumer culture we live in now is that the consumption tends to be used as a crutch to avoid personal introspection, a kind of snake-oil cure-all for your mental needs. It’s not strictly a need-versus-want question, either. You’re allowed to have things you want and don’t need, that perfectly alright. But do you want them for the right reasons? Do you want a new car because your old one can’t make it out into the woods to go camping? Sounds like you need a new car. Maybe that’s valid. Or maybe it’s just an excuse – perhaps it’d be more fun to park farther away, and backpack in to your campsite.

I’ve been thinking about this a great deal lately, since I’ve been on a minimization kick. I’ll be keeping plenty of the things I already own, such as antique furniture and whatnot, but I’ll be placing those and many other things in storage and pretty much forgetting about them. What do I want after I sell the house? I think the core boils down to:

• Clothes, enough to get through 2-3 weeks
• Set of dishware, glasses, and utensils for two people
• Small table and two chairs
• Bed and linens
• Laptop and related sundry
• Camera and related sundry
• Car, with iPod
• Some nice art to hang on the walls

Books? Storage. CDs, end-tables, coffee-table, chairs, miscellaneous kitchen gear, power tools? Storage. TV, stereo, miscellaneous furniture? Will be sold or given away. It may appear to be somewhat “college bachelor” style, but I believe it can be done tastefully and minimally. And when it comes down to it, most of the rest of the stuff I could retain I don’t really use. Not right now, anyway.

Of course, I realize that, just like acquiring things isn’t a cure-all, neither is relinquishing. But it does help relieve distractions, making it easier to concentrate on your self.

I’m cruising up I-15 this morning when I notice what sounds like a helicopter tracking my movement. But … it sounds a little different from most of the helicopters you hear flying from the local military bases, so I turn down the radio and slow down a bit. I notice my steering is muddy, and that the heli is matching my speed.

Of course, it’s not a heli, it’s the whoomp-whoomp-whoomp of a flat tire. It takes a few miles, but I’m finally able to cross three lanes to pull over in the hazard lane – but my hazard lights don’t go on when I press the button. Oh well, no big deal – it’s daylight, and I’ll just pop the trunk and most people will assume I’m broken down.

I unload my trunk into the back seat, pop out the spare tire and jack, get the lug nut lock. I’m all ready to feel nice and tire-changing masculine when I realize that I can’t seem to pop the hubcap cover off the wheel to get to the lugs. I try a key, a quarter, a pen – that fucker’s on there tight. The tip of my knife doesn’t appear to be strong enough; it looks like it’s bending and I don’t want knife-shrapnel in my eye. (Remind me to pick up a tanto-tip and store a screwdriver in my trunk.) That’s when I spot one of my swords lying in the back seat, one of the weapons I’ve just moved from the trunk. I take one of the metal training swords, unsheathe it, and begin wedging the tip down into the slot. Picture me sweating and wedging the tip of a shiny three foot sword down into my wheel on the side of one of the busiest freeways in San Diego during rush hour.

Of course, that’s when the CHP pulls up behind me.

This can’t look sane.

He looks at me suspiciously. “What’s going on here?”

“Hi sir, just a flat, no big deal.” I can see him looking at the sword somewhat incredulously. At least I had the forethought do set it down and step away from it before answering. “I couldn’t find a screw driver to pop my hubcap.”

He looks from me to the martial arts sticker on the back of my car, and I see his eyes scan down to the black belt sticking out of my gym bag in the trunk.

“Did you try a quarter?”

“Yeah. Any other suggestions?”

He scans the side of the road for usable debris, but finds nothing. “Yeah, sometimes those things are on there pretty tight. You need me to call roadside assistance?”

“No, I just called a moment ago, thank you though.”

“Why aren’t your hazards on?”

“I just got my radio worked on last weekend, and I guess they messed something up with the wiring – I haven’t had to use them recently, but they worked last time I tried.” I shrug. “I’m taking it back in next weekend.”

He just turns to scribble in his notebook. Shit, I think, I hope that’s just a fix-it ticket for the car and not a citation for the sword.

He turns back, surveys the scene, and wishes me a good-day.

