Past Ideals Now Present

Throw it all away; that thing you thought you knew - to know that the more you know the less you know. return to basics, base concepts elevated beyond our own. Listen. Who will you hear? George .... Washington; "I have already intimated to you the danger of parties in the state, with particular reference to the founding of them on geographical discrimination." Foresaw the foresworn. Civil War carried through today - the day of embedded parties, partly due to inaction. Abdication of that thrown upon which each of us sits - of the people dies as the people retreat, defeat branded as a bar code. Freedom of consumerism - the new ism of identity - marcher to stores, boars to the trough. "But these are unprecedented and unusual times" - so may they always be. The pendulum swing shoots us forward failing to see the new day dawn. Let us raise a wail for "real progress ... real justice ... real equality" - of equanimity, Buddhist style. Revile revisited, then gone, released while reason remains. Look to the past to become the future.

How to Make an Historical Epic

Hello, my name is SB and I am an historical epic addict. This is truly a sad thing to be as it is but rarely that a good one comes along, and then more often than not, only in the form of the director's cut. As an overly interested spectator, and a person hoping one day to work on the production end of such a film, I have been creating, over the years, the criteria necessary for a successful historical epic. And so I shall share it with you now. A historical epic, to be worthy of the name must include most of the following; (a) a moral and often unwilling leader (the man who does not crave power will be the least likely to misuse it when it is given to him) and one possessing convincing charisma, (b) a villain with at least a modicum of intelligence of wily wit who possesses all of those traits - greed, desire for power, lack of concern for the human condition - that make him the opposite of the protagonist, (c) a theme which goes beyond the stories of the character themselves, speaking to the human condition and, if the film is to be truly great, creating a parallel between then and now so that we may draw from it some greater sense of enlightenment about the times we now live in, (d) approximately three fights, each revealing important information about the characters, whether it be tactical skill, betrayal, surviving against all odds, a willingness to surrender riches and power in order to save human lives, (e) a driving motivation for the protagonist which comes prior to the cause for which he will later be fighting, such as the death of the woman that he loved (this is always a good motivator and shows that even a man who seems barbaric in battle has a soft, loving side), (f) a suitable number of characters that we like need to die, not everyone can live when they're cleaving each other with battle axes and the like, and it is often good if the protagonist himself dies at the end, as in christ dying for our sins - the martyr's achievements go down in history, (g) standard british should typically be used as this makes up for the fact that often the characters that we are watching would actually be speaking a different language, or would be speaking in a way that would not allow for the eloquence with which the script writers would like their characters to speak, and besides, when things are said in british they just sound more epic, (h) no expense should be spared when it comes to production design for, no matter how great everything else is, if the film does not look epic, then it won't be - costume the characters correctly, do not make them look too pretty (people didn't bathe so much in the past and don't forget it, also, when on a long journey without a caravan it is unlikely that people would be able to shave everyday or keep a neat and closely sheared beard), that is except for the women, for, unless they are warriors themselves, they should have such beauty as would drive men into battle and create such deep love as is necessary in an epic, (i) and lastly don't cast Colin Farrel as the lead or kill Lancelot before he can betray Arthur with his love for Gwenefyar. 

Some of the above listed need no further illustration. For the others, I will broaden their definitions and provide examples. Clearly, the leader, or protagonist of an historical epic must be spot on, or all else is for not. Simply casting a man who is pretty is not enough. In fact, generally the leader should not be pretty as a warrior should be manly. The only exception to this that I can proffer is the unexpected success of Orlando Bloom in the role of Balian in Kingdom of Heaven (though I did notice that the production designers went to a great deal of effort to make him often look dirty and we careful to put him in the least feminine clothing they could).  Men such as Mel Gibson or Russel Crowe are more generally the desired type. While the leader should look savage in battle, he also must be able to show depth of emotion, an almost innocence which can make one believe that he seeks only to do the right and does not want for power. Mel Gibson's baby blues looking up at his betrayer The Bruce are, to my mind, the quintessential illustration of this. Generally, he must love some woman, often one who dies at the outset of the film, as with Wallace's wife, Maximus' wife, and Balian's wife (Braveheart, Gladiator, and Kingdom of heaven respectively). At some later point in the film another woman must arise who will be a help and inspiration to the leader, and there must be some sense of romance between them. Finally, he must have a good voice for yelling in order to muster legions without sounding like a fool.

And here, for today, I will leave off, with greater expansion to come.

