Witches' Brood

I had an unsettling, lucid dream two nights ago. I'm accustomed to strange dreams--I mean, hell, I once had to save a peach jam sandwich from a burning building and a rampant tyrannosaurus--but this one left me especially uneasy. For whatever reason, I was out in the woods along a river bank. I was with several friends, whose faces I can't remember, and we were learning to tune ourselves into the cosmic flow, to commune with the Ascended Masters. The idea was to encase ourselves in total meditation, focusing all energy on asking the Masters to guide us on our true paths.

To do this, we were required by the leader (whose identity escapes me) to lie on the ground and breathe deeply. The voices of the Masters would become apparent as distant whispers, and then we would ask them five questions. Everyone around me asked the five questions but not only could I not remember a single one, but I also felt terribly uncomfortable every time I heard them. The name "Moloch" appeared in the third question. For those unfamiliar with demonology, Moloch is a Semitic demon associated with child sacrifice. If anyone, at this point, does not understand why this would make me uncomfortable, please direct your forehead post-haste to the nearest wall and repeat until the meaning becomes clear.

Though I couldn't recite the five questions, I still felt like I was being lifted, and all around me, the eyes of my peers were opening, completely white, sans iris. Somehow I could see my own face, and my own eyes were milky throughout. A voice told me to ask for what I most desired, but for the life of me, I couldn't think of anything. A thousand, vague ideas flowed through my mind, but there was nothing to grasp, to keep it from flowing right through. Then, I settled back to Earth, and all those around me stood up, relieved. I, however, stayed on the ground because I did not understand what had happened and wanted to know. I stayed until my alarm went off.

I awoke feeling calm, enlightened even, but as the day progressed, I realized how false the feeling was. I had committed a grave writer's sin: not knowing what I want. It reminded me of my last date, almost a year ago, at which I was asked, "Who are you without your stories?" "What do you mean," I thought, "I'm a writer. Writing is my life."

"But who are you?"

The question hit me hard. Storytelling is my only social grace. Small talk is the bane of my existence; when I can tell a story, I can actually put forth energy. But beneath the charade and the showmanship, beyond the embellishments on memories of the past, who am I? What do I want? Why do I believe I am sacrificing my childhood to an ancient demon who promises me everything I desire, when I don't even know what it is that I desire? Because the demon is nothingness; it promises nothingness, because that is what my desire has come to embody.

As a child, my desire was pure and simple: become a zookeeper, get married, have a family, live happily ever after. Sure, these were loaded with fantasy, but at least they were clear and fit my character. Fifteen years later, I've graduated in screenwriting, forbidden myself from relationships, and distanced myself from my family. Why? I convinced myself that a more reputable life awaited me in Hollywood. I convinced myself that true love between two people is a socially marketed delusion. I convinced myself that my family and friends silently resent me. How many of these assumptions are true, I don't know, but after fifteen years, when the only niche I can scrape into human society is through stories of my childhood, which hasn't existed for years, I have grown tired of them.

At the end of a story's third act, the character usually hits a low point. Technically, my story has only hit the end of Act One, the point where the character reaches the first big decision: make the change or resist it? I've resisted it for years, not out of fear but sloth. It is easier to stay the same, to stagnate, to commit the gravest sin against the self. It takes time and hard work to become the paragon of oneself, but what good is a life that has squandered its potential? What good comes from a low point at the end of Act One? That's just poor structuring.

In order to break this enduring pattern, I must ask myself the five questions, no matter how much they terrify me:

1. What, of my childhood, defines me as Kyle Jarrett?
2. What desires from my childhood have I not fulfilled, yet must fulfill, to restore balance?
3. What must I recreate from my childhood, to restore peace of mind?
4. What must I destroy from my childhood in order to progress?
5. How do I love like a child without the naïveté of a child?

The search for answers begins now.

Frosted Flakes

"L.A. is full of flaky people. It's one of those bad behaviors that's never punished."

Thus spake a friend of mine in the car, while driving me to an event to which we were both invited.  After dropping me off, he then got back in his car and drove home, owing to his significant other making a surprise visit that weekend.

According to the Urban Dictionary, to flake is "to decide not to go at the last second; to 'ditch' or 'bail out.'" It doesn't necessarily mean a person has better plans that have popped up miraculously at the last second. No, the rationale could very well fit within one of the following mind frames:

• "With the price of gas what it is, when you get it... if you get it."
• "This book on the hatchet cell morphology of the riverine tsetse fly is far too fascinating to put down now."
• "So-and-so, the anti-proton to my proton will be there.  Ergo, it's a no-go with so-and-so."
• "Oh, em, gee!  It's a six-hour marathon of {insert vapid, brain-slurping reality programming here}!"

No matter the obstacle, the manner of self-placation invariably falls along the lines of "It's okay; she'll understand," or "It's okay; there will be lots of people there," or "It's okay; I'll just see him at such-and-such a date." In some cases, this may be true, but there are proper ways of approaching this and many improper ones. Here are the top five flaky excuses that leave me frosted enough to put the "Grrr!" in "Grrreat!"

1. "Oh, I forgot."
   (What part of répondez s'il vous plaît don't you understand?)
2. "I was drunk / hungover / high."
   (Was this in anticipation of my function or part of your daily routine?)
3. "My friend / relative just came into town."
   (And you neither knew this before or thought to bring them along?)
4. "Hello... {Vapid, brain-slurping reality show} was on!"
   (And I suppose you're going to TiVo our time together.)
   
5. Silence...
   (Not going to be the one to break it.)

I may seem bitter about these situations, but having experienced all five excuses for flaking on birthday parties, group projects, dates, and favors, without an apology or, many times, even an acknowledgment of flakery, it starts to grate on a person. Of all the virtues, I hold sincerity among the highest, and my first, idealistic/naïve instinct when someone tells me they will call me at 6:00 or meet with me on a Tuesday is that they sincerely intend to do so and will let me know if anything changes.  When I adjust my schedule to accommodate that 6:00 phone call or Tuesday meeting, then hear nothing until days after, if at all, it damages my relationship with that person.

Life is unpredictable, and trouble pops up where and when it's least expected.  With the aid of social networking sites, most people now have to keep track of dozens, if not hundreds, of acquaintances.  Still, I ask these questions to the greater masses.  Is it beyond the average skill set to reschedule?  Is it just too terrifying to make the call to apologize for or even confess to flaking?  Is this one person so insignificant among your hundreds of acquaintances that it really doesn't matter how they feel about your absence?  Finally, would it really be so insulting to hold someone accountable for flaking?

I am by no means a flakeless wonder.  My memory is so scattered that my history of flakes would require prescription-strength Head & Shoulders.  Nonetheless, when I do cancel at the last second, regardless of the reason, I at least show the other person the courtesy of letting them know that "Yes, I would like to hang out with you in the future," or "Yes, please keep me posted on your future projects."  In summation, "Yes, I do actually care about what you're doing; it's just that at this moment, our time-space continua are not meant to intersect."  Whether or not they believe me, it's a more personal gesture than pretending a vapid, brain-slurping reality program is a valid alternative to spending some all-too-brief time with another human being.

Shlurp.

Thanks Again for Applying

Dear Dater Dave,

Thank you for submitting your application for the role of "Pole Hopper." After long hours of deliberation, the committee here at Cranium Jarrettum, Inc. has decided that your application has not met our standards of tact and sanity. This letter is to serve as a written confirmation of this decision.

The committee was impressed by your surveillance techniques, chiefly how you managed to confirm our representative's identity after watching him from a concealed location outside a bar. The committee was further impressed by your ability to identify our representative without ever having met him before and track him to his Facebook profile, though his profile image does not display his actual face. Unfortunately, these techniques do not fulfill the requirements of the Attraction Department, and we have just filled the last opening in Espionage.

You are clearly a bright and resourceful individual with many skills to give you a one-up in your career as a stalker. If you would like to apply for a position with one of our partner companies, we will forward your information along.

We wish you little personal success with your hump hunt and into the future. Thank you for your interest in Cranium Jarrettum, Inc.

Regards,

Kyle Jarrett
H.O.S. Cranium Jarrettum, Inc.

Self Doubt: Get Over It {Addendum}

It is a marvel how so small an action can have such an enormous impact on one's mood. I came home from my internship in a state of supreme gloom to find an envelope waiting for me from a very dear friend in Deutschland. Inside was a handwritten letter and a DVD that he had made for a university application. He had included the English translation of the dialogue on the letter so I could follow along with the words on screen. He confessed that it wasn't his best work, but the experience was marvelous.