Eventually roadside assistance comes and pops my hubcap, gets my donut on, and I get to work a good two hours late. I leave after only another hour of work to drive down to Discount Tire to swap tires. Culprit? A huge-ass razor blade sliced straight into my rear tire – probably kicked up from the front tire. I’m in and out in 45 minutes, spending a mere $15 for a brand-spanking new tire. Sean at Discount Tire in Poway, you rock. And regarding my query of “what’ve you got to eat around here?”, your answer of “everything that’s bad for you” was completely correct.

As soon as I get back into the office, I receive this call: This is [my credit card company], calling to verify a possible fraudulent purchase. The purchase in question is $500 of industrial equipment from [some company] in Ohio. Press 1 if this purchase was made by your or an authorized card holder ….” Hmm, that doesn’t sound like me.

I transfer to a customer service agent and verify the charges are fraudulent.

“Was it an internet purchase?”

“Let me check … no it appears it was keyed manually. Actually, it was keyed three times with your account number, manually. I’d recommend closing the account and opening another.”

I concur, and we do. The rep is very helpful, but there’s still nothing she can do about re-routing the charges that auto-bill this card – which is basically every company I do business with. This is my “send all recurring payments to this account” card.

After cleaning up various credit-related activities, I realize I’ve been relatively un-fazed by the events of the day. Given the circumstances, things went optimally. I can’t help but wonder if everyone was so cool and helpful with me because I was smiling and relaxed throughout, whereas I most people I’ve seen deal with such interruptions have vented their anger on the very person trying to help them. Perhaps I just woke on the right side of the bed today – or maybe it’s just the practice. Regardless, I’m still smiling, and I still think it’s a good day.

But if this website goes away, you know where my hosting bills are being charged.

I’ve come to the conclusion that there’s three types of jobs – those you like, love, and hate. The best one to have? The job you like.

The jobs you hate is, well, just that. It drains you mentally, emotionally, and because of that (or just because it’s physically demanding), physically as well. The lack of enjoyment and stimulation slows time, making the day creep by. You’re always looking forward to your next day off, or your next break – looking at anything but the present. You go to sleep dreading the trek to work the next morning, and can only look toward the day you’re no longer employed there.

The job you love is a drug, an addiction. You always end up working later than you intended, and never really “log off.” You sacrifice relationships and activities. You forget about other important aspects of life and leave precious little time for experiencing new things. You isolate yourself via your immersion. The job you love becomes the entirety of your life instead of an adjunct of it, it becomes the ends and not the means.

The job you like? When you find the the job you like, you feel stimulated and engaged through the workday, and you look forward to solving problems and tackling issues on the way to work. You don’t feel the need to pass time by taking breaks or extending lunch just a little longer. But you never feel guilty about clocking out once you’re done with your shift – you may actually feel thrilled that you have a project in motion that you can dive into tomorrow. It leaves time and energy for new things – hobbies, classes, traveling, meeting new people – anything that piques your curiosity. It lets you live life without getting in the way. The job you like is not your life, it is merely part of it. It doesn’t add stress to your life by its presence, nor through of the absence of other things.

There’s a Zen Buddhist text:

The Master in the art of living makes little distinction between his work and his play, his labor and his leisure, his mind and his body, his education and his recreation, his love and his religion.

He hardly knows which is which.

He simply pursues his vision of excellence in whatever he does, leaving others to decide whether he is working or playing.

To him he is always doing both.

I’ve seen this quote several times, generally outside of the offices or cubes of compulsive workers who spend days and night toiling over projects, working 100-hour weeks without vacation or days off. While that sort of dedication is impressive and admirable – and these people typically love what they are doing – I believe the spirit of the instruction has been mangled. The key is in the first line: “The Master in the art of living.” Not in the art of working. I believe the master incorporates work into life, it is not subsumed by it, thus, while he is pursuing excellence, it is not in what he does, but what he is doing: working, playing, eating, walking, talking, singing, joking, gardening, supporting his loved ones, playing golf, doing dishes, making love, reading a bed-time story, taking classes, teaching classes, painting, standing, watching, sitting, breathing … and I believe having a job you like is more conducive to that than a job you love.

Despite the last two weeks, I do generally like my job.

A piece of insight from a married friend of mine: “Guys never want to get married, until they meet the right girl, then everything changes. Girls want to get married even before they’ve met the guy.”