Lay the Past to Rest

Almost imperceptible, like something not quite seen, the car pulls up. There is a face in the driver's seat that is familiar. Eerily so. It is a remembrance, half lost in the land of dreams. The woman, no longer a girl, sitting on a small wall stands, straightens her plain black sundress, throws an old army backpack over her right shoulder and steps towards the vehicle. Sliding into the seat she feels like she has done this a thousand times before, and yet, never. There is a brief embrace shared between the two, so platonic that it seems unfitting for two who have shared intimacies for years. Pleasantly, but without much luster, the woman asks perfunctory questions. He answers, but does not ask any of her. Giving directions in between banalities she carries the conversation, unsure why she bothers. A part of her is still standing on the receding sidewalk, while the other lies in years past. Nothing but a shell now shares the space of this metallic tomb. They move as wraiths, part of no world. It is a convergence; the landscape of her childhood and present, a place new and unknown to him, two people who's time has passed.

Too many memories in one moment. The space flashing by the outside of their ghost ship belongs to her, to thoughts of her father and mother, of life before college, of daily life and things to come. These clash with those that they hold together, from a place and time so distant that they seem not to belong to this world. Always she has loved to play the tour guide to visiting friends. But not now. Now she wants to hold the worlds apart for fear their collision might eradicate one and split her in two never to again become whole. As the day passes they exist in nothingness. And she knows now, completely, that college and the life that it held for her is over. That her life has become memories. And the to survive she must let them slip into the recesses, to be pulled out only for special occasions. They are no longer the people they were then. She is not so innocent and naive. Oh that she were. She is no longer the fantasy he had once called her. The girl who sent shivers down his spine when she walked into the room. They no longer turn in assignments to be graded.

The change is what it is. The inevitable. Her only fear is that this day, this day that signifies the end of something forever, will steal the past. Take away those happy, exciting, memories. At one point he tells her he has never seen her happier. She thinks that he does not know her at all. After all, it has been a year since last they lay eyes and hands on one another. Time had not stood so still for her as it had for him. She who had moved across the country, departing from all that there had been for her, which even then was no more. He had lived still surrounded y his friends, in the same place, her still a reality to him. But he was no more than a ghost to her.

And so, as they sat at the conclusion of their stolen say he tried to make the past the present. But she was not moved. All that she desired was the end of this forgery. Wished that he would slip back into the memory from whence he had come and stay there locked safely, forever unchanging. She told him that the door to her was closed. He took it in, and smiling sadly at her said, so it's really over then. He had not until that moment fully grasped this truth and it struck him like a dagger in the heart. I'll go then.

And so he went. Forever out of her life and into her mind, to be kept forever and for always, unchanging.

What is Morality

We try to qualify too many actions as moral, rendering the word meaningless. Not all charges of man need be, or indeed can be, viewed in terms of morality. We do not need, for example, to qualify a standing army in terms of morality. It falls under the category of realistic and pragmatic. A standing army is neither moral nor immoral, but amoral. Of a dimension outside of morality. A consideration of moral issues arises when we decide to use the army, to send them into action. Morality enters as a discussion of whether the army will be used in a pragmatic, less immoral, or fully immoral manner. Individual soldiers may, as well, act with more or less immorality, depending on how they treat those who they capture and the innocent civilians which they come upon. It is better, I think, in matters of war to leave any claims of morality out of the picture and instead only strive to not be overly immoral, to flout morality the least. 

If a side believes themselves to be in the moral right the consequences can be grave. The world is not black and white as those who seek power would like all to believe. Just because one country executes immoral actions it does not necessarily follow that their enemies are moral. Only radicals hold that is our enemy is immoral, the we must be moral, fighting the hand of evil with our goodness and propriety. Just because terrorists are immoral, it does not follow that torturing them is moral. Just because Hitler was immoral, it does not follow that the bombing of Germany and the shooting of German troops was moral - pragmatic, necessary, and inevitably beneficial to the world, yes. But moral, no. One should have only to read All Quiet on the Western Front to come to that conclusion. The story follows a German youth who, like so many Americans, was drafted into the military, set out in a field where his choice was to kill or be killed, pumped full of some vague sense of national loyalty and propaganda inspired patriotism. Shooting such a boy is not moral. But it may, sadly, be or seem necessary, at least in our present world.

I have recently begun a book entitled "Nuclear Ethics". It was the oxymoronic title which drew me to it. Using nuclear weapons has and never will be ethical. I do not denounce Truman for his decision to drop the atomic bomb on Hiroshima. It ended a World War and saved net lives. But it was not ethical nor moral. Killing innocent people never can be. If we were able to shift out perspectives to understand that all war, all killing is immoral, I believe there would be a great deal less war. It is when we imbue war with the virtue of morality that we find ourselves entrenched in violence. 