I'm reminded of the power of kindness, that even when it seems to go unnoticed, its effects can be profound. My dark mood of the past few weeks melted away as I traced my finger along the script, keeping pace with the German. It is an amazing thing to share another person's passion, to see it in action, especially after so much build-up. It is humbling to receive something. into which a person has poured their heart, time, and energy. A basic hand-written letter amidst a suffocating sea of text messages and E-mails is something so rare, so divine, as to be comparable in effect to a holy relic.

So, to follow up on my previous post, the moon is limited to the night; great friends are at all hours. Choose them well, and treat them well. The rewards are immeasurable.

Self Doubt: Get Over It

I'm sitting here in a black shirt with the white silhouette of a pole vaulter featured in the center. Over the invisible bar, it says, Self Doubt: Get Over It. It's a relic from the running days of yore, and it's miraculously survived the six years since I last set foot at the Simplot Games. It's ironic, because self-doubt defined my running back in the day and has become a staple of my self-esteem.

I suppose the doubt started in preschool when I requested a second birthday cupcake and was met with the admonishment of being "Selfish, selfish, selfish." Its arc spanned many years through circumstances I would not care to divulge in a public blog and settled into this stage of life to which few wish to return once they have lived it: the post-grad world. Here, having chased so many false leads, slogged a way through the endless muck of false faces, heard everything that does not work about my character and my characters, watched my bank account slide me closer and closer to forsaking my career goals just to stay afloat, I'm so wrapped up in doubt about myself and my place in the world that I've lost the ability to ask for anything at all. The pathetic thing is that I let it happen; my self-doubt has become so strong that it's leading me into stagnation, which is the greatest crime against the self.

I remember the days of scholarship applications: "Please include your awards and leadership positions." In elementary and middle school, these were numerous. In high school, they fell off, but I kept them up. In college, two academic honors, no awards, no leadership: no drive. Looking back, I've realized that my downward spiral has been the result of a long succession of disappointments or perceived disappointments. The perception factor is critical, because--let's be frank--the emotional intensity of the bad trumps the warm nostalgia of the good.

What's happened is that I've lapsed into the illusion of permanence, or unchangeable bad. I've convinced myself that every choice I make will determine the course of my entire life, and by doubting my ability to make the right choice, I'm holding back, stagnating, perpetuating the permanent bad. I think this is a common belief in the country, that things can only be as they are and will only worsen: culturally, environmentally, politically. There is doubt in all corners, eating away the hope that would undo the self-fulfilling prophecy. There is doubt for change, doubt denying this very fundamental nature of the universe. All is entropy, all insanity, all futility.

I named this blog for the nature of destruction, the beautiful change that clears the way for new creation. There are things that I believe must be destroyed; doubt is among the highest priority. But how does one eliminate doubt? How does one "get over it?" It's insidious, resting deep within the most private recesses of the mind, subsisting on the perception of failure, the confirmation of prediction. If one goes into a meeting expecting to be humiliated, then is humiliated, one (left unchecked) will expect the same of all future meetings and never again contribute to or gain from another.

To this conundrum, I have no answer. If I had, I would have listed it at the beginning. I am not in the most confident place right now. I do not have a clear reason to be confident. Who am I to ask? To dream? To decide? But the other night, I looked at the moon, the full moon. Something about its presence in the sky calmed me. It is always there, neither fighting to persist nor fearing demise, but swimming onward, celestial shark that it is, more than unwilling--unable--to stop and stagnate. The moon goes through many phases, some times in full light, some times shrouded in darkness, but one can always expect its opposite sooner or later, without a doubt. If the moon can fade away into darkness and come back in full within a month, then maybe, just maybe, so can I. Raise the bar.

Dead Man in the Doorway

There was a dead man in my doorway this morning. I don't know where he came from or how he got there. Nonetheless, at 7:50 AM, there he was, face-down, silent as the grave.

I'll back up. Most (formerly all) Saturday mornings, I go running with my running group at 8:00 AM. This involves lugging myself out of bed at an hour that, to most people I know, is the temporal embodiment of Hell, snatching breakfast, dressing, and heading out. Well, on this particular morning, I opened the door to a pair of boots. They were rather nice boots, I must say, well taken care of. They led to equally nice jeans, which were quite wide to accommodate excess girth, and up to a dark blue shirt, though I could not ascertain what manner of shirt it was, on account of it facing the floor. The shirt connected to a head of black hair, though what manner of head it was, on account of it facing the floor, I could not say. In any case, said head was not moving.

It took about fifteen seconds to realize that all of these parts amounted to a comatose, middle-aged male lying face-down on the floor with one hand under his face, under which rested a key ring. I checked for stab wounds. None visible. Bullet holes? None visible. Hell, I wasn't about to roll him over, so that was my best guess. I'd left my phone on my desk in my locked apartment, so what was I going to do? Call 9-11? Should I tell them there's a dead man at my door? What if they take me in for questioning? Shit. Okay. Keep your head on your shoulders... Dead. Head. Stop staring at it!

I walked around the guy. At first, I thought, is this the friendly maintenance guy? Has he had a heart attack? That would be terrible. He was so very jolly, and I will miss him waving to me as I go for a run. But then, behold the puddle of vomit. Behold the shifting of the face to cover the right cheek in said puddle of vomit. Listen to the huff, the snort, of a living nostril. He's not dead; he's shit-drunk and passed out... and in my doorway! I checked my watch: 7:55. He's shit-drunk, passed out in my doorway, and making me late. I decided he'd get an earful if he was still there when I got back. He wasn't. His puddle of vomit was. To my friends and family members who are baffled that I've never been drunk, I present to you as Case #1, this man.

On Acting

It's taken years of practice and careful honing, but I can honestly say I have developed a knack for smiling and nodding and an even greater knack for giving discourses on smiling and nodding. The combination of actions is essential for making one's way in a city known for masked expression and subterfuge. All one has to do to maintain a semblance of interest in a gnawingly vapid conversation/soliloquy is maintain a constant smile and nod at select moments in the other's monologue.

A two-hour wait at Central Casting--during which a chatty African American man graced me with his worldly wisdom, completely unsolicited--offered me a chance to put this skill to good use. Compare and contrast the following snippets of our interaction:

Conveyed by Smiling and Nodding:	My Honest to Goodness Self:
- That's a great guess that your arms are 42 inches long. Good thing you looked at my paper with my sleeve measurements and added six inches to find your dimensions.	- I'm at 36, and I've got at least two inches on you, buddy. Have fun with your kimono shirts.
- Wow, a casting director mistook you for your 18-year old son's brother, but you're really 47 years old?  Where did you find the Fountain of Youth?	- She was humoring you, Casanova.  Trust me.
- You know, you are so right.  I should have taken my car in for repairs and maintenance every three months to make sure it's in tip-top shape.	- I'm a starving college graduate. If you want to pay for my car repairs, then by all means...
- Yes sir!  Being on set surrounded by dozens of loose, bikini-clad women sounds like a dream come true, and you're right.  I should be getting some while I'm young.	- I'm on the other team, coach.
- Wow, your stories of going behind your wife's back with movie chicks are absolutely riveting.  Get me a pen and paper, so I can learn from you, oh great master.	- Why the fuck is the other line moving faster than this one?  And how did I end up in the 40-and-older line?
- Of course I believe that you really treasure your wife who looks like singer-songwriter Selena, and that you'd never do anything to hurt her.	- Hold on...  I didn't catch everything you've been saying for the past half an hour, but I think you mentioned inviting hot female extras into your van  after shoots to "watch movies."
- It's been great hearing about your exploits for two hours.  I feel like a better person because of it.	- Wait a second...  I was able to convey to him complete and utter interest for two hours without saying a single word and actually preparing to hang myself with my belt.  My God, that's… acting!

I suppose one could argue that, in this case, smiling and nodding was the nicer option than expressing exactly what was on my mind, because I feel nothing but unbridled repugnance for unsolicited monologues. One could also argue that by smiling and nodding, I was affirming his marital hypocrisies. Perhaps that's why acting is such a draw for so many people. One can both treat a person contrarily to how one feels about them and berate their shortcomings, all while carefully shielded by the identity of another person, cyborg, air bison... A pity directness doesn't come with a paycheck.