From the guys’ point of view, it certainly rings true. And based on the conversations I’ve heard when I’ve been the only guy hanging out with a group of girls, it’s not far from the truth for them either – at least for those small samples. Even when single, they occasionally chat about how they want they’re going to configure the wedding, where the honeymoon will be, what colors, dress, type of cake, etc. – something my guy friends and I have never once discussed, or even thought about as far as I know.

What is it in our culture that’s elevated to ceremony of pairing to eclipse that of the act of two people pairing? Certainly it can’t be personal experience, as friends who’re daughters of both divorced and married parents seem to have the similar aspirations on that front. Media? Celebrities don’t exactly have a great track record with respect to the everlasting unions. Perhaps just inextinguishable optimism?

A divorced acquaintance, who’s a wedding planner by trade, remarked to me recently, “Your first wedding you want to be perfect. Ridiculously expensive, big church, synagogue, whatever, opulent reception, the works. The second one? Good friends and family on a hilltop or beach. That’s all.” It makes the whole LA-style phrase of “practice marriage” seem a whole lot less cynical.

That said, most of the girls I’ve had serious relationships with have fallen into the exception to that generalization. Perhaps that’s representative of some congruency of personality that sustains the relationships.

On the wedding tip, in Sept I’ll be attending the wedding of a college friend of mine, and it sounds it’ll be one of the coolest, most personal, unpretentious weddings ever:

This will be an outdoor affair and the sun will still be high enough in the sky that you may want sun protection. We advise that attendees bring sun protection in the form of hats, sunscreen, shades, etc.

…

And when we say casual, we mean casual … flip flops are not out of the question. [Groom] might even be wearing them! But if you feel more comfortable wearing a suit or tuxedo that’s fine as well. The entire event will be on grass abutting the beach. You will never have to touch sand unless you want to … although it will only be steps away.

…

The reception will begin at approximately 6PM a short walk north from the site of the ceremony. Guests will be provided a selection of Tapas and plenty of the beverage of your choice – from water to sparkling grape juice to beer to wine to mixed drinks. We will provide either a place to crash on the grass outside our tiny pad, or transportation home for all as needed.
…

Gift Registry

We don’t have one.

With the price of gas, the amount of money being spent to come out here and stay the weekend is more of a gift than we could ever ask for! We look forward to celebrating this occasion with our friends and families!

The schedule of event includes things like “9:00 AM, Morning Surf” and “7:35 PM, Bouquet Toss, or some other silly wedding ritual…” followed by a tide forecast for the day.

Yeah, [bride] and [groom] rock. Doesn’t sound like they need a practice marriage. Good for them.

Whoa, what a weekend – I definitely ran the gamut. Friday was predominantly refining and arranging my martial arts notes, capped off with an evening of meditation. More on that later, assuming I can get the reflections in presentable shape. Sorry, no great moral today, just a weekend re-cap. (I don’t always have the time to weave a good tale. Sorries.)

Saturday I got some sun in the morning up in Encinitas, followed by some cafe time, a movie at home, and then heading out to PB to meet up with Mike. I arrived early at Bub’s, featuring half-off pitchers, and downed one by myself with some of the regulars before Mike schlepped on down from O-side. By the time we met up, I already had a little buzz on – before sunset, in fact. We met up with a some old-time friends of Mike’s down at Tower 23, and I spent a good while talking with an uber-cool couple from the UK. Hopefully, I can meet up with them next time I’m “across the pond,” as they’re so fond of saying. We swung over from Tower 23 to Gringos, and capped on the night with burritos. Although I started off strong (damn your slacking, Mike), I only had another drink or two over the next five hours, so I was fine to drive home and woke refreshed to a warm and clear Sunday morning.

Sunday started with clearing out the living room and priming parts the ceiling for painting. (For the record, I’m a horrible painter.) I got the itch to hit the beach, but it appeared everyone was already out and not answering their phones, so I just drove to PB and see who was out and about. After a good little half-hour wander (how I miss being able to perambulate around the local ‘hood, with shops and cafe and personality and whatnot), I spotted three of servers from a local pub in beach attire. They were heading up to Windansea and didn’t mind the company, so I ended up on a relatively empty beach (for Jul 4 in SD) with three beautiful girls. Can’t say that I minded.