Perpetrating immoral actions does not necessarily make a man evil, a word too well used in todays "enlightened" age. In Buddhism one who does wrong action is not deemed evil, but unskillful. As we are all of this earth, we are all unskillful to various degrees. So long as we seek to enhance and better ourselves we are moving in the right direction. The maintenance of nuclear weapons by the United States and other countries cannot be called moral, I do not care how talented at rhetoric you are. It may be called instead understandable, as we as a nation and world have not yet moved beyond hate, fear, pettiness, and most importantly greed for power, for economic gain. And so it is. But we will never move beyond these vices so long as we use the morality to disguise them. Call them what they are. Without the power of morality to back up wars, to condone violence against others, we would not, I think, be so motivated to perpetrate these.

Universality and Morality

Morality has become that which justifies immorality; "we are a moral nation, thus that which we do is moral." But who governs morality? Who defines it? And who's morality are we talking about anyways? Ideally in a democracy, the people are the governors of morality. How, though, can such governance be carried out hen the government, often in collusion with the media, provides false information, forgoes crucial details, or censors? All too often critical information is uncovered long after the fact, and is considered no longer worthy of the front page (though of course it is, as knowing the past fortifies against future mistakes, or so the hope is). 

No one wishes to believe themselves or their nation monstrous. Particularly when people feel powerless to make change (or even get the actual president elect into office) they are want to ignore reality, to look the other way and manage as best they can to live their own lives. Living a single life is hard enough, but doing that successfully and making world change is, granted, a tall order. It is not surprising that we wish to give ourselves allowances not given to others. If, just because you are you, you were given immunity from getting parking tickets or moving violations, I imagine that you wouldn't, out of a sense of morality, give them to yourself. That is our nation. Due to out preponderance we can, regardless of world outcries, avoid punitive action, as we have all to often done. 

With the growth and increased power of the neo-conservative Republican party what we are made to believe is patriotism is actually nationalism. And a nationalist does not question. He cannot ever think his nation to be in the wrong, let alone make any statements along those lines. His nation need not adhere to the rules by which other nations must. He is narrow-minded and dangerous. He is an isolationist. While this modality of thought is desired by a government hungry for power (as is the present) and simple for those unwilling to look beyond their front porch, it is one of the most volatile. The nationalist's lack of empathy breeds destruction. The world is no longer vast, convenient for isolationism. whether America, or more specifically her government (for I find many Americans not so narrow minded as the leaders) wishes is or not this is a globalized world.

In one respect, the neo-conservatives are correct - what the world needs more that anything is morality, just not their "morality". We need to embrace the concept of universality, whereby rules apply equally to all. What rules we wish to set is up to us. Will it be that massive bombings and ground assaults are justified as a result of terrorism. If so, the Nicaraguans would be justified in an assault, or assaults on America as pay back for years of American terrorism carried out in that country. Not a pleasant thought. What about all of the innocent Americans that would be killed? What about all of the innocent Afghanies? The fact that this, our nation, is built on beautiful doctrines does not make us sacrosanct. If we do not uphold our doctrines, even advance them, and look on all humanity as one, as in the same shrinking boat, then that boat will sink and us along with it. I love America to much to see that happen. 

The Awful, No Good, Really Bad Day

If you figure that there are 365 days in a year and that the average person lives to 60 (I bear no responsibility if this is not the actual, census charted number, but it seems like a fair stab), a human life consists of approximately 21,900 days. Some of them are bound to be bad. Adds the spice to life. Today was one of those days when even those who do not believe in fate or karma have to second guess themselves.

I rose to a loud siren at just shy of seven am. Laboriously descending from my loft bed, pushing the Transformer sheets back into place I made for the window. The section of North Hollywood in which I reside has had more than a healthy amount of police activity of late. It began a month ago with the blockage by police of half a residential chunk by my boyfriend's house, which is under two minutes from my own. When he inquired as to when he might be permitted to retire to his house the cop said, "As long as it takes the bad guy". This was not terribly helpful, but at least it was something. A week or so later a SWAT team of disturbingly large numbers busted into the house to his abode's right at 7am, hauling of several of the residents and towing a few of the always new cars parked out front. Not enough days later, as my boyfriend and I relaxed to the mind warping oddities of Being John Malcovich we heard a voice over a loud speaker commanding the tenants of the house next to his, this time to the left. Curious, but not wanting to emerge onto the stoop should a lively spray of gunfire slaughter us, we rounded the back of the house, finally peering over a thick cement brick wall which we declared to be appropriately bullet proof. Filling the street were about ten cop cars (at least it wasn't the SWAT this time). Several men stood by their cars, looking ready, while repeating the orders to "come out with your hands up". Their pleas were not being answered so they brought in the big guns - the cop copter, circling above, shining its eerie light downwards. This was our cue to return to the house. There we sat for a nerve raising ten minutes as the lights shown not only on the neighbors, but into our windows. Looking out a side window we saw the cops exit the side of the neighbor's house, guns unholstered. They meant business. Finally their target was apprehended, and they departed. Less than a week later my street, a main street, was blocked for two blocks, occupied by at least thirty cop cars, plus some motorcycle police. The choppers were circling.