2 Mechades ≈ 0.20 Centureasons for Change

Mercury is apparently in retrograde through September, which, for those not into divining astronomic conditions, usually means things are about to get ugly. At least, it is the reason I attribute to any extended SNAFU, and thus far, it's been pretty consistent. In any case, yesterday's was worth mentioning, even going so far as to provide an excellent lesson in escalating obstacles, keeping me from my internship at 9:00 AM. Allow me to elaborate:

• 6:10 AM - Eat breakfast in room, because friend is sleeping on couch after taking refuge from an apartment full of toxic vapors.
• 7:17 AM - Leave abnormally late, only to find roommate's car still parked behind mine in tandem spot.
• 7:30 AM - Run upstairs, grab roommate's keys, return downstairs to switch cars, run back upstairs to drop off roommate's keys, lock apartment from inside, run back downstairs, and realize my apartment and garage keys have fallen onto front seat of roommate's locked car.
• 7:42 AM - Arrive at parking garage by gym and roll down window to take parking ticket, only to find that window will not roll back up.
• 7:50 AM - Decide to follow Mom's advice and take it to dealer.
• 7:55 AM - Return to car, realize I have to prepay to leave garage, further realize that with only $1, I have to leave car with window down and go across two streets and down an escalator into gym to get my ticket validated so I can get out of garage.
• 8:05 AM - Return to pre-pay machine, which immediately eats half of my money.
• 8:20 AM - Arrive at Honda Dealership down Figueroa, where representative immediately estimates $500 to $800 to fix window. He pops hood to find everything leaking, making car no longer road-worthy, and offers to run an inspection to tally up cost. Should be an hour or two.
• 9:00 AM - Would normally have been at internship by now.
• 9:30 AM - Finish reading "The Terrible Vengeance" by Nicolai Gogol, while trying to drown out Telemundo in lounge. People have been coming and going, shuttling home, but I have stayed, since inspection will be done soon.
• 9:50 AM - Inquire on status of inspection, and learn it will take only half an hour more. Decide it would be better to wait half hour instead of take offered shuttle home.
• 10:50 AM - Inquire again on status of inspection and learn that representative will have details after lunch, for which he immediately departs.
• 11:35 AM - Ask for shuttle, tired of 60-degree lounge and Telemundo. Representative says there will be a shuttle ready in ten minutes.
• 11:50 AM - No shuttle, no driver, but inspection should be completed soon.
• 12:15 PM: Receive estimate: $3,000 to fix window, motor, and shocks. Representative suggests trading it in for something newer.
• 12:45 PM: Leave office of salesman, who spoke just enough English to tell me repeatedly to buy a new car and not hope to find anything under $10,000 at that dealership.
• 1:20 PM - Rent car and start driving to internship, which has been gnawing at brain since 8:00.
• 2:00 PM - Find parking spot after roaming neighborhoods and run to lunch.
• 2:45 PM - Finally get check and run to internship.
• 2:45 - 7:00 PM - Receive no questions about six-hour delay nor any kind of project or assignment at internship.

So now, apart from the increasingly desperate hunt for employment and the push to finish this script and send it to the increasing number of people requesting it, I may have to fly home and find a new car. Taking a step back from astrology, it just hit me how big of a change this is. Apart from the nearly two decades the Accord has been in my family, I've been through a lot with it since I started driving: four driving tests at 16, a near-death experience on the freeway at 17, driving across the country, working, exploring, falling in love, driving away from love... It's heard singing and laughing and crying, the likes of which I would never allow another person to hear, and though its gradually fallen apart over the years, its heart has stayed strong enough to keep me going from Point A to Point B, C, D.

Now that it's not coming back, I'm feeling a little melancholy. I'm embracing the idea of letting go of possessions, but there is a certain intimacy with this car, like what a Mongolian nomad has with his horse. Losing it draws a strange parallel to losing a friend, which is making the idea of picking a new car unexpectedly difficult. I've been offered a 2002 Acura, a racing car, a powerful car, but, to me, for now, it feels soulless. How very strange that a mechanical device should seem to have a soul...

Holy Matrimony, Batman!

So... Yeah. Proposition 8 has kinda been... shot down.

I decided to give that its own row above the others because it's nice to see that there is still room for rational thinking in the country's legal system: there is no proven social ramification for the marriage of two members of the same sex. Feel free to argue this with me, but I will only respond to arguments citing real, documented studies concluding otherwise.

This ruling comes as a relief after two years. In 2008, at the twilight of my borderline Meyers-esque phase, the realization that the majority of California voters had made same-sex marriage a punishable crime swept my primary social goal out from under me, leading me to conclude that there really was no higher aim on the romantic level. Thousands of voters decided this was the right conclusion for me to reach, but now, "right" has failed. I would hope this means the time has come to rethink "right."

I'm waiting for the grumbling to start. I'm sure it already has. "The world will collapse upon itself any day now." "God will send hurricanes, floods, earthquakes, and flocks of bloodthirsty liberals as punishment for the nation's atrocious action," because yes, God the Almighty is that pithy. To me, it seems that the moral outrage over same-sex marriage equates the idea that God would be content to watch His people create cowardly, shallow, or selfish relationships with each other, as long as they were properly reproducing and filling up the planet beyond capacity.

The point is, after two years of my own cowardly, shallow, and selfish relationships, it is nice to have the alternative acknowledged, even if on a purely legal and logical level. The fact is, marriage is a journey that can attain a thousand virtues or fall beneath a thousand vices. Denying anyone that journey to growth or decay is, itself, immoral. The duality may never be openly acknowledged by a majority, but after two years of getting to know actual married same-sex couples, many with children, I believe that it will come to be acknowledged quietly in all but the most isolated communities.

Consequences 2

Heeding the following words will preserve your dignity, if not your life:

From every action comes a consequence. No one—allow me to repeat, no one—is immune to this temporal phenomenon. It may take years for the consequence to manifest, but it will. When it does, your actions now will determine whether that consequence is a benefit or a detriment. Think about it now; you won't regret it later.

Consequences

In light of recent eastward events, I would like my readers to take the following words to heart:

A secret is a living, breathing thing That, from its birth entombed, Applies its claws to carve and slash and sting Until it is exhumed. Its shovels come from confidence betrayed, From prying ears and eyes, For time ends every selfish masquerade By which the secret dies.

Rent a Friend

I've become a friend for rent. No, really, I found a way to actually profit financially from years of practice, smiling and nodding. All I have to do is put my face on a website, and people will gladly pay me $20 an hour (some charge $50) to be their friend for a while. What a fantastic concept, right?

Honestly, when I first heard about this service over the radio, the first thought that came to mind was something to the effect of "How absolutely absurd! Who would actually pay someone to be their friend? Furthermore, who would actually charge for their friendship? At that point, what is the moral difference between being a 'Rent-a-Friend' and a prostitute?"

Good question. Before I signed up, I had to solve this little puzzle, because frankly, though my financial situation is less than secure, I didn't feel particularly inclined to consider myself that desperate, two months graduated. Investigation launched. First relief point: the Rules page distinctly states that this is not an escort service, and it flatly prohibits any and all forms of physical contact (i.e. handshakes must be conducted from a distance of four feet). While I do have my doubts about how this applies to being someone's prom date (see activities), this at least gave me a point of argument should I come under the moral scrutiny of a friend or family member. All this site really asked of me was that I be the ghost of friendship, a hologram of interpersonal connection, an ideal for what friendship is supposed to be. Fortunately, despite my feelings on the matter, I do ghosting very well.

Nonetheless, there remained the issue of accepting payment for spending time with someone. The very thought seems cold and mechanical, which I can also do well but would prefer not to. The more I looked over the list of activities, the more the answer became apparent to me. I didn't have to accept payment just for spending time with someone. Technically, I didn't even have to call myself a "friend," per se. The site gives certain options, such as poetry, dancing, language, location tours, and even manners. I could teach. I have a set of skills that, if I could teach them, I wouldn't be some soulless post-grad punk looking to make a quick buck at the expense of the lonely. I would be a teacher, a guide, someone who could bring growth. I could live with that.

Granted, there is little doubt in my mind that the service will be abused. Whether it retains the majority of its integrity or becomes a Craigslist-like site for hooking up remains to be seen. It's chief source of security rests in its deferral of responsibility to the users of the site, a technique that keeps Craigslist on the web, even after serving as a tool for murder. Multiple times. The site does provide a list of cautionary warnings and gives advice on how to safely meet a new "friend," so I suppose my "job security" will depend entirely on keeping my own head on my shoulders. Fingers crossed. Wish me luck. Anyone looking for a good time?

The Hollywood Hills Have Eyes

Occasionally, I am asked to deliver top-secret packages to top-secret locations. No, I am not going to divulge these top secrets to you, lest I get a hira-shuriken lodged in my right temple. I kid you not. Instead, I shall attempt to demonstrate that the Hollywood Hills are located over a portal of pure terror. "But that's where the stars live!" one may very well argue, indignant at my recusancy. "Correct," I would reply, "but so is space, where there are aliens. QED."