After sunning, chatting, dips in the ocean, and a beer apiece, the girls were off to see Daredevil Jane at the Wave House, so they dropped me back in PB and zipped down to Mission. I wandered again, this time running into a friend Natalie (whose boyfriend remodeled my kitchen), so I hung with her for a few. She was kind enough to allow me to shower at her place so I didn’t have to lose my primo parking spot. At her place, I met her friend Laneae who was down for the weekend. We were all a bit hungry and in a celebratory spirit, drifted back to Garnet, and ended up in Mika Sushi for a night of rolls, Sapporo, and sake. I must admit, by the time dinner was over, I was already pretty drunk.

We persevered. On the way to PB Pub, Matt joined up with us and we played “Touch the Boobie” – that little touch-screen bar game where you compare the difference between two photoshopped images. More people met up with us, but I was three sheets to the wind by now, and the recollection is hazy. Longer story only slightly shorter, we hit Bub’s for a bit, grabbed the requisite late-night Mexican (although I was a still full from sushi and didn’t order anything) and hoofed it back to Natalie’s. Matt bailed for home, Natalie went to stay at her boy’s place, and Laneae and I crashed at Natalie’s. All in all, an awesome day (although I would have preferred to have been less drunk) that made me miss PB. (We walked everywhere. Damn, I really miss having an interesting and lively community around me.)

Monday was Hellish. I had a wicked hangover, four hours of sleep, and a ton of random shit to do: get new tires on my car, drop off the prints for the art benefit, get an estimate on the damage to my bumper from the asshat who hit it when it was parked ($750, including the cost of a rental while they send the bumper to be remolded in LA! I might just considered my car having more “character” now) … tons of boring stuff. And I was not in good shape. Eventually, I was able to make it home to crash on the couch for a few. Generally, the only hangover cures that work for me are sleep or exercise, and sleep worked. I drove back to PB again, met up with Marcus for some food and a cup of coffee before meeting up with Nick, Dave, Lauren, and a whole bunch of friends-of-friends for a night at PB Bar and Grill. It was actually immensely entertaining, as I wasn’t in the mood to drink (surprise) and just sipped soda and lime all night. The posturing at such a joint, by both the boys and girls (I hesitate to call them men and women, but in terms of age and maturity) is positively hilarious. We chatted and people watched the meat market scene until nearly close.

I awoke refreshed again on Tuesday, ready to hang on the bay, have a couple beers, barbecue, and just relax in general. Aside from the 1.5 hours wait for a cab ride in, and five hour wait for a cab-ride out (damn taxi snipers – cutting off our cab on the way in with the lure of large wads of cash), I did just that. Seven hours of sunny relaxation (and sunscreen re-aplication), ogling the cuties, and hanging with some friends I haven’t seen for ages really made me miss having walk-able community – especially since I had to keep driving in and out of it.

Don’t worry, I’ll be pulling some of the anecdotes out of the weekend and expostulating. There were definitely some gems in there I glossed over so as to not steal my own thunder.

I’m bruised and sore. My ribs and shoulder ache, my right bicep doesn’t work as well as it should, my legs are blue and purple. Lance commented to me once this weekend, “I love having Uke’s I don’t have to worry about hitting too hard.” Of course, as Uke, you learn more than anyone else, and of course, I volunteered as often as I could.

The retreat was impressive on all levels, and I’ll definitely be making a dent in my 800mg ibuprofen. But the real significance was facing the impending loss – or evolution, I should say – of the school. Of how much I’ve grown, and how close I’ve become to these people. To Mike and Chris and Lance and Jess, and all the rest, too numerous to name, the brothers I never had. To be able to say unabashedly that I love these men. I’m reminded of that exchange from Good Will Hunting: “The reason he hangs around with those ‘gorillas,’ as you called them, is because anyone of those ‘gorillas’ would take a baseball bat to your head anyday. It’s called loyalty.” These guys aren’t gorillas, although we do each live in disparate domains outside of the dojo, but the loyalty to I feel to these brothers is rings similar.

