behind the central

My alarm in the waking world sounds at 7 a.m., but a part of me really wants to go back to sleep. I can sense a chasm of promise awaiting me back in Morpheus's grasp, a pit of pregnant nothingness that must be explored. After getting up to shut off the alarm I go back to bed, roll over onto my side, and slip immediately into dreaming. Twice more I wake up, each time the pull of the chasm, the nothingness, less strong but still present. When I finally awake feeling rested, memories of my dreams linger. They are recorded here.

I'm on a bus that has no roof driving through a brightly sunny landscape, sitting toward the rear, just behind the central doors. It's unclear to me where we're going but I recognize features outside and feel the journey has purpose. A few other persons (4, excluding the driver) are on the bus, also, all toward the front, all with their backs turned toward me, although I can tell they are aware of my presence. The bus slows to a halt in the middle of some featureless scrub and 2 more persons clamber aboard. They sit next to and slightly behind me. I turn to look at them. They are talking to each other and both are in military uniforms of sort. Neither of their uniforms bear insignia. Further from me is a woman with curly blond hair and an attractive but acne-scarred face wearing a light blue shirt, dark blue long pants, and a black belt. Closer to me is man in what could be Marine Corps blues. He has closely-cropped dark hair and his seemingly crippled hands are raised in front of his chest, fingers curled and spread wide. His eye-sockets are scarred and sunken pits devoid of eyeballs. He asks me what branch of the service I'm in, and I tell him something akin to 'I've never served.' The two talk to each other for a while and when I look back, the woman is sitting a row further back, low in the seat with her crotch thrust forward. I imagine briefly if I have a chance to make sex to her but the notion evaporates immediately.

The bus accelerates. We're driving down a snow-covered dirt track through a wintry scrub landscape at high speed and I remark at the driver's skill in negotiating the narrow and hilly path. I can see fresh tire-marks in the snows that cover the road. We pass a road-marker for the 'York Historical Society,' a bronze plaque atop an iron post that features a picture of an old barn or covered bridge. I'm speaking with the service-members about where I come from, explaining to them that I was in a sad place for a long time, much like the town the bus is driving into. The road is lined with boarded-up houses, burned-out cars, and weedy lawns. Because of an obstruction up ahead, the bus driver stops, reveres, and is doing a 3-point-turn when he runs us into one of the houses, cracking its barn-like sliding door. At that point I awake, refreshed.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

dream writing February 2016

I'm on a bus with perhaps a dozen people I seem to know. We're traveling through a tropical countryside; and outside are dense green bushes; and I'm familiar with the inside of the bus, its seat-backs and the bend of its window-frames, as though I'd been on it for a while. For some reason I exit the bus (although I don't remember actually doing so) and am walking down a roadway made of crushed white stone in the bright sun when I suddenly I realize want to get back on the bus again. I walk to the end of the roadway and see it driving down an asphalt road, away from me, but know I cannot reach it by running toward it. I turn and run-leap (a type of movement similar to that used by people moving about the lunar surface) down the white roadway, stopping at an intersection to check for the bus. I'm in a densely built-up neighborhood and cannot see the asphalt road, wherefore I enter a nearby hotel via a narrow, poured-concrete ramp. To each side of the ramp are flowers growing, and one side has a pond with fish in it.

Once inside, I approach the reception desk and speak to the person working there. She has dark hair and is wearing a uniform of sorts with a name-badge. She looks Balinese and doesn't quiet understand what I want. My cellphone doesn't have signal, so I can't use my translation application, and wonder if I can get On-Line somewhere. I turn to try to talk to another worker, a man, who however walks into a nearby, darkened room. The room has a block of cubicles in it with more activity – people walking around – behind the cubicles. To one side is what looks like an ATM, which I try to enter, but after going inside it turns out that the ATM has been removed, and as I'm walking out I hit my head on a sign announcing the machine's removal, which although it hangs very low I somehow missed on the way in. On the other side of the block of cubicles, which are partially filled by people sitting there with their heads down, I see a conference or school room with rows of computers on them, some of which have people sitting at them. I try to go into this room with the intention of getting on the Internet and telling the people in the bus where I am but every time I try to go in the darkened room's layout changes, and the people in the conference room start getting up and walking past me, somewhat upset at my attempts to enter. Soon thereafter, the dream ends and I wake up.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

Indo roadway anarchy

Driving in Indonesia is a perilous pursuit. With narrow lanes, abundant potholes, stray dogs, and overflowing drainage ditches, operating a vehicle upon the Nusantara, or Islands In-Between, requires as much skill as it does luck. Little enforcement of laws means that people often drive at night with no lights, transport large and heavy loads balanced precariously, and enter roadways without stopping or looking around, and whoever is larger, louder, or faster tends to usurp the right-of-way. As with surfing, anarchy is the name of the game, however. By definition, anarchy is the absence of rulers but not rules; if everyone were to follow a few simple rules, everyone could live in peace and happiness, without need for armed wardens to keep order. Therefore, here are a few simple guidelines for operating a motor vehicle in proper anarchist fashion.

