I'm biking home from Lauren's on a foggy December night. Although it's unseasonably warm, I'm still wearing three layers of cotton and a pair of thin gloves to keep a constant barrier between myself and what little cold is out there. Unfortunately, my jacket and gloves are jet black, as is my hair. From behind, I may be completely invisible to cars, especially since somebody stole my bike lights. That actually happened a couple of months ago, and I keep intending to buy new ones. For the time being, whenever I bike at night I'm constantly worrying about getting hit. It's particularly bad right now with the fog, which is not only collecting on my glasses but obscuring me from nearby drivers.

By the time I'm at the bottom of S. 1st, just a few blocks from home, I've moved onto the sidewalk and started thinking about other things. Broken hearts and bitterness, mostly, which isn't a common subject matter, but one that certainly comes up every now and then. I'd started singing a song that I'd written with an old crush, and it reminded me of her and my own disappointment. Nearby, the cars are whizzing across wet streets, and ahead a hear one run over a heavy branch.

Standing on my pedals, I make my way up the hill as quickly as possible. A car trying to get out of its apartment parking lot has pulled into the sidewalk, and I make eye contact with its driver before weaving around in front. Wheezing from the exertion of an uphill climb, I'm surprised to see a raccoon standing by the curb. Normally they run away, but this one is entranced by the shiny shards of a broken break light. I see them reflecting as a car drives past, and suddenly I decided to stop and get the raccoon out of the road. South 1st is a dangerous road. At the top of the hill a white bike has been strapped to a lamppost, memorializing the death of a cyclist. Many people have been hit here. A raccoon, especially one dumbfounded by shiny plastic, wouldn't fare much better.

Swinging down my kickstand, I get off my bike and start looking for something to poke the raccoon with. My hand is no good for that purpose, because it doesn't like bites and I don't like rabies. Luckily, there's a stick--satisfactorily long--lying near my bike, and I pick it up. Four more cars roll past, and I glower at each one, sending them the psychic message: If you hit this raccoon, I'll fucking whack you with my stick. Once they're gone, I move into the road and start prodding the raccoon towards the sidewalk. He doesn't move, but remains huddled over the shattered brake light, bobbing slightly with each poke. "What the fuck are you doing!"

And then I notice. Those aren't shards of broken plastic. That's blood. The raccoon is bleeding from his nose, completely dazed. "Oh fuck! Fuck!" I storm back to my bike, hurling the stick on the ground. The raccoon is fucked. Looking back it, my mind quickly plays through my options: healing him, putting him out of his misery, abandoning him. I can't do any of these things, so I pick the stick back up and start prodding him again. Eventually, he turns, slowly, and looks at me, small puddles of blood forming over a new patch of cement. He reminds me of my cat Buster, the way he's looking up at me. It's a look of trust and confusion. This is a fucking wild animal, and he's looking at me like I can somehow help. But all I can do is keep prodding him, pleading with him to go. And eventually, he steps up onto the sidewalk, curls up there. I consider taking him home with me, taking care of him. But that's no good. "I wish I at least had some food for you."

And then with sudden fervor, he stands back up and darts into the brush, reminded that he's a wild animal and I'm a predator more than ten times his size.

My First Day in a Cathedral

Catholisism is a sort of Sunday morning poetry. It's beautiful and evocative, but I have no idea what's going on. The mass lasts a little over an hour, yet there are only ten minutes of sermon. The remainder is filled with song and ritual, organs and choirs and incense burning. We stand and bow our heads, we lift our hands at the elbow, we kneel, we turn to eachother and say 'Peace be with you,' we shuffle through an elaborate circle to eat the body of Christ and to drink his blood.

What does all this mean? I am not Catholic and I was not raised Catholic. Yet even to somebody who has no idea what's going on, the beauty of this ceremony can be overwhelming. The chime of the bells, the high notes hit by the choir, the incense smoke rising across a stained glass depiction of Mary in heaven. They evoke the divine, the celestial. In a Godless universe, what is this feeling?

Even if we dismiss religion as mumbo-jumbo (as many of us were raised to do), it's worth noting that hundreds of millions of people practice Catholicism today and find some sort of meaning in it. Amongst the congregation, I saw only a handful of people with blond hair. Almost everyone had dark features, if pale skin. Compare that to the Aryan features of a protestant church. Why the divide? Is this something passed on from parent to child? From generation to generation for hundreds of years?

And the relationship between the Catholics and the Jews. Reading from a book written in the late 1800s, Jews are depicted as outsiders, often seedy. Just a hundred years ago, could I have walked so easily into a Cathedral? With all its grandeur, its expensive materials and its overwhelming size, this was the creation of the populous, of the majority, of the masses. These were the people that sweat and toiled, that transformed an inhospitable wilderness into a place where people could thrive. This was the great bulk of humanity, their labor divided, organized and hierarchical. A handful directed the many and guided them to create these great monuments to civilization. Because the masses were aligned with the will of their rulers, they were welcome into these places. Jews, however, were on the outside. They had a separate, smaller society with its own, less rigid hierarchy. They did not acknowledge the superiority of the Genteel elites, and so were kept on the fringes. Later, as Western civilization transitioned to capitalism, this outlook gave them the boldness to become leaders within the economy, while Catholics were encouraged to continue submitting out of love for Christ, love for their neighbors, love for order and society.