On this day in particular, as the clouds kissed the hills in mist, the beams of my headlights groped through the twilight. I swerved wildly to make the turn on my direction sheet and found myself staring down a winding, narrow road. Immediately the lenses of dozens of cameras, both visible and concealed, turned toward my poor, little car, staring at us with cold, unblinking interest. In the half second it took for me to think, there was already a car of net financial worth more than my life honking at me from behind. It then passed me on the single lane and vanished into the mist.

I went on, past the massive bars of gates concealing the way to the residences of the secretive, camera eyes panning after me, computer programs no doubt reading my license plate number and blaring alarms that a Utah native had entered the territory in a car worth less than cashmere toilet paper. Blasphemy. Then, the unthinkable happened. I missed the address.

I crawled down a narrow road with nothing but a short fence between myself and the ravine. The only place to turn around was a single driveway at a blind corner. I checked my mirrors. Safe. I blasted into the driveway. Stopped. Checked both ways. Inched back. Checked both ways again. Pulled out and was on my way again. Phew... Then, as if by black magic, a glittering Lexus materialized behind me, high beams flaring. I pulled into another driveway as it shot past me, fortunately the driveway of the proper lair- er, house. I hastily got out of the car, showed the package to the camera at the gate, so as not to activate the laser turrets, and tossed the package over the gate.

Not wanting to overstay my lack of welcome, I hopped back in my car and pulled out as a scintillating Mercedes whooshed past like a comet, nearly taking out my rear-view mirror. I stopped. Checked both ways. Inched forward. Checked both ways again. Checked both ways another time. Inched forward. Checked both ways once more. Blasted out into the road. A Land Rover waited for me and immediately began to tailgate me to the light. I turned left at the light and broke several laws of physics to get out of there.

I was lucky to survive that night, but should fate ever take you, my reader, into those hills, I recommend doing so only on foot under cover of darkness and ice packs (for the infrared sensors). Otherwise, that trip may be your last.

Costa Rica Wrap-Up

The natural beauty of Costa Rica cannot be contained by words or expressed in a photograph, though still I try. There is something magical in looking out upon the endless green after spending so much time in the browns and grays of a big city. I appreciate the country's insistence on living as harmoniously as possible with nature ("Pura Vida" is a common expression), despite my belly-aching over toilet paper. I also found that the three towns I visited, while all having elements designed to appeal to tourists, none seemed overly touristic. While the country claims high literacy rates, the spelling on signs (in English and Spanish), as well as the weak English of many concierge employees, make a working knowledge of Spanish not only a useful tool but also an enhancer of the experience.

What I've learned from this trip:
• Locals love it when you put forth the effort to speak their language, and having that ability makes communication all the easier.
• While delicious fruit is available in abundance, don't expect to get your full 3-5 servings of vegetables.
• After learning how banana groves are the prime living spaces for the fer-de-lance and the Brazilian wandering spider, I will never let a banana go to waste again.
• After seeing the steep, slippery hills on which coffee is grown and learning how farmers get bit in the faces by eyelash vipers lurking in the plants, I'm still not going to become a fan of coffee.
• It is good to double-check that both sunscreen and bug repellent have been applied copiously before journeying outdoors in the rainy season.
• Bring no cotton clothes.
• Platanos maduros may be among the most delicious foods ever invented.
• Do not leave your items unattended, or the raccoons and monkeys will find a great use for them.
• Lens polarizers are awesome.
• Whiny prebubescents may very well be the bane of my existence.
• Costa Rica has no army or street signs.
• Costa Rica's Caribbean coast is no longer safe for tourists because the drug cartels have moved in. Thanks to my drug using acquaintances for supporting the tainting of Costa Rica. I hope your high is worth it.

I can definitely see myself returning to Arenal and Manuel Antonio. Time spent there was just too short. Monteverde was beautiful, though I can only see myself returning to explore the mountain towns and catch a glimpse of the elusive quetzal. I understand that Guanacaste and Osa Peninsula are absolutely phenomenal for wildlife viewing, so I could definitely see myself exploring these areas in the future.

For as much as I griped, I did have a lot of fun traveling with my family. There were some language issues, but for the most part, there were a lot of laughs to be had. I'm lucky in that respect. We may have another trip planned next year for my brother's graduation and mom's birthday. Maybe China. The language barrier will be there for all of us... or will it? Travel log out.

Costa Rica (Dia Ocho)

Daylight come, and it’s time to go home. Firstly, however, we had a 7:25 bus to catch into Manuel Antonio National Park itself. We hit a trail, and while I kept my eyes trained on the leaves for sight of a tent bat, I would have been better off keeping them up anyway. That isn’t to say that I ended up not seeing much. There were monkeys and sloths (of all toe counts) in abundance, along with raccoons and bats (in the trees, not tents). We even had the rare opportunity to view a potoo and a helmeted iguana. There were pictures aplenty. We sojourned a while on the beach with a group of bratty children (“Beach! Beach! Beach! Beach!”) before checking out a caiman and finishing our loop out of the park, past some beautiful island vistas and out of the park, where some kindly fish folk ferried us five feet across a stream to the other side, where the bus awaited us.

We returned to El Avión for lunch and gorged on enormous quantities of rice before catching a shuttle to San Jose. Though it was an hour shorter than the previous ride, I would have preferred not to get into a shuttle again so soon. I took a nice nap for the first third, and then we hit traffic through most of the towns. We stopped once at a coffee shop high in the clouds, surrounded by steep coffee fields, which are all apparently harvested by hand, then continued the rest of the way. The van pulled into the Holiday Inn Express, where we had our last dinner at the Pirates Bar and Grill in the middle of a casino. The ceviche and nachos were tasty, though I had zero appetite after a day of lounging. I can’t wait to get back to the gym.

We spent the remainder of the evening tooling around in the casino as Mom and my brother cleaned house on the poker machines, at least a bit longer than they’d intended. I suppose it’s fitting to conclude the trip in a casino. Tomorrow is just a day full of flying, starting at 4:10 AM, and afterward, with the return to Los Angeles and the next big chapter of life beginning, it’s all going to be a big gamble. So, here goes the first ₡olón…

Costa Rica (Dia Siete)

What is one to do with a late morning? Our scheduled kayak tour had a start time of 10:30, and with the sun rising at 5:00 each morning, that left a lot of time to kill. Ergo, the parentals and I wound up walking down the hill to look for wildlife. Right off the bat, we ran into a troop of white-headed capuchins milling about in an empty lot, followed immediately by a troop of squirrel monkeys running across a rooftop, concluded by a brown throated sloth taking his sweet time doing what sloths do best: lounging. So basically, in fifteen minutes, we saw more wildlife than we’d seen since arriving. Fortunately, it was just a taste of what was to come.

After a bus ride to the river mouth, we boarded some kayaks and paddled out into the mangroves, where the water never seemed to get above three feet deep. A group of friendly capuchins greeted us, jumping on a nearby tour boat. A small group of less friendly capuchins appeared a short way down, apparently a gang of outcasts. Yes, the monkeys have gangs, except that in the mangrove, it’s pretty much the Muds and the Drips. Anyway…

We stopped off at Gilligan’s Island. No, really, that’s what it’s called. While hard to tell that it was an actual island just by looking at it, the two lines of perfectly spaced palm trees gave it a definite Hollywood feel. Deceptive moss covered the island, forming hills that weren’t really hills, crawling with spiders that weren’t really spiders (sand crabs). We rested here a bit, while I watched a puffer fish browse through the shallows, and then we turned down a side river. There, we dodged boats and roots and encountered the rare silky anteater and less rare tamandua, the inconspicuous rainbow boa and the more conspicuous black iguana, all the while succumbing to the scorching rays of the sun, which penetrated our screens with ease.

Fortunately, the company treated everyone to a scrumptious lunch of chicken, rice, and tamarind juice, and then we had another half day to figure out what to do with ourselves. My brother and I decided to try another night tour and see if we could have more luck than with the last one, but since it wasn’t for another couple of hours, I decided to go for a walk to look for the sloth again. The trek took me down past an empty tree, and after covering twice the distance from before, I ended up, instead, at a narrow path through a market area. Finally able to speak nothing but Spanish without facing assumptions about my Gringo-ness, I had a marvelous time browsing the wares, asking about them, and even getting some grammatical assistance. One fellow even custom arranged a shark-tooth necklace for me and threw in a keychain as a perk.

When 5:30 arrived, my brother and I made our way to the Si Como No Wildlife Reserve, which at first seemed like a zoo. Fortunately, that was only half true. There were a few ponds set up to attract frogs, and our guide knew exactly how to take the extra step. Understanding every frog call, he was able to literally call frogs out of the undergrowth: tink frogs, glass frogs, rain frogs, red-eyed tree frogs, gladiator frogs, bullfrogs… the works, even once the downpour started.