I remember distinctly the Friday night I’d just flown back to SD after having just lain Kevin to rest. I walked into the dojo and drilled aiki, silent, again and again, until I was too tired to muscle the movements and the flow began to emerge. I stood, bowed to my partner and off the mat, and plopped down in the changing room. Half undressed, with one shoe on and one off, I sat, and cried. I hadn’t cried during the funeral – my role there had been support. But now I let myself go, exhausted, without the strength direct it. Jess walked in to fetch something from his bag. After a moments glance, he asked the inevitable, and I replied matter-of-factly: “I buried a friend today.” A pause, and a response: “Come on, let’s train. Back on the mat.” I followed, without the strength to contest, and bowed in. Lance notices, understanding with a nod. We proceed to beat each other silly in silence, a celebration of brotherhood and blood and sweat and pain and … of finding victory now. A physical analogy to finding that which needs to be done, and doing it. Not controlling the grief and loss, but harnessing; not caging a wild horse, but mounting it, directing it, letting it run it’s course under my direction.

I thought back to the time I spoke with Sensei, after Ashley and I split, where he revealed more to me of himself than he’s ever shown me, of the common denominators of us all. Of accepting out situation but not sacrificing our will to cope with it or change it. That night, as well, I re-entered the mat and trained until I was emptied of frustration and confusion and self-detritus, and full of resolve.

At the luau after the retreat, several of the senior-most students stated public acknowledgments to Sensei in front of the student body, thanking Sensei for what he’s given us; how he’s given us heart and compassion and discipline, all tools that have allowed us to overcome challenges over the years and excel.

And Sensei apologized. He apologized to his teachers, he apologized to us, he apologized for being to young and not masterful enough, for this being too early to deserve this. He said, “I’m not ready for this. I still have a long way to go myself. But thank you.”

I drove home from the retreat with these thoughts and these aches, and noticed I kept slowing my speed, continually creeping below sixty, as if my body wouldn’t let me pull from the bonds, a visceral rejection of finality. I don’t want it to end.

And I won’t let it. I don’t know how, but I won’t let this art die in me, and I won’t let these bonds break or atrophy.

I commented, privately, to Sensei before I left: “I don’t want to say goodbye, so I won’t. I know I’ve got a little trip planned, but before and after, I’m gonna try to figure out where you are, ‘cause I’m not done training.”

His response? “Good.”

---

Postscript: There is one thing I never thanked Ashley for: breaking up with me. She never issued an ultimatum to me, she never even intimated that it was “me or your art,” but I’d realized the logistics of our relationship, that I would have to move out of San Diego for us to be together long-term. I had plans to move, I had plans to keep myself training in another place, plans to generate income and time to fly back down to SD to keep training periodically with Sensei. But it would have minimized the constant interaction with my peers. As the bonds between my brothers and I were not completely forged at the time, they would have been strained under the pressure of distance. So, Ashley, thank you for breaking up with me; thank you for not forcing me into having to make that decision. Thank you for the gift of allowing me this time with my family.

I’ve been neglecting my introspective self lately – no small lessons, no moments of stillness. I’ve been all movement, as if I’ll coagulate where I am if I don’t get all this other shit done. And I don’t know if I’ll be able to maintain the suspense, to give the full digs on everything that may or may not be coming up in my life: it feels like my future is a pressure cooking with a creaking carapace, ready to blow at any moment, but I know that in reality it will be a series of small resolutions, in my favor and against, and they’ll be no explosion, no enlightening thunderbolt, but merely a slow process of learning and experience, as is the case most of the time. The climax isn’t there – there’s too many variables, and unlike a novel, they’re not overly interconnected. So I won’t be able to turn this into the serial you’d hope for, not without bending the truth farther than I’m willing to, and you’ll have to bear with that.

So what’s been eating at me lately, what are the atoms? A pile of trashy suburban vocabulary: HOA Assessment. Kitchen remodel. Home staging. Mortgage payments. Words I’ve grown to hate. Words that suck money, and more importantly, time. And then there’s those words I love, those that are leaving – no, not leaving, but evolving, changing into something I don’t yet know the form of. Shodan testing. Martial arts school closing. Last martial arts retreat.

And these atoms are bound in time and place through me: what structure will my future training take? How much time will it demand, and how much time will I have to give? Where will I live? Will I be able to walk away from this house unscathed, or at least minimally scratched? Will the high bit be set on my currency counter? In the worst case scenario, where will I find the time to do those things that are gnawing at me, driving me?

Yet, even then, I know I’ll find a way to make it work. It may be a different way, but it will still be my way.

Event if I’m living in Portland with a cowboy hat and no one knows my first name.

Hmm, that sounds kind of attractive….