1) When driving, drive. Don't sightsee, text, talk to other drivers, slow down to point at something or adjust a pants-leg, or fiddle with something in a pocket. 2) Each car-sized lane has two motorbike lanes within it, one closer to the edge of the road, the other closer to the middle; if traveling slowly, stay on the outside so other drivers have room to pass. 3) Crossing into the other lane whilst negotiating a turn – especially when said turn is blind – endangers the health and safety of oncoming individuals. Crossing over might reduce overall travel time by half a second, and the adrenalin surge it causes might feel good, but it's just not worth the risk. 4) Persons traveling on a main road or turning off of it have right-of-way; someone turning into flowing traffic from a side road must wait to enter until it is safe to do so. 5) Adjust to oncoming traffic as soon as it is feasible, not at the last second (see rule #3). Better yet, drive as if there were always oncoming traffic, especially if there is none immediately visible (see rule #3); by driving in a manner of one's own choosing instead of making emergency adjustments to account for the presence of others, one retains not only control over one's own path but also a consistent speed upon it. 6) If necessary, go left in order to go right, turning left from the lane's left-hand side and right from its right-hand side. This means if the lane going left is clear, turn left, perform a u-turn, then go back the other way. Such a maneuver not only saves everyone else time but also displays ingenious cunning. 7) If it is necessary to stop, remove as much of the vehicle and the self as possible from the roadway. Please, please don't block an entire motorcycle lane (see rule #2) just to check a map or talk to a friend. 8) If walking or standing in the road, walk or stand facing into – against – traffic. People who can see the belching lumps of powered steel racing toward tend to get out of the way, whereas people who walk or stand with their backs to traffic tend to wander out into the middle of the road, endangering themselves and others. 9) Hearing is as important as seeing whilst driving; few living people drive blindfolded, so don't drive with ear-buds in place and music blasting. 10) Every second of driving is a death-defying task, so keep the hands on the handlebars, the eyes on the road, and two fingers on each brake. Also, please wear a helmet, as hitting a wall headfirst can be deadly, even at 7 kilometers an hour.

Many persons among us consider themselves the best drivers in the world, but there are more persons out there on the road who don't give a fuck about others' safety or right to exist. So keep that head on a swivel, know how fast the bike can speed up and slow down, and remember this: haste makes waste, always; slow the fuck down, give way, give thanks, and get home safely.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

hurdles and love

To stay in the now in this moment right here is to keep the balance of life-forces near: the dark ones they well up without conscious thought; the light ones from vigilant wakefulness wrought. To stay in the present I must sit and breathe and seek not in mind-space a comfy reprieve from life's twisting fortunes from life's ups and downs but feel through these hurdles and love through these bounds. My ego says 'No! Don't! It's better like this!' then tricks with the falsehood of ignorant bliss then tricks with the fancy of fleeting desire and quenches the light of the deep holy fire. The Powers are watching through these my two eyes they scoff at the petty and poorly-formed lies that spring from the ego that sound true and wise. Here now I am judging what happens inside when I ought to watch it sans judgment or pride; I'll return patient observing forthwith – which is a most truthful and virtuous gift.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

good and fast

There is a war waging here inside my mind between what I feel and what ego defines. The ego it clings to the sins of the past to sadness and torment it holds good and fast to lies and to treason to pity and woe and back to its portion it won't quickly go. It hides in a recess behind my left eye and sallies forth quickly whenever I try to open my heart up to make myself whole and use love to clean up the dregs of my soul. I'm learning its contours and tasting its form and tracing thought-patterns that it's deeply worn into many actions and many ideas that have so long plagued me since my early years. As feeling awakens down in lower places I find deep inside me a great many faces that peer up and peer out of warrens constructed to hide them from evil deeps I have conducted. 'Don't go there, it's dangerous, ' the ego's plea – a voice in the head-space that sounds just like me – but all that I've learned in this lifetime has taught that to live in fear is to live less than naught. Where once I turned from it I now turn and face the ego up there in its dark hiding place and sample its worries to search for its root to render its speaking quite helpless and moot. Please wish me luck, dear friend, upon this here task; for patient compassion is all that I ask; on this road I'm taking no other can tread as I alone must chase this scourge from my head. Aho, then, mahalo, and a namaste and thank you for reading this writing today; perhaps on the morrow I'll be somewhat clearer should freedom from fearfulness have drawn any nearer.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on Vietnamese hitchhiking