We stepped into the reptile lagoon, which held a lot in common with Jurassic Park: night, metal enclosures, torrential downpour, giant, man-eating reptiles that actually roared… Oh yes. The top dog, er, crocodile, was in this enclosed area because it had a reputation as a man-eater. Needless to say, none of us were in a swimming mood. The best part of the tour, however, came from learning how to locate certain animals in the wild, such as the tent making bat, which creates incisions in leaves to hide under them, and the eyelash viper, which curls around heliconia flowers, waiting for hummingbirds to pass by.

After the night tour, we met up with the parentals for our last big dinner in Costa Rica, at Rico Tico, where we watched a spectacular lightning storm over the ocean, and toasted a successful trip. The chicken burritos were excellent, though when my brother ordered the Banana Flambé, things got crazy as the waiter brought out two serving dishes full of rum, lit it on fire, and poured the blue, burning alcohol all over the dessert… and the table… and the floor, all to Harry Belafonte’s Day-O. Whoosh!

Costa Rica (Dia Seis)

Today, Oldman officially becomes an Old Man. While no one knows his time of birth, exactly, we decided to celebrate it at the break of dawn. Of course, this was accompanied by the frenzy of packing to be ready for pickup by 7:10. We made it, though the van was five minutes early, and we traveled up to Sky Trek for a second zip line tour. This one had much longer cables, but it only formed a zigzag down the mountain, which didn’t really allow for any surprise compared to the last one. There was also a rather harsh wind coming in from over the ridge that made standing on those high towers rather uncomfortable.

From the Sky Trek, we blitzed home for lunch at a little sidewalk shop, where the owner spoke no English. I ended up translating, and while I could understand most of what he said, I found myself faking understanding more often than not. Shortly before I received my empanada, one of the cooks shouted and pointed to the street, where a tiny crab scuttled its way under a car. Apparently, the cloud forest crab lives in the canopy, using bromeliads to replenish its moisture content. Who knew?

Our stomachs full of grease (and the best hot chocolate I’ve ever had), we hopped in a taxi for the four and a half hour ride to Manuel Antonio National Park. Our driver was very friendly but spoke very little English. Fortunately, his Spanish was very clear and easy to understand. We passed the beautiful vistas of Monteverde on our way down to the Pacific. We stopped off once for a bathroom break and perusal of souvenirs, then continued on. There was a bridge over a river, where we stopped to see crocodiles lounging on the banks, and then we continued on the last stretch, passing enormous palm plantations, dedicated to the manufacture of palm oil. These plantations stretched to the horizon on all sides of the road for about ten miles. One could see where birds had carried the seeds to the immediate vicinity, and it made me sad to see so many trees that so few animals could probably use.

We pulled through the town of Quepos and up to our new hotel, The Falls Resort, which had no creaking floors and allowed toilet paper to be flushed. We relaxed for a moment (Oldman’s birthday wish), and then we went out for a night on the town, or at least at El Avión, an old, hollowed-out B-52 bomber turned into a restaurant. There, we enjoyed some fantastic beef tenderloin while doing our best to get Oldman drunk on Sex on the Beach. Needless to say, the jokes about Sex on the Beach by itself were numerous. We spent the evening giggling hysterically about Oldman's pronunciation of "basiliss lizard" and "crocodilio" before slowly making our way back to the hotel for an early crash. Happy birthday, Oldman!

Costa Rica (Dia Cinco)

I took one for the team with the no-toilet-paper policy. It was foul. But I was helping the environment, so that shouldn’t have been too bad. I stepped into the shower, which had enough pressure to strip paint. Environmentally friendly? I think some priorities could use some reworking.

In any case, by 8:30, we were in a van, headed to Selvatura Park for some high-altitude adventures, starting with the zip-line tour. The zip line tour consisted of eighteen zip lines stretching across the jungle, some over two hundred feet up and half a mile long. Fortunately, we were all very securely strapped into place with leather-enforced gloves for braking. The view of the cloudy canopy from above was exhilarating, and flying through it at such a quick pace brought forth all sorts of wonder. Though the animals were lacking, save a few swallow-tailed kites flying by, the zip lines gave us all sorts of opportunities to appreciate the abundant greenery of the rainforest, which, when you’ve been in it, starts to seem all the more deserving of saving. Though we joked about pteranodons swooping out of the mist to pick off unsuspecting zippers, everyone made it through safe and sound.

Following the zip line, we funneled into line for the Tarzan swing, which, at over fifty feet, looked a little daunting from the ground. However, on reaching the top and plummeting from it, the adrenaline rush only lasted a little while before turning into an all-out awesome experience. I think holding the rope helped keep my wits about me, though it was also an excellent exercise in trust. Trust, however, did not prevent Mom from screaming like a banshee on her way down, which will hopefully one day be on Youtube for the world to see.

We switched over to a nice nature walk along the sky walkways. In short, we were sky walkers. Unfortunately, the force was not with us. Though we heard some howler monkeys, the animals were long into hiding, either because of the approaching rain or because two UCLA students were ahead of us on the trail. It might have been better to switch the sky walk with the zip line, but we weren’t going to complain… at least, not on an empty stomach. We received a three-course meal near the welcome center, included in the whole package, and after onion soup and grilled corvina, they came out with the most fantastic banana cake I have had before in my life. I wish I knew the recipe.

While eating, the deluge returned to the Earth, though we still had three more destinations on our itinerary. We started with the hummingbird garden, and though it was a trick to balance the cameras and the umbrella, still managed to get some decent pictures. From there, we were on to the Butterfly Garden to see what they had hatching in there. We became familiarized with the eggs, larvae, pupae, and adults, as well as the host plants where the latter prefer to hide their offspring. I keep forgetting how utterly fascinating the process of metamorphosis is. These tiny eggs grow into enormous caterpillars, which fashion much smaller cocoons, which hatch into completely different creatures. The guide even picked one up to show how it was still moving, as a living thing. It was wild.

Running out of time before the last shuttle of the day, we went on a whirlwind tour of the remaining facilities, including the Jewels of the Rainforest exhibit, which featured thousands of specimens from nearly every land-dwelling arthropod family known to science. It was exciting to see physical specimens of many of the species I’d only heard about, though I would have preferred to see them live, minus the ticks and Brazilian wandering spiders, of course. The section on blood-suckers was, needless to say, unnerving.

Finally, we stopped off at the reptile and amphibian exhibit to see some of the most venomous snakes in Costa Rica. I’d forgotten the general rules for distinguishing venomous from non-venomous snakes, but I will record them here. Non-venomous snakes tend to have large eyes with round pupils and larger scales on the head, while venomous snakes have small eyes with slit pupils and uniformly sized scales across their bodies. In any case, I am in no hurry to meet a fer-de-lance anywhere outside of a cage. Not only does its bite kill a person in four hours, but it’s also very aggressive. I’m glad I’m not a banana farmer.

We caught the last shuttle back to the hotel and decided on a whim to hit another night walk, thinking we would have better luck this time. We didn’t see any mammals at all, though my brother did point out a tree frog for all to see. It was also the night of the great termite hatch, where thousands of queens and drones took to the air for their courtship flight. Plenty landed all over us, and interestingly enough, as soon as they did, their wings began to slough off. I felt sadistic just letting them slough off, but as the guide said, of the thousands in the air at any given time, only two or three will actually survive.

Costa Rica (Dia Cuatro)

Day of the first switch. We packed up our stuff, hit the breakfast buffet, and caught a van out of town. Destination: Monteverde. The van took us to Lake Arenal (with a sign warning us about the presence of cocodrilos en el lago), where we caught a ferry across the water. It was a good thing we decided not to drive it, because it would have taken us 4-5 hours around the perimeter.

Pulling in to the opposite shore, thus began an excruciatingly long van ride up forty or so miles of steep, dirt road. The entire process took about two and a half hours, but it gave us the opportunity to view some beautiful farm country. It is a shame that so much forest has been cleared for cattle ranching, though there is still a lot of beauty left in the openness. We stopped for fifteen minutes in a small town to use the bathroom and (in the subtext) buy souvenirs, but instead, I wandered around and took pictures of ducks and parrots. There were a couple young fellows training a horse to trot up and down the street, which was interesting to watch.

The second stretch of road felt excruciating, but at last, we arrived in the cloud forests of Monteverde, a hauntingly beautiful town in the mist. Still, Monteverde bore many differences to La Fortuna. The fences here are dead and the air is not as fresh, even strange smelling. It is a largely Americanized tourist town with larger volumes of high-emission traffic and prices that tend to be in dollars rather than Colones. Our hotel is made of ultra creaky wood that smells oppressively of cedar, and the hotel policy requires all toilet paper to be deposited in a small, unlined trash can after use. I think I’d rather drop my drawers in the forest and bury the remains, but since we’re here two nights, I will probably have to take one for the team.