 And so it was with trepidation that I peered out of my window this morning. Down the street were parked three fire engines, one police car, and an ambulance. Just a house call, I thought to myself. In a daze I moved, zombie like into the kitchen, beginning the morning routine of coffee brewing. This done, work began. But it could not continue for long. Every twenty minutes or so I was seized by an urgent need to pee (I am sorry if this is too much information, but there are few things worse, at least in the category of minor, non-life threatening inconveniences than a constant need to pee). This urgent and consistent need was complicated by cramping. On this point I will not go into more depth (female problems). I am a woman and hate even thinking about this inconvenience dealt by nature as a cruel and constant joke, so I am sure it is of no interest to you. Let me just say that in a lifetime it is a 5,120 day joke. I'm not laughing. 

This irked me most because I had a great deal of work to do this day. Taking a break at around noon for lunch I prepared two veggie tacos. Sitting to eat and enjoy a little reading on the Pacific Crest Trail I lifted the first taco. Immediately the always sturdy multigrain tortilla split like a giant fault, releasing the entire contents, veggies and dressing alike, onto my lap. This is why I try not to shower before lunch. It just saves time. After much ado with a washcloth, paper towel, and fire hose, I returned to my seat, with the look of someone who has survived a hurricane. Hungrier now I lifted the second taco. It must have been a one for two deal, for the second split immediately, dropping another load onto my soggy facade. At this point I gave up on the tacos, washed myself once more, and poured a pile of veggies onto my plate, excavating them with a fork and knife. Much safer. 

In early afternoon my boyfriend called, requesting a number for a chair company who's services we needed for a fundraiser we are throwing this Wednesday (not to corrupt my blog, but it is at 7:30 pm at 4414 West 2nd Street, L.A. to raise money for a Ride for Arthritis which we are doing in September from San Francisco to Santa Monica). Look as I might in the annals of my gmail account I could not find the email containing the information. How could I not find it? Gmail is the most orderly, helpful email service I have ever encountered. It took me about an hour to finally uncover the information, delaying my work which was in need of attention. Would no pieces fall into place today?

At four I left my apartment heading to Monkspace, the location of the fundraiser, to meet my boyfriend, make important planning decisions, and hit up local stores for donations of food and drink. Two cars almost merged into me en route and I had to swerve to avoid the entire front section of a car that another driver had evidently felt no need for. We viewed the space without event. No unseen suspended platform holding bricks or an anvil fell on my head, no sirens sounded, and no dynamite went off. I felt more relaxed, my stress evaporated due to my boyfriend's elevated level. I fell into the role of re-assurer, absolving me of stress. My bad day was over. Not. Upon exiting the building I was bombed with the largest blob, no that is an understated term, the most immense outpourings of a bird's anus, that I have ever witnessed, much less encountered. Being crapped upon is no new experience for me. The first in my recollection occurred in elementary school. It was Halloween and I was dressed as Zorro (I went in my youth, generally, as male heros to me - Peter Pan, Zorro, a bloodied baseball player. My younger years were prior to the creation of Lara Croft, Resident Evil, Kill Bill or Underworld, plus a variety of other movies and video games which feature female action heros). Sitting beneath an overhang, prepared to take a happy bite of bagel and cream cheese (no hohs or twinkies in my lunch sacks) I was interrupted by the splat of a large, and improbably white bird excretion on my shoulder. Let me just say, white is the only stain that black cannot combat. In the following years I was defecated upon twice by poultry while ascending trees. Exploring Old City, Philadelphia while in college I was twice marked. So this situation is not new. But of all my encounters this was the worst. It was more like twenty birds had crapped on me at once, instead of one. The warm, and surprisingly watery, downpour immeshed itself in my hair, waterfalled down my back, passing under the neckline of my tank top, went down my arms, into my bag, and generally everywhere. I stood, too stunned for words. There was so much that at first I looked upwards, assuming that some inconsiderate citizen had tossed a pot of hot water or other beverage out the window. It must be so, for not only was I covered, but so was the sidewalk around me, which had caught the overspray. But no. It was bird shit, no getting around it. Angry as I was not sure what else to be I went into pouty mode, or the most pouty I can get, which compared to most women is not very. Around every annoying corner for me there is always a joke or proud retelling of the story. Not much gets me down for very long. There just isn't time - only 21,900 days. Immediately, before the joke phase came, I announced to my boyfriend that I was going home, that I needed to shower. He was upset and wanted to me to accompany him to the stores we needed to visit. No, I said. Always wonderful and understanding, he said that it was no problem if I went home, that he understood, though he wished I could go with him. Warmed as always by his kindness (I'm not really into sweet and cute as a general matter, but when it comes to him my resolve is generally melted) I gave in, saying I would go with him. So we went, did what we came for, and I returned home for a much needed scrubbing. 

