Wed Sep 15 21:20:39 MDT 2004
Quick summary: Today, not only did I not get any productive work done, but I barely made it out of bed it all until 15:00 in the afternoon. Some might say my life has become an utter disaster. I prefer to think of myself as a recovering... something; although I'm not sure exactly what it is I'm recovering from. Anyway...
I guess what I was really afraid of was having another day like yesterday. Getting up, going across town to the computer, procrastinating myself yet again into a terrible state of turmoil, and ending the day feeling shitty and isolated. No, not again. Better to remain here in bed, I thought to myself.
(And no, I didn't end up calling or talking to anyone last night, because I concluded that what I had was not an emergency or a crisis, but instead a chronic problem. The real problem is that I seem to think I need to be in the middle of a crisis before I can really talk to anyone. Regardless, I know that I am the one who has maneuvered myself into the situation I find myself in, and it is up to me to find my way where I need to be.)
With that in mind, during one of my waking moments this morning, I placed a telephone call to the local Food Not Bombs headquarters. This time, someone answered on the second ring. I asked if they would be needing any help today or tomorrow. I was quickly put through to a person who knew what was needed, and he asked if I had a car which could be used to help drive for food pickup tonight.
I said, "Yep, I sure do."
Thus it was that shortly after 1700, I found myself once again pulling into the Circle A Ranch. This time, as I entered, I felt a very calm, relaxed vibe. In a way that's difficult to articulate, the place seemed much more chilled out than it had during my last visit. (My last visit had occurred on the Sunday night after the Rise Up party, and I had asked about helping with Food Not Bombs, and gotten uncertain responses.)
This time, it seemed like almost every person I encountered knew my name, and I recognized most of them, even if I couldn't remember a name for every face. The first time I ate from the Food Not Bombs table -- my very first tiny step into this community -- happened less than 2 months ago. Wow. So much has transpired since then.
They said it would be a few minutes before he would be ready, and to make myself at home.
So I did. I looked admiringly around the library, petted the dogs, and eventually found myself back outside overlooking the amphitheater again. I tried practicing a little bit of shamata meditation, but that didn't last long. I just wanted to lay back in the dirt and zone out. So I did.
In my recent life, there have been very few other places where I have felt so safe. So relaxed. So at home. So utterly free. I saw the girl who had invited me to the Rise Up party; she was also relaxing, zoned out on a blanket on the other side of the pit. I didn't want to disturb her peaceful rest, or anything else about this momentary piece of perfect paradise. So I just sat quietly and watched the sky, and observed the people who occassionally came and went.
And I think to myself, Why can't there be more places like this in the world? Places where people can just BE, where things don't have to be totally clean and trimmed (see also: suburbia, where even if you "own" your land, you had better keep only a certain kind of grass, and let it grow to a certain length, or some agency will be after you for ordinance violations). A place that's neither a trashed wasteland, nor a perfect order. A zone which exists outside the wearisome cycle of producing, spending, and consuming. A haven, where you don't have te pretend to be, or do, anything for anyone.
That is why I love that place. I know it won't be around forever. As I mentioned to several people a few weeks ago, the writing is on the wall. It won't be long before the pigs come in, and turn it into yet another paved-over strip mall -- a "new and improved" clone of every other soulless square of concrete, where chains can put up their brands, and more people will be forced into the zombie-like roles of "consumers" and "workers", chained to the only existence allowed by the capitalistic state.
But when I said this, using not quite so many words, I wasn't really telling anyone anything new. The people there already know this, yet they do not lose hope, nor do they stop having fun. As one wise person told me, "This is how it has always been for us. Yes, they will eventually push us out, and we will move on. We will find another place. We might be scattered with force, and we will find ways to regroup. It has happened many times before. It will happen again. We do not give up."
Yet still, even after hearing those words (Sat, Aug 28, 2004), I was filled with an overwhelming sense of dread and hopelessness. I went home that night, saddened by what I saw as the inevitable, collapsing into the immediate future. (Time perception distortion was having an effect on my brain that day; my mind was in an altered state. I would almost think of it as a shamanistic trance, but most in our society would simply prefer to use the label "mentally ill". Earlier that afternoon, with the help of my friend Jaeger, I had also paid a visit to KGNU headquarters, but that's just the tip of another story, to be told another time.)
So it was that today, as the twilight sun filled the sky, I and another individual went into Boulder to gather supplies for Food Not Bombs. There, I learned a little more about how the process works. We garnered produce and other items from many sources. Next time I happen to find myself in Boulder, and want to buy food, I'll remember the businesses which donated to our cause. (Here's a hint, kids: Wild Oats ain't one of them. Neither is Whole Foods. Both chains have apparently been taken over by those who think it is better to waste excess food than allow it to be given to the hungry.)
Oh, and BTW, the Boulder Co-op Market rules! If I find myself here again for an extended period of time, I want to become one of the volunteers there. ...If...
We carted boxes of food back to the ranch.
I'm thinking that tomorrow, I'll do something similar to what I did last week. I'll go into Boulder in the afternoon, visit the bandshell (I'll likely consume some of the same food that I helped gather today), trek on over to King Sooper's to see how they're doing with the labor dispute, and go on to Hacking Society in the evening.
To be honest, I did manage to get some things done today. I got some of my stuff a little bit better organized, emptied more out of my car, shaved my face with nothing but a plain straight blade for the first time (it was also the first time I've shaved using any method in over a week; I decided the beard isn't really what I want right now). After that, I felt just a slight bit closer to being ready for the road trip, if it should happen. (Yes, I know I'm being indefinite. I like to keep my options open.)
...
The last two nights, I have been watching episodes of Millennium. Now I remember why I used to be such a devoted television watcher back in those days. Some of those shows were really freakin good! That particular one was among the best -- in a very dark, twisted, disturbing sort of way. I like watching it again now, with all the years of separation having occurred since my initial exposure. Hard to believe it was that long ago: 8 years in the past!
Whenever I watch too much Chris Carter stuff, the creeping resonance begins to infect me. As my mind becomes absorbed into his horrifically stylized worlds, the growing terror, almost imperceptible at first, gently wraps its thorny vines around my heart, seducing me with its black lull. By the third act, with the weave thoroughly in place, it begins to tighten and squeeze. I can feel my inner soul being torn apart by the state of helpless doom pressed upon me through the fates of the characters I have become attached to. By Act 4, I cannot turn away. I watch, and the meat grinder does its work on my spirit. Finally, with breath held, the screen fades to black, and the ceremonial fonts containing the names of the executive producers punctuate the experience. End credits roll, with familiar accompanying music in the background. Relief is at hand. Yet even still, I find myself wanting more.
That is the mark of good television.
Goodnight.
Wed Sep 15 23:05:00 MDT 2004