After getting settled, we took a couple of hours to wander through the town, stopping at the Tree House Restaurant to stave off Oldman’s all-consuming hunger and save the locals from being eaten, and we slowly worked our way back to the hotel through a chain of gift shops. We stopped at the local bank to change money and ended up waiting in line for a solid twenty minutes. This particular bank had a complex system to it. Only one person was allowed to enter at a time, using a system of sliding doors like the air puff machines at airports. No cameras. No bags of any kind. Instead of ropes to organize the line, there were slit markings on the floor, which took a good deal of turning around to finally fall into line.

We made it back in time to catch a van to our night walk, a two-hour jaunt through the woods that started a few hundred meters from our hotel. We only managed to see a few diurnal mammals, though it’s difficult to tell whether the rain played a part in that. The regular sloth and porcupine played elusive, but what we lacked in mammals, we regained in arthropods: assassin bugs, flying sticks, walking sticks, crickets, giant wolf spiders, a net-casting spider, and an orange-kneed tarantula. Mom was pleased as punch about the last three. I found it interesting that the rainforest at night did not hold the ominous atmosphere of the North American mountain forest, possibly because the only big land predator down here is the jaguar, which is pretty darn rare, compared to the presence of bears, wolves, and mountain lions up in the northern forests.

At the end of the tour, we returned to the hotel, where the menu was far too expensive for our tastes, so we went across the street to Las Palmeras, which smelled heavily of shellac and Mom’s feet. They were all out of vegetables and mariscos, so my third choice ended up being Hawaiian chicken, which was quite good. After dinner, we returned to the hotel, where the others zonked out by nine. There would be no late-night walking around, because every single floorboard creaked loudly enough to wake the dead.

Costa Rica (Dia Tres)

Father’s Day. Oldman’s getting spoiled this year on account of rappelling. After getting up at 5:20 to try and catch the early rising animals, not much was still out, apart from more vultures. I did manage to get a few good ones before heading to the breakfast buffet, which, fortunately, was less crowded this time than yesterday. Looking to kill some time before our shuttle arrived for rappelling, we took off on a stroll down the street. The sun was blazing, but we did get to witness two big puffs out of the volcano on the journey. We stopped at another hotel to shoot ducks and flowers before security was alerted to our non-guest status and made payment the only available option for our continued presence there.

12:30 arrived just in time, and after loading up a van, which included four irritating pre-teen girls from Texas, we drove just around the corner to the headquarters to be served a larger-than-expected lunch of chicken and rice. It was delicious, though the four of us were the only family in the group to finish ours. I assume the Texas girls thought it was either gross or fattening. After a brief orientation, everyone piled into a van to drive into La Fortuna, where we switched over to an open-air 4x4 for the rest of the journey up a steep, irregular, dirt road. There was a great deal of bouncing along the way, though fortunately, there were no near-fatalities from someone falling off.

Arriving at base camp, we received out equipment. It took me three tries to get my damned harness on, because the workers kept telling me I had it wrong each time I put it on. It turned out that I had just put my leg through the wrong loop… again and again. Fifteen minutes later, decked out in harness and gloves, we descended to the first waterfall, 150 feet high. Oddly enough, fear evaded me completely this entire time. Rather, I spent the entire time focusing on getting the technique down pat (i.e. I didn’t want to make a fool of myself), which didn’t work so well on the first one. By the second, when we had to free-fall a good way in order to reach the first wall, it started to come together. Third was easy. Fourth left me with a bruise on my side. Fifth was all right, but I still preferred the third out of all of them because the footing was sure enough that I could have a little fun instead of trying to figure out my next foothold.

The rain started on the hike back and followed us to the top. It was nice to have our waterproof bags with us to keep the cameras dry, though the rain was the least of the wetness concerns at that point. We piled back into the 4x4 and plodded out down the road once again. Our guide told us about a man who works for them, who, every morning, gets up at 4:00 to go check the cables. He’s nearly seventy years old and of the impression that without work, he will die. The attachment alarm is going off! Still, that’s some admirable dedication, and honestly, I empathize completely with him. Workaholics Anonymous, here we come.

We returned to the hotel in the pouring rain for Father’s Day Happy Hour, where we bombarded Oldman with beverages in the hopes of getting him plastered. Unfortunately, these drinks were weak enough for me to enjoy, so there were no hilarious Father’s Day drunken shenanigans. However, Oldman did end up with a new friend, some self-centered guy from Miami who decided we would be a great audience for thirty years of stories about his time in Costa Rica, none of which was very interesting at all. Fortunately, we were able to catch a cab and drive out of there before he consumed another hour of our lives.

We dined at La Choza de Laurel, a place designed for tourists, though the food retained its local flair and tasted excellent. My Arroz con Pulpo had the best textured and best flavored octopus I’d ever tried, and the portions were enormous! We finished up there and headed back to the hotel, where I decided to take a little time by myself at the hot tub. As I arrived, I discovered that an enormous cane toad had beaten me to it. Not to be deterred, I asked the staff for a plastic bag, which I used to net the frantic amphibian. As an added perk, this surprisingly difficult feat gave me a marvelous opportunity to subtly flirt with the lindísimo mesero, who was terrified of toads. With the toad free and no E-mail addresses swapped, I sat for about an hour on the edge of the lukewarm hot tub and watched the bats buzzing the swimming pool. They were swift little buggers, and a couple of them flew so close to me that I had to duck a few times to avoid being hit.

Costa Rica (Dia Dos)

After a bizarre dream in which a stinging ant found a way to burrow into a hair follicle on my chest, I awoke to a clear view of the volcano, which was already gone by the time I showered and took my first step out of the room. After borrowing a monopod from Mom, I went on photo safari around the grounds and spent far too much time shooting three frustrating vultures, whose idea of a good time was to wait until I took a break from my squat, then fly from branch to branch. I finally gave up after twenty minutes and went to a great breakfast buffet, which was cut short by three tour buses unleashing about a thousand people each. Needless to say, I took one fewer helping of platanos maduros than I’d anticipated.

We caught a cab into town, and thus began five hours of language-barrier frustration. As head of the family, Oldman serves as the default spokesman for all of us. The problem is that he has the Spanish vocabulary of a monkey. “Muy bien” and “gracias” didn’t look too promising for getting us anywhere, but somehow, we made it into La Fortuna for some wandering and souvenir hunting. It was a nice, muggy jaunt past shops and tiny houses with chickens running around in front of them. Very soon, it became time for lunch, and immediately, the Lava Lounge Bar and Grill, the most American place in town, became our destination. While I can understand how it could be more comfortable, part of the joy of going to a Spanish-speaking country, in my experience, is speaking Spanish. It’s awkward when I’m the only one trying to speak Spanish at the table, but I guess that’s just the way it goes. At least the food was really delicious.

The rain started around 12:30 and let up just long enough for us to hail a cab back to the hotel, watch the rain a bit, and head back to catch our tour van to the volcano. After picking up a couple from Barcelona and another from Madrid, we headed to the Arenal Volcano viewing spot. During a break in the rain, we watched the clouds cover the volcano once again and learned that the last big eruption in 1968 killed 90 people in 65 seconds and decimated everything within an 80-mile radius. Life is still in the process of creeping back up the side of the volcano. Interestingly enough, in contrast to the many other volcanoes building up around the world, preparing to pop, this one is becoming dormant, due to an expanding magma chamber thirty-kilometers under the surface.

Done talking about fire, our attention quickly turned to water, as the deluge poured down on us. The umbrellas just didn’t cover it. We hiked the mile or so up to a lookout point, but by the time we got there, the volcano had been wholly covered, and the lightning strikes had started to become unnerving with our metal umbrellas. We got out of there in a hurry and transitioned to a private hot spring for some dipping. The water temperature could not have been more perfect after the rain. There were about five pools, but my brother and I decided to explore their origin, slogging through pure muck about a foot deep at the very top to get back to the first waterfall. We stayed maybe an hour and fifteen minutes before climbing out and rinsing in the upsettingly frigid showers. We watched the volcano re-emerge from the clouds for twenty minutes until our driver returned to take us to dinner.

Dinner consisted of grilled sea bass and flan, eaten while watching Congo and a cane toad struggling to scale a small wall. I suppose I could have attached some symbolism to the latter image, but this is, after all, vacation. A night hunt for animals ensued, now that we had some flashlights. My brother and I set out on the path around the hotel compound and found bats, frogs, toads, and three armadillos, two of which were in the middle of some sort of armadillo turf war. Seeing us, they quickly vanished, but it still counted as a successful night. Hopefully there won’t be as much rain tomorrow, and more animals will be out and about. We will see…

Costa Rica (Dia Uno)

Life, life, life! It was a long, restless flight overnight from Denver to San Jose in the one row of seats that would not recline. Ready or not, the plane touched down at 5:30 AM to an already risen sun and an uncertain bank of clouds already speckling the sky.