Cleansed, no longer resembling a port a potty, I grabbed my bike, heading for the grocery store. I was wearing a re-appropriated pair of my boyfriend's old jeans which I had covered in sharpy drawn artwork and sewed up in the more showy regions in which they had ripped. Namely, the crotch area, from almost to the belt line down to nearly the knee. Well, you have presumed the upshot of all of this, I am sure. Exiting the grocery store towards Walgreens I lifted my leg to mount the steel frame and heard an unwelcome noise. My apparently not so handy seem work (though I blame it on the cheap ass thread that Rite Aid sells) had split in the fashion of my tacos. Unlike the previous night when I had sported them for the first time, I was not wearing a pair of bike shorts underneath. Instead I had made the unfortunate decision of dawning a not so subtle neon pink thong. Great. Stretching my shirt to its maximum length, and somewhat beyond I entered Walgreend, hurriedly transacting my business, and the departing. To my chagrin it was not yet dark. The light had reached that moment when the most prominent colors are those which are bright or neon. Biking home, pumping my legs, constantly willing my shirt to extend several inches in length, there was nothing inconspicuous about my thong. Indeed the entire front of my glowing crotch was exceedingly apparent, beckoning, without my willing, to passersby. Suddenly the four miles back to my home seemed an infinity. I know that this is L.A., where the bearing of skin is a pre-requisite for residence, but this was ridiculous. As strangers on the sidewalk gawked at me I wanted to squeeze the breaks, go over to them and explain the preposterous situation. That this was not, in fact, an intentional fashion statement. We would all have a good laugh about this, and I would return home, feeling not ridiculous in the least. But I did not stop, powering fast as I could to get back. This was and was not productive. While each urgent push on the pedal moved me closer to home, it also increased the span of exposed flesh and thong. No way to win.

Finally, though not soon enough, I unlocked my door, falling inside. After emptying my bag I dove into my room. Hotter than hell in here, I thought to myself, though thought was not necessary as the sweat pouring down my face was evidence enough. Our air conditioning (a.k.a. window unit, which apparently cools well according to my fairly new roommate and  long time tenant of this abode, though I would not know as it has not worked since I moved in several months ago) has not puttered into activity in the time that I have resided here. Upon my arrival, notably before the heat spell that will not depart hit the Valley, a family of birds took up residence in the window unit, rendering it inactive. I tell you, birds hate me. I believe it has something to do with the fact that I have not yet paid them homage. Presently I have a lare rattlesnake tattooed on the bottom half of my back. Arching above it reads, Transformation. the rest of the tattoo has not been finished. It will bear the word "Transcendence" in a straight line above the present text, crowned by "Transparency" arching in the opposite direction below an eagle. Yes, I am a mythology geek, or, if you would prefer, you can just dub me "enlightened". But I have not yet emblazoned the king of the birds on my back and, frankly, I think they're just a bit pissed. So our air conditioning unit has been rendered useless by the bird inhabitants which we were unwilling to deport. We have patiently waited for the eggs to hatch and grow to a resectable size so as they might embark on a journey leading them far away from us. Personally, due to my virtue in allowing these birds to live while I suffered through 103 degree heat waves, which made my room, sauna-like in its ability to absorb heat, approximately 110 degrees, the whole time paying $700 for this roasting, I felt that the bird community owed me some respect. But no. I had to return to a hot room, made so by my kindness to the birds having been shit upon by a bird earlier in the day.

And so my day moved towards its end. Towards the time that I begin reading, work on my comic book, or if I feel that I have something to say, whether interesting or not, turn to my blog. And so here I am, writing to you, my two or less readers. One day I will compile this into a book and then I'll have thousands of readers. Yeah, right, but here's to dreaming. Anyways the day was wonderfully awful. When fate transpires against me in such an obvious way I can't help but feeling a little special. Like I was chosen. And so, when I retire tonight to my loft bed and transformer sheets I will sleep well, happy in thought that there are, at minimum, 21,900 days in a life and I have already used up most of my proportionately alloted bad days. 

Waylay Your Fears

Tonight I went on an adventure. This is the first night jaunt of sorts which I have endeavored since returning to Los Angeles from my semi-home of Philadelphia. While pedaling down the darkened streets, flashlight tied in a home cooked fashion to the rear of my bike, I wondered why this might be. Why had it taken the better part of a year for me to get back on the streets? For ADD to take its midnight hold urging me not to go for a snack or to recline, mind numb in front of a movie? For me to venture into the darker regions of the city that I now (and in a way always have) called my own? 