Even to this day, the Catholic church holds sway over countless people. Even if eternal life is a myth, something essential is passed on from father to son, mother to daughter. Eternity is found in the unbroken chain of heredity. And to those good Catholics who practice the love of Christ, who work hard and accept the authority of society, they are promised advancement through the ranks of heaven. From generation to generation, they will rise through society as long as their spirit doesn't falter and they wander not down the darkened paths.

Demons, Angels, and the Human Psyche

As a culture, we take a unique pleasure in insulting the intelligence of our ancestors. Stories of blood-letting and witch-burning are woven into our conceptions of the past. When we say 'Dark Ages,' it's with an undertone that those centuries were truly brutal, degraded, and filled with the most vile forms of ignorance. Neighboring countries slaughtered each other, raped and pillaged. People accused one other of heresies and murdered criminals for the slightest infraction. It's easy to conjure the image of a man swaying from the gallows, or of a smoldering ruin that was once a thriving village. These images glow with a celluloid menace, and sitting in the movie theatres, it's easy to think, 'I'm glad it's not like that anymore.' How proud we are that we're better than the medieval peasantry, whose ignorance serves to highlight the sophistication of our own culture.

Yet rather than dismissing their belief as ignorant, what happens when we explore them seriously? Let's take, for instance, the phrase 'bless you,' which originates from the bygone belief that when a man is sneezing, he's expelling demons from his body. Taken at face value, many of us find this laughable. But at the same time, our ancestors were on to something. Like modern doctors, they noticed that when an individual started sneezing, his behavior likewise changed. He had greater trouble rising from bed, he was lethargic, he complained of aches. They blamed these symptoms on 'demons' and said that the man was trying to expel them when he sneezed. This explanation isn't that far from the truth. We simply replace the word 'demon' with that of 'virus,' and suddenly it fits seamlessly with modern medical science. Our ancestors understanding of sickness was more colorful than our own, but it was likewise based on observation and reasoning.

This gets even more interesting when we examine their beliefs on temptation. While modern psychology blurs the interplay of psychic forces to create a single 'self' or 'I', medieval psychology recognized the multitude of impulses and thought patterns that composed the individual. Some of these psychic qualities they classified as demons, asserting that many of our thoughts and impulses were just the whisperings of these infernal beasts. Others they ascribed to the Holy Ghost, who spoke on God's behalf within the individual's psyche. This same dichotomy would later be depicted in cartoons from the beginning of the 20th century, with a child protagonist conflicted between a selfish or pro-social choose, a demon standing on one shoulder and an angel on the other.

Because they differentiated between their thoughts in this manner, it's easy to conceive that even in their ignorance, many of our ancestors were more aware of themselves than we ourselves are. The modern layman simply doesn't have as many symbols to attach to his own mental processes. Meanwhile, within the cosmology of demons and angels, there is a great wealth of encoded psychological wisdom, and we are fools for so casually dismissing it.

responsibility

do not forget: even if you are not a father (and will never be a father), you have the responsibility to bring something into this world. you know what it is. now stick with it.

The Garden of Eden was man's time in the wild, living off the land. Original sin was plowing the fields, building hovels, and settling down. The fruit of that tree was growing in a man-made orchard. It was the first fruit an agrarian society ever tasted.

When we die, we do not persist on some other plane. The only remnants of our soul is in our children, which is passed on from generation to generation. In this way, we have the potential to be immortal. And heaven is simple the Earth, if we can guide it to a heavenly state. And hell is also just the Earth, if we lead lives that degrade it and make it a hellish place to live.

For the past two weeks I've been cycling down to Mexico. Amazingly, I've kept a perfect journal. Every evening before going to bed I'd take note of the events of the day. I probably won't bother transcribing those entries online, but they exist, which is the important thing. I've kept with my New Year's resolution.

Yesterday we woke up on the beach of Bagdad Bay, however that is spelt. There was talk of staying an extra night, which I was not keen on. I had already stayed a day long than I needed and wanted to, and it wasn't a particularly good night, either. Everyone else got drunk and stayed up talking about . . . things that didn't interest me. And then the police accosted us sometime in the early morning, blinding us with two flood lights and aiming MK47s at us. Nothing bad happened, but it was a terrible sight to rouse me.

Anyway, I didn't want to stay an extra night. The decision hinged on whether or not our friends could meet up with us at the beach. While everyone ate their breakfast tacos, I started sending txt messages. It took an hour for them to get back to us, but ultimately the answer was no. We then called a taxi and went back to the border.

I was terrified that they wouldn't let me back across, as all I had was a state ID while what they really wanted was a passport. The building was oppressively short and florescent, and although the designer had made the corridors wide, the space still felt crampt. I waited in line, involuntarily running through my route excuses for why I didn't have a passport. Even then, I knew it was a bad idea to do that, as when I think about a response too much, it develops an inathentic twinge. It sounds like a rehearsed lie--which, I suppose, is exactly what it is.