In the three-hour van ride from the airport to La Fortuna, I immediately discovered that everything in Costa Rica is alive. In the middle of the rainy season, every plant is a brilliant green, even the dead ones, which have more likely than not become the station of a host of bromeliads. The fences themselves are living trees, called blackwood. The branches are planted in the ground as fence posts, and they put down roots and sprout new branches!

The first view of the Arenal Volcano came with all the majesty I hadn’t prepared to see. As my first time seeing an active volcano, its height and gray-green duality filled me with a sense of mystery, which only heightened as we pulled into the Volcano Lodge, located just a hop, skip, and a jump from the volcano. While the clouds of the rainy season crowded in to cover the mountain, the rumbling of its fiery bowels pierced the foggy curtains.

The air here is so wonderfully clean. I can breathe through my mouth without guilt, though staying outside too long in the summer brings a harsh reminder of how intense humidity can be. This, we discovered on a brief safari around the lush perimeter of the Lodge, as well as a few of the tiny perils of the jungle: bullet ants, passion vine caterpillars, and cane toads. Fortunately, we escaped unharmed this time to craft an impromptu afternoon agenda… after lunch.

Lunch at Surá consisted of a tuna salad with delicious, grilled pineapple. While there, we decided on spelunking over kayaking and set off to Venado Cave, about an hour from the hotel, but just short of the Nicaragua border. The vistas were gorgeous: so much greenery and charming little towns. Yet, there is an element of quiet dignity to this area that I have not witnessed on previous trips to Latin America. I attribute it to the cleanliness. The towns along the road were pristine, and honestly, as each passed and it became apparent that English would get a person nowhere in these towns, they started to hold a certain allure, compounded by the driver’s tales of the eternal spring, the easy life with small expenses, and the sheer amount of life! Who knows? I may end up investigating this part of the world in greater detail.

The first advice given by our hosts at Venado Cave was to leave our camera equipment in the cars, unless we wanted it to get wet. This could not have been more appropriate, because this promised not to be an easy tourist trek. Venado Cave had neither paths nor lights, but what it lacked in commodities, it compensated with cave crickets, bats, fishing spiders, tarantulas, and whip spiders. And they were big. Crawling through tiny, muddy tunnels, not knowing whether the next hand would land on some sharp exoskeleton, was definitely… exciting. We slogged through rivers, climbed rock walls, and wriggled through passageways in a way that reminded me of Joseph Campbell’s hero metaphor: the hero must descend into death to emerge renewed, and sure enough, we emerged into the cleansing rain.

Back at the hotel in drier clothes, we sat down to happy hour and reflection on the day. As the rain settled, the volcano rumbled, and a crispy beetle appeared in my Arroz con Mariscos, we decided that there wasn’t much else to do at that point but go to bed. Still, Tyler and I made one attempt at night exploring but, lacking a flashlight, didn’t get far. We will have to take this into consideration tomorrow when we go into town.

Which Waves Where?

I take issue with so-called "reality," the conventional driving force behind career choice and emotional development. It's all fine and dandy to consider certain things unattainable or illusory, but in my brief experience on this planet, I hesitate to give a solid definition to "reality."

One of the key rules of writing is to "write what you know," as long as it's not fantasy. There are many points one could argue here (e.g. Harry Potter and Avatar), but what I've come to understand about fantasy is that being unreal makes it more difficult to relate. It has been suggested that I switch my genre of choice to something more relatable, more real. Here's the problem:

• I know three people who have been visited by visible spirits.
• Two of my friends are clairvoyant.
• Two are Muses.
• One is a psychic healer.
• One is convinced he's been abducted by aliens.
• One works at a haunted juvenile correction facility.
• One can light his hand on fire and blow flames across the room without being burnt.
• One is still terrified after watching a demon crawl out of her roommate's body two years ago.
• One labels himself a gypsy vagabond.
• One gets stomachaches before earthquakes.

For now, we'll ignore the "indigo star child who glitches machines and talks to spiders," label, because that, in itself, is a long story. My point is that my reality, or what I experience as True (T), is what the self-titled "normal" would consider preposterous. By conventional logic, it is False (F). T = F?

Case in point: Today, while driving home from Provo, I stopped off to visit the new location of a store where I used to work. I got pulled into a Theta Healing session (which, luckily, ended up being free). Compared to the two times I had my aura read, this one left me utterly baffled. After sending me up my chakras, through the "jelly-like substance that is the Laws... and into the Seventh Plane of Existence," the reader gave me three valid points: I'm not eating as well as I should, I'm inhibiting the expression of my emotions, and due to stress, my brain is low on Omega Waves (ω).

Well, a negative reading invariably puts me in the mood for research, so I hopped on over to Google to research my Omega Waves and found that Omega Waves don't actually exist (ω = F). What we're left with, after substitution, is ω = F = T. In order to restore balance, I have to add more of a nonexistent thing to my logically false worldview in order to make things more real.

ωTF?

Time Text

I just received a text message reading "Hi kyle hope all is well. :)" The number is not registered in my phone, for whatever reason. I think I recognize it. I think it may belong to a crush of the past. Instantly, a stream of old fantasies blasts into my head, screaming at me, "Text him back! Text him back! Text him back!"

I did send a reply, reciprocating the well-wishing and asking for identification, and there is where the battle began, the return of that crazy, consuming hunger for knowledge, for control of the situation. Who are you? Why are you contacting me now? Is there some sort of future we can share? Need to know. Need to know. Need to know.

I am grateful for the last year of concentrated recovery, because in the few hours since it started, that battle has already ended. If it is who I think it is, and he wants to talk, he will get back into contact with me again eventually. If he decides it would be healthier to stay anonymous and on a separate path, then it is just as well. One of the worst mistakes I made in that scenario two years ago and in more recent ones has been the need for immediate response, instant gratification. Call me back now! Text me back now! Don't you care about me? Are you having more fun without me?

I look back on these days and shudder, largely because I have since experienced the other side: the obsessive text storms that disapprove of my living my own life, the constant grasping for certainty, that craving for assurance and approval. The question I have learned to ask myself when the craving strikes again is: What is the consequence? What if I do not get what I want? In screenwriting terms, I would say, "What are the stakes if he does not text me back?" and the answer has never been anything catastrophic, regardless of my limbic system's rampages. The stakes are simply not high enough to stress about it. Had this been suggested to me a year ago, I would have laughed at the impossibility of damming the flood of emotions, but now, it has become an integral part of my daily life. Ergo, I will pat myself on the back and get back to business, chiefly, sleep. Sweet, textless sleep... Good night!

Putting on the Futz

I'm back home for about five days. I expected thunderstorms but found more storm than thunder. Rather than ask for a refund, I would rather marvel over the incredible greenery. For being a desert, the Salt Lake Valley is absolutely bursting with technicolor green! The pansies, clematis, and cacti are blooming, and it's simply marvelous.

As I whacked weeds with my dad and dug dahlias with my mom, I remembered just how much I miss this type of work. In Los Angeles, I have my little balcony garden, but it does not offer the same opportunities to futz around. Yes, I miss futzing, that beautiful set of weekend hours turning off the mind storm to yank weeds and trim branches. I miss mowing the lawn and deadheading daisies and gorging upon the fruits and vegetables that spring from the earth here. I look at the plants thriving here in their natural soil and wish my own plants could also thrive in their pots.

Looking onto the future, I realize that it will be many years before I can afford to live with a real garden again, but being back here reminds me of how much I want it. It's reaffirming my goals and boosting my motivation to work. As the job hunt really gets underway in the next week before I head to Costa Rica, perhaps this idea will keep me more open to whatever opportunity presents itself. In the interim, I need to find more excuses to get out into the wilderness. I was looking at tents today. Look out, mountains.

On Goodbyes

I'm not one for insomnia. I love my sleep too much to pass it up, but right now, it is playing hard-to-get. Less than an hour ago, I said goodbye to one of my best friends, one who has catalyzed so many positive changes in my life in the past year. It's just starting to sink in: a nice, refined, and even healthy sadness. Though I believe the only final goodbye is in death, there is something about the word "goodbye" holds a strange, sad finality to it. This is why I normally prefer alternatives, such as "Laters!" or just a salute. They distract.