The first thought to enter my mind was that I had lost my mentor, who has been mentioned in a previous article. He was the one to initiate me into the exciting, the parallel dimension of treating one's surroundings as a playground of sorts. To go out into the night on quests, whether they be to climb buildings, bike until dawn, explore abandoned warehouses, and on one perhaps misguided but monumentally fun occasion extract all of the dough from a trash can behind a major soft pretzel maker and laden it onto passing vehicles, one another, and any object, animate or not, unfortunate enough to be in out way. But he was only my beginning. We had, for all intensive purposes, parted ways approximately a year before I left Philadelphia, and yet my adventures had not ceased, whether alone or with whichever brave soul I could drag along.

So was it that I felt safer in Philly? Though it is impossible at a later date to ever capture verbatim what one was thinking at some point in the past, I find it hard to believe that this was the case. By the time February 2008 had rolled around, Philly had already reached and passed its one hundredth homicide. That's not precisely the place that one might take a stroll in past the hour of, say, five pm, without an entourage and several lead pipes. Maybe it was just that I was young and immensely stupid, the two generally going hand in hand. But the thing is, I am still young and immensely stupid. Granted, at the time that I began my nighttime wanderings I was familiar with the city, in and out, and conveniently located in its midst (the safer region of the city - its really the North, South, and West that you have to worry about, though not the east as it does not really exist due to the fact the Delaware river cuts the city abruptly short). Though I grew up in L.A. I did not really. The beach cities are not "the city" such as it exists. Other than to sneak in a few smokes while still in high school away from the scrutiny of my parents, I never ventured far from the house after dark without two tons of metal encasing me. Outside of visits to museums or plays I never traversed much of the rest of the greater Los Angeles area, and never went there at night, other than a few misguided trips to underage clubs at the urging of friends (these almost always were a bust as I would find myself watching as greasy, cheap cologne drenched pubescent boys wishing to be men, scraggly hair poking forth from their cheeks, hit on my friends, leaving me to watch watch and chug red bulls, as I was always the designated driver). So Los Angeles, in the way that Philly was, has never been wholly familiar to me. And so I resolved that this must be part of the cause of my uneasiness to strap on a pack, toss in a bottle of water, and take off on my bike much in the way John Muir did with a nap  sack, a loaf of bread, and a bit of cheese as he took off into the wilderness. 

Separate, or stemming from this fact (I am not sure which) were a number of other factors which came to me as I chained my bike to a lamp post, walked a short distance out of the laser like beams of the lights, and expertly (if I may say so myself) jumped a fence landing on a closed off path next to a section of the L.A. river (such as it is). I had spotted, while passing in my car a few days earlier, a sign on a fence reading "No Trespassing". These words have, at least in recent years, had the obverse effect on me. They say, "There is something to be explored here" and "Before concurring with what is written here, take a look. If all does not go well, then you will know that the sign was indeed justified." It is, perhaps, a bit ironic that I am the person that I have become. It is as children that we are supposed to be wonderfully incognizant of rules, untroubled by limitations. Yet it was as a child, and not an adult, that I was so. On the walks that my father and I used to take around our neighborhood we would constantly pass new architectural erections, it was that kind of era and that kind of neighborhood - bigger, better, more expensive, if you can fill every last square inch of the entire lot with immense, expensive and unnecessary materials then no one can say you haven't lived up to the Jones'. My father would always entice me to join him in an exploration of the unfinished structure, collecting a few washers for souvenirs as we went. I would always hold back, point out that the sign said "Do Not Trespass", and worry that some busy body neighbor would call the police (it was that type of neighborhood as well) and that the police would then come and shoot us. At the ripe age of 7 I was not prepared to die and did not much want my father to die. After much coaxing he would get me to squeeze through the gap in the fence that was somehow always present, as if beckoning, and to ascend up into the structure. Without exception I would love it; the exposed piping and wiring, the washers like coins strewn about, chalk writing on the walls indicating measurements and placement, stairs without railings. It was in these adventures that my present urges reside, or so any shrink would most likely tell you. But it was wonderful. And so, in the spirit of my Dad, "No Trespassing" signs have become invites, though in a more diverse and intense way than they ever were to him. Thus it was that several days after seeing the signs, tonight in fact, I found myself landing on the darkened path that had been shut off to the public. 