The man who checked my papers wasn't a native English speaker and spoke under his breath. It was difficult for me to discern his repremindations as anything more than a blur of threatening phrases, "you're suppose to" "since July 1" "back to the other side of the border." He then asked what my business was in a Mexico, and I responded honestly that it was to deliver a bicycle. He seemed utterly unphased by this, and simply handed my ID back to me and gestured for me to proceed. I was so shocked that I asked him if I was suppose to move to the next station, and he nodded curtly, exasperbated by both my inability to understand him and the long line waiting behind me.

The bus ride then followed. I slept. And slept. And slept.

I started the day still sleepy. I'd been up until past three last night, somewhat in an altered state of mind. Very much so, actually. And because I couldn't resist waking up at 10:00 this morning, I was still sleepy. And my thoughts were dark. I was examining my life with a harsh gaze. I looked at the warehouse as an inevitable failure. I saw myself squandering my life. My peers were advancing in ilfe, getting nice white collar jobs. I, meanwhile, was doing nothing. Really, the same old dark thoughts as always.

Adam was here when I got out of bed, and he and Matt and I walked over to HEB. Adam asked if I could jump from one spherical fixture to the next, imagining that deadly watermelons were rolling towards me. I decided that I couldn't, because the leap was too far. We tested it, and surely enough we would die beneath the onslaught of melons.

I had a lot of errans to run today. Tomorrow I'm leaving for Mexico on a bike. Unfortunately, I wasn't able to get my community service filed away, but I can do that tomorrow. I then went to the bank to deposit some money and then to the library to get some books for the road.

When I returned I took a long nap and then ate some lentils. I then returned to the site of my addiction and wasted three hours or so. I need to get over that. It's sort of automatic that I look for the quick pleasure.

This is all empty, though. The first entry I wrote in this vein of "journal" entries was honest. Or at the very least, I felt like I was putting something meaningful in words. It was capturing something essential about myself and my day. This, however, is just me drudging up details to fufill an obligation. I can do better than this.

While I was at the library selecting books, I decided to get a book on economics and a book on myth by Joseph Campbell. I found where The Power of Myth was kept, and when I got there, I saw other titles. Books that descussed oriental myth, occential myth, primative myth, modern myth. I had an urge to take them all. I so rarely get a genuine surge of greed, but this was one instance. I wanted them all because they excited me so greatly. I chose my two favorites, in the end, rather than just The Power of Myth.

I joined Matt and his sister at Rio Ritas today. We were all just reading our respective books, but every now and then one of us would look up and talk to the others. I found that she would often look me in the eye when I spoke to her, and I liked that a lot. It was almost like flirting, but clearly not. It was a charge of social energy. It was a jolt of pride and satisfaction, like running a 100 yard sprint and getting a good time.

My breaking point was when I sat down at the computer and couldn't immediately come up with something to do. I knew I was suppose to write an entry for yesterdays journal, but I didn't look forward to that obligation. So I wanted to find something to distract me for a while so I could . . . well, just avoid my responsibilities. Unfortunately, the first thing to come to mind was to check on Dwarf Fortress, which got me thinking about games. Which then led to me playing those terrible online games. Ehh. . . .

But it's those moments. When I get on a computer, I need to start working immediately. I cannot humor distractions in the beginning. Maybe. Or maybe I need them. Maybe it helps clear my mind so I can write clearly. I don't know. It's all really confusing for me still.

I'm also reading this book call Blood, Sweat, and Tears. I need to know more about the history of labor, and this seemed like a good choice. But as I read it, I keep questioning its legitamacy. Is this author just retelling the capitalist myth, or is he getting at something true? Maybe the truth can only be found by reading many books and seeing work in action. History is a fuzzy thing. History, maybe, should never be trusted. But still, I'm curious. This is just my first book on economics. As I read more, I'll begin to have enough scope of information to make reasonable judgements about what's real and what's a fabrication.

Yesterday I woke up feeling terrible. I wanted badly to return mardek, and I even tried, but I had lost all my effort from the night before. Instead, I started moving my stuff from my old room to my new room. Chris Clark showed up an hour later and took me to lunch with his friend.

He works for Microsoft and his life seems to be going extremely well. He's not simply rising in the ranks, but he loves his work. He's found a passion within a corporate structure, and it makes me wonder if working for big businesses is always so bad. Moreover, I wonder if I'm squandering my life trying to do something different. I actually left our meeting feeling somewhat low and at the same time committed to doing something more.

When I returned I was full of energy, which I spent immediately on finishing my move. Within an hour, I had my new office set up. I took a two hour nap, because I've been sleep deprived recently, and then had another meal before going out to work New Years. I made $429. I also saw a spectacular fireworks show, the first one to impress me since I was a seven year old boy. Koala was there, as was Elliot.

My resolution was to write in my journal everyday, and if I couldn't, to catch up the next day.