A woman flags me down at the top of a mountain. Her name is Bom Gom. I pick her up at the apex of the Hai Van Pass in central Vietnam, or, rather, she climbs on the back of my motorcycle once we've established that I'm driving into Da Nang. A few women come running out of the nearby shops, waving their hands and shaking their heads, indicating she should climb back down, but Bom Gom dismisses them and slaps me on the ribs, telling me to go. She is at least 70 years old and just over half as tall as me, and while we're driving down the rain-slicked and twisty mountain roads, she keeps rummaging around in her handbag and yanking at my poncho. I think it's somewhat strange that this old hitchhiker has trusted me to transport her safely into town, but I cannot see what she is rummaging for, and figure if she stabs me or something, she too will be injured in the fall. “Children?” she asks. “No, no children.” We laugh. Then it's into some sharp cutbacks, which I've never negotiated before, and our halting conversation stops. Through the rising mists I see promontories and beaches spreading along the coastline far below, but cannot risk more than a glance for fear of hitting a pothole and crashing. We enter the outskirts of Da Nang city, cement plants and tiny shops, a school, some houses. A few minutes down a divided highway Bom Gom slaps me on the shoulder, saying “Stop, stop.” I down-shift and pull over, and when she gets off, she says, “Now, you give me one dollar. I have no food today, no money. One dollar.” With a chuckle and a shake of my head, I hand over a little more than the requested sum, thirty thousand Dong, then bid farewell with a butchered “Hen Gap Lai.” The old woman walks away, I insert my swastika-shaped key into the swastika-shaped keyhole, start up my rented motorbike, and continue on, heading south.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on surfing's anarchism

At its root, anarchism is the absence of rulers, not rules. If everyone were to abide by the agreed-upon codes of conduct, everyone would be able to live in happiness, liberty, and peace. This is especially relevant out in the churning swells; surfing is essentially an anarchistic activity. There are no police, no time keepers, and no crossing guards, wherefore it is necessary for everyone trying to catch waves to act honorably and with due consideration for all the other people risking their fragile health and spending their precious time trying to float across the face of a piling heap of water.

Some people are better surfers than others, and therefore believe they are for some reason entitled to a greater share of waves. This is a spurious notion. Since they can better read the waves and keep themselves in the correct position for riding them, they tend to charge on every arriving peak, regardless of how many waves they've already ridden and how long every other salty soul has been waiting. Plus, they tend to drag themselves past the other people inching toward the peak and put themselves at the front (this is called snaking) instead of displaying a modicum of self-respect and putting themselves at the back, there to wait their turn. Without honor, without patience, without generosity, the act of surfing degenerates into an ego-boosting pissing contest that frequently ends in vocal or physical violence, externalized aggression, and general sadness (for everyone but the snake). Outside of an official competition, there is no justification for stealing others' sea-time by jumping to the front of a line of surfers, every time. Just as today's consumption-oriented capitalistic system encourages the individual to grab as much shit as he can without regard for and often at the expense of the rights and desires of the people around him, consumption-oriented surfing – that is, paddling out just to shred as many waves as possible in the shortest amount of time without giving a floating fuck about the others guys out there too – taints the majesty of the shared experience called surfing, reducing it to something akin to masturbating in public.

There are few conditions as pitiable as greed, few traits as undesirable as blind self service. Without a healthy respect for community and the notion that we're all in this together and none of us is getting out of here alive, a person tends to get wrapped up in what is going on inside his head-space, believe what his ego is telling him, and lose his connection to the less tangible things in life – honor, giving, sharing, and joy. The sea is always a dangerous place, rain or shine, and a person knocked unconscious has but a few score seconds to live. Here, in Bali, there are not many lifeguards; a surfer must rely on the other people bobbing in the brine to save his ass if things turn south. Hence, it helps to make and keep as many friends as possible out there, to display poise and self restraint, and to conduct oneself in a manner respectful of everyone else's time and right to exist. For many people, happiness means the absence of suffering; if everyone were to follow a few simple surfing rules (wait your turn, keep hold of your board, don't snake, don't paddle into a breaking face if others are trying to jump on it), the beautiful justice of anarchy could truly work, at least out at sea, everyone going home having happily ridden a few. In one model of the Universe, the person who gives the most receives the most; give way, give thanks, and receive the ultimate gift – love.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