A dim and spooky scene spread out before me. To my left, over another fence, and a ten or so foot cement drop down lay the L.A. river, trickling in an ardent, but humble manner, such as a man who knows he will never reach great heights of success but knows that he must trudge on regardless, head held high. To my right, from the direction I had come were now shrouded lights, the fence I had recently showed did no good of keeping anyone out, and a semi steep embankment which I had just traversed, sustaining only one off kilter moment. Ahead lay a dim lit path. The thought crossed my mind that I probably should have brought my flashlight, but it was too late at this point. Onward. That is the only word appropriate for an adventure. It is hard to imagine a man ascending Everest, as he is on the brink of the destination saying, "Now if only I had my ...." It just ruins the flow. Adventure is about ad-libbing, about not having everything and making it anyways, stronger, prouder of your accomplishment. Besides, flashlights shut off the world around you. They force your eyes to adapt sight only to a small region of the greater picture. Yes, my gaze was dimmed, but it was not contained in a limited perimeter. 

And so I took a walk. Slowly, lightly, in the nature of a man tracking an animal, I moved forward. Maintaining alertness I kept both the pit below and to the left of me, and the shrubby area to my right in periphery at all times. It was some relief that between me and either section stood a fence. Granted these were not fences of any magnitude as it had taken me virtually no effort to gracefully clamber over one of them, but they would at least buy me some time should anyone decide to come at me from the opposite side of either. It was the the hidden elements in the dark haze of the path before and now behind me that gave me the most worry. If I were suddenly to stumble upon someone, what would I do? Unlike in Philly, I am unfamiliar with the homeless population of L.A. Without doubt, the homeless of the city of our founders were deranged, odd, and not people you would wish to poke with a stick (I mean no offense here, I gave a good amount of money to the homeless in Philly, bought some of them sandwiches, and was always rewarded with ungratefulness), but I never felt that they would do me any harm. Here, I do not know. Squalor can drive men to inhuman acts. Several times I saw to my right, on the opposite side of the fence, bundled up tarps which seemed to be concealing rather sizable bulks. These sightings would send prickles up my spine, not so much of fear, but of readiness. What I would so in my ready state I was not sure. Based on the accessories I had brought, a backpack containing cigarettes, lighter, ID card should I die and need to be identified, bike lock (though not a u lock which is a weapon of some merit), and a bottle of water the most sensible course of action in the event that one of those tarps contained a well hidden and live body would be to run. But none of them seemed to move and dead bodies were of no real concern to me as any hazard they might have posed has been dealt with already, so I carried on. reaching the end of the path, as it inclined upwards towards a road I stopped, and, feeling fairly confident that this section was safe, turned my interests to how one might get down into the river section itself. Walking back towards my initial entrance at a more luxurious pace I considered busting out my climbing gear on my next visit and repelling into the "river". Perhaps a bit unnecessary, but hey, why should the action stars get to do all the cool shit? It was at about this point that I heard a faint, but definite cough to my now left (previous right). I saw nothing, squinting into the darkness, and did not take the time to remain for closer examination. Quickening my pace and attempting to make no noise I made more noise than I had made in the entirety of the walk so far, accidently kicking pine cones that had not previously been there, stepping on crunchy leaves that had apparently blown in since I had just passed this way, though there was no wind. After about one hundred yards and nothing glimpsed in my multiple backwards glances I concluded that the cough had most likely come from a sleeping man, blissfully unaware of my presence. Prickles subsided I returned to figuring out a way to get down to the sludgy, polluted, trickle below. Making the walk extraneous, it was at the place I had first entered that I found my path. Here the sludge passed under a cement bridge, creating a dirt archway overhead with a fence. The tunnel underneath took two paths, divided by a cement center (if any of you have ever seen Terminator Two you know what I'm talking about). This center tapered down from the overhead pass at a palatable angle. One had only to overcome the fence, brace, and then shimmy down the wedge divider. Excellent. Tonight, however, was not that night. This was a reconnaissance mission. When on a quest it is crucial to remember the purpose, and to remain true to that. In this was you avoid injury, mistakes, and danger, due to unpreparedness. 

Goal achieved and plans already brewing in my mind for the following night, I hooked one foot into the dilapidated chain link fence and thrust my weight over. A sudden, sharp, and not altogether uninvited sting invaded the upper area of my right leg just bellow the buttocks. Upon landing I turned to examine the wound. It wasn't much. My pants had suffered more than anything else, now torn with a great gap. How early nineties. Underneath was a small scratch, but nothing to worry about. I wished it had been more. There is nothing better than an adventure wound. Lacking any blood to marvel at I tied the hole closed with the errant ends and proceeded back to my bike. Re-entering the lights I realized that all of the fear had gone. Or at most of it. There was still the threat of cops. Cops in L.A. freak the hell out of me. They are not Philly cops who understand that there are bigger fish to fry than a couple of people who feel constrained by society and need to have a little thrill now and then, achieving this by climbing buildings or clambering over fences to get a view of something most people like to ignore, the L.A. river. Philly cops are in fact wonderful this way. It is like one has transported back to the 1940s when people were much more forgiving and not every citizen was like to be  a terrorist. In all of my climbs and trespasses I was only once stopped by the Philly cops. This was on the bridge that traverses the Delaware river, spanning from Philly to New Jersey (why anyone wants to fully cross this bridge I have never been sure). We were ascending the pillar-esque elements of the fantastic construction of the bridge. Before we had achieved quite 30 feet of height flashing light appeared below and a voice crackled over the loud speaker directing us to leave our elevated status and return to the earth. As the obliging citizens we were and are, we descended with no fuss. The cops did not frisk us, they did not pull guns or speak to us as subhumans as L.A. cops seem prone to do, but asked us politely to sit on the curb. Obligingly we did so. A few moments later a cop approached us, sympathetic in every way, almost apologetic. Sadly he said "You can't climb this. It's federal property. Climbing, or in any way subverting federal property is a federal offense. It's a precaution against terrorists, that sort of thing." He knew we weren't terrorists. We knew we weren't terrorists. The situation was ridiculous. Thankfully Philly employs the type of cops that can function outside of rote protocol and figure out situations for themselves. I am not sure if the Los Angeles police department has the same ability. Within minutes we were released with not so much a warning, as a request to never climb the bridge again and to steer clear of federal property. No problem. Plenty of other fish to fry.

So perhaps my greatest fear in my quest this night was not miscreants, but the police. And isn't that a sad story. Okay, that's not precisely true. The other fear which superceded cops and returned them to good guy status was that of gangs. I am sure that to some degree Philly has gangs, though I never chanced upon them or saw any coverage in the local press such as to cause any great worry. I know, from general knowledge and from the brilliant though depressing mock documentary Gang Tapes, that L.A. gangs often tag on the cement bounds of the L.A. river. The prospect of happening upon them in action was not a positive one. In all honesty I do not know what would happen to me in such a situation. I am a fellow bomber, though not tagger as most gang members are. For those who do not know the difference, there is not art to tagging, it is the ugly, unartistic scrawl that one sees on freeway overpasses, clearly nothing more than the spray paint equivalent of a male dog's piss. Bombing is the art. It's Banksy making political statements in Israel, not negative, just asking people to examine truth. It's leaves falling, stenciled on a city wall where no nature exists. It's murals. So I am, and am not, a compatriot. But I am not daunting, clearly engaged in an illegal activity myself, and unarmed. Would any of this make a difference, appeal to some semblance of humanity within? I don't know. And I would prefer not to find out, though the upshot would make a great indie film. 

Pressing the pedal on my bike in a forward movement I re-engaged momentum, once again taking off into the night. Somehow identifying fears makes them subside. It is the old fairy tale or myth, as in Rumplestiltskin or the young prince who would become the Buddha meeting the sticky monster (this story was later adapted as Brair Rabbit). In these stories the hero or heroine must discover the name of the monster or midget, as it were, facing them. Once accomplished the creature holds no fear for them. This is "giving due recognition to the monster; dealing with it, and then giving it its place". (Joseph Campbell, The Power of Myth). Indeed, in these stories the "monster" is a power within the hero heretofore unrecognized. It is one's own demon and, " our demons unrecognized are our own limitations which shut us off from the realization of the ubiquity of the spirit." (Joseph Campbell, The Power of Myth) I had named my fears, long trapped within, and thrown them off. This is not to suggest that there are not real fears in taking off into the night in a place such as L.A., simply that the fears which plagued me were not the right ones. They were interior or over exaggerated. One needs to be cautious when going outside of the box, or in a not so metaphorical sense, the bounds of their apartment or home at dubious hours of the night, no doubt. But in order to achieve liberation, to live fully one must risk danger, not unwarranted danger, but danger none the less. The danger I go out into may not be of the kind that most people wish to deal with, which is fine. But I think that it is important to take risk, not just emotional, or business, but physical. This we are lacking in modern society. People take risks via computer simulation, not action. They sit on their sofas or in theaters popping food while watching Jason Stathom do awesome shit that they wish they could do but are unwilling to do the work to achieve. As outdoor activity among Americans declines, the number of action films skyrockets. This is not a coincidence. We want to be active. We want to do cool shit. We all can. So the next time you are watching an action film, turn it off and book a trip to go repelling, or better yet, join your local rock climbing gym, or, if you are a California resident join the Sierra Club, which is cheap and has a plentiful list of hikes, backpacking trips, climbs, training classes, and the like. Lets get that adventurous spirit that created this country back!