Technically, I have no reason to be sad. He's starting a marvelous new chapter in his life, and we'll still be in touch. Yet, it may just be the word itself that brings things down. The brain tends to subdue the rest of the body in order to fight change. Nonetheless, this is the final sequence of my Act I. Now that he has flown, I shall also fly home for several days, and then, an entirely new life begins. New horizons. New futures. New friends. New challenges. This should be a joyous time for all, but perhaps a little sadness is necessary to acknowledge old happiness and clear the way for the new. I hope so.

In any case, goodbye, and good luck. I send nothing but love and admiration with you in your suitcase and keep nothing but gratitude for knowing you. Shine on, stay fabulous, and for Pete's sake, live, live, live!

I Like to Hear Voices

I read an interesting book last night that prompted me to make some changes to break out of my Social Cocoon. In that post, I hypothesized that fear is partially responsible for the popularity of digital communication over verbal (e.g. the fear of interrupting, the fear of a Freudian slip, or the fear of seeming vapid or intrusive). So, on recommendation that I face a fear per day, I decided to cut back heavily on my text message conversations in favor of the verbal.

Apart from the facing of fear, there is a practical reason for favoring verbal to textual. It is more efficient to share information in a five-minute conversation than in a three-hour exchange of sporadic texts with character limits. It is additionally a more effective cerebral exercise to express oneself clearly and concisely without the luxury of a Delete button.  It is thirdly a more effective means of gauging a person's emotional subtext and meaning.

Practicality aside, I spent 90% of my social life online in high school and held more than half of my conversations over text throughout college.  As a result of these habits, I began to feel a profound disconnect from people, especially on the emotional level.  Texts are not emotional, no matter how many CAPITALIZED LETTERS and exclamation marks one can add.  At my low point I decided I had become too robotic to fit in with the human race, and I was miserable.  This was less than a year ago.

I don't think it will be easy to make this switch.  Phone and face-to-face conversations take time, which is a scarce and precious commodity, especially in Los Angeles.  Still, I am convinced that the return to humanity from the robotic will be worth the time and effort.

T.M.O.S.B.T.

The following phrase has been quoted to death over the centuries, though perhaps that stands as a testament to its veracity. "To thine own self be true," comes from the mouth of Polonius in Act I, Scene III of Shakespeare's Hamlet. They are words of wisdom to be sure, but lately, I've found myself questioning how to apply this advice to personal growth. The question is: Does total truth to mine own self equate spiritual stagnation?

To answer this question, I had to ask, "What stage of my life set the standard for 'mine own self,' or 'MOS?'" I looked back as far as I could remember, to my days of writing stories about cuddly animals and playing Super Bambi versus the Poachers with my brother. This was longer than a year ago, thank you very much. We all emerge into the world tabula rasa (unless you're keen on the idea of Original Sin, which we'll leave to someone else), so logically, it would make sense to pick the earliest memory as the foundation of the self.

Because of this, in the past few years, I really started to embrace what I considered my roots: animals, nature, and childish wonder. I had to adhere to it, because that combination made me unique in a culture that daily bombarded me with new images to embody. To MOS, I had to be true. So said my professors, mentors, parents, and friends, and I had no intention of letting them, or myself, down. The logic was sound, and for a while, I was comfortable with it, until I realized that adhering to this idea made it more and more difficult to interact with people. It made me less interested in getting to know them, learn from them, grow with them. I began to stagnate intellectually and spiritually. But I was doing as I'd been told! I had built my foundation upon my innocent years. Why, nonetheless, was I not feeling like myself?

Unfortunately, there was a problem with my logic. My earliest memories of playing Super Bambi are jarred by one critical factor: I was playing Super Bambi, not Super Kyle. Even at that early point, I was embodying an exaggerated version of a cartoon animal, animated fifty-five years before I was born, in a part of the country I had never visited. So how could I consider this the foundation of MOS? If I'd been embodying other characters since the very beginning, what, in this whole process, counted as MOS?

The question has already been answered: the process. Sure, I'd played the role of a fictional woodland creature for an amount of time that shall be left unspecified. Sure, I went by the moniker "Super Bambi" in school for several years, and "Feathers H. Archaeopteryx" for several more thereafter. However, hidden behind this succession of masks, the same process fueled these changes. I gave both characters superpowers. I made them into forces of good against evil. I created their relationships to their friends, relatives, and, in Super Bambi's case, children. It was the process that bound these two characters together, the process that contained MOS.

Stepping out of Story Realm, how does this apply to personal growth? On Saturday, I received an invitation to a party with whom I considered "hot, young Hollywood." It was a standard affair of standing in circles, clutching alcohol, and shouting over loud music. While there, I maintained my infuriating practice of waiting quietly for a conversation to begin and reacting thereafter. Exhaustion hit me around midnight, because, in the past year, I adopted Ben Franklin's rule of slumber, which has made late-night parties very difficult. A friend at the party told me that if I want to succeed, I should learn to love the lateness, because that is how Hollywood operates. Later, he sent me a text featuring Polonius' quote, and I wondered for a few days whether ol' Ben had been leading me into stagnation.

I concluded that MOS is not contained in an ideal that can never be attained or regained, but rather every choice made thereafter. To stay true to one's identity while still growing, each lifestyle choice must be made with consideration to the big picture. It has come to a point where staying up too late leaves me exhausted for two straight days afterward. Will leaving early cost me connections? It may. Will showing up somewhere else, fatigued and incoherent, cost me connections? I'll leave that to the reader's speculation.

Looking into MOS, my big-picture processes are the pursuits of serenity and excellence. While my lifestyle will change in the next few years as I find employment and shed the academic schedule, it will be imperative to keep these processes in mind, no longer focusing on regaining the past but on a constant, monitored evolution.

Thank You For Applying

Dear Dater Dan,

Thank you for submitting your application for the role of "Sugar Daddy." After long hours of deliberation, the committee here at Cranium Jarrettum, Inc. has decided that your application has not met our heart and magic standards. This letter is to serve as a written confirmation of this decision.

The committee was impressed by your résumé, your financial qualifications, your Mercedes, and your first-name acquaintance with no less than four dozen household-name celebrities. For this reason, you may wish to apply for the open position of "Friend" or "Professional Contact."

If you decide to apply for one of said positions, please call or E-mail the Head of Staffing to set up an interview at your soonest convenience. We are currently in the early stages of the interview process for these positions.

Thank you so much for deciding to interview with Cranium Jarrettum, Inc. It was a delight to meet you and discuss life with you.

Whatever you decide about the current openings, please feel free to apply for any future openings for which you may qualify.

We wish you every personal and social success with your mate hunt and into the future. Thank you for your interest in Cranium Jarrettum, Inc.

Regards,

Kyle Jarrett
H.O.S. Cranium Jarrettum, Inc.

Prophet Paparazzi

My mother has a penchant for bringing her camera everywhere we go as a family and making sure to snap pictures of me when I least expect - or want - her to do so. While I bemoan and bellyache each time she whips out her Nikon, conditions could be worse. I could be a Hollywood star, hounded day and night, in public and sometimes private, by the paparazzi. My face, in its sundry contortions, pleasing and otherwise, could pop up daily on tabloid covers and blogs, and there would be nothing I legally could do to stop it. Still, even modern celebrities have it easy compared to their deceased counterparts, who must rely on the living to speak for them.

The Islamic Republic of Pakistan has issued a national ban on Facebook and Youtube for what it deems blasphemous content, chiefly the visual depiction of the Prophet Muhammad. While never explicitly forbidden in the Qur'an, the visual depiction of people, and especially prophets, brings threats of idolatry and the loss of respect for the holy essence. But who would dream of showing any less than the utmost deference for a holy figure?  Granted, I laughed out loud at the Jesus Christ Superstore, but as anyone who has seen or read The Name of the Rose can attest, not everyone finds such humor appropriate.  At all.

The laughless have a point, of course. These figures made tremendous sacrifices to bring their profound, and sometimes terrifying, messages to the trembling public. It is fair to demand that they be shown respect, but there comes a point when the backlash against disrespect becomes excessive. I have mixed feelings about Facebook. I would argue that it trivializes friendships by detaching users from face-to-face interaction, wastes time with its countless trivial surveys and applications, and promotes artifice with its "Maybe" and "Like" options. Nonetheless, while it can never replace a phone call or a trip to lunch, Facebook provides a quick and accessible way of staying updated on what's happening in my friends' lives and an excellent forum for sharing discoveries. It is a useful tool, and like most tools, its use is optional.  The ban of this tool, while preventing the viewing of blasphemous content, also eliminates the benefits that would-be users could glean from using it.

As a tool, Youtube is even more valuable. "Valuable?" one may ask. "But I've wasted countless hours reliving my glory days with salvaged episodes of 1980s cartoons!" Because it is open to everyone, its pages contain almost any kind of educational material one could want, from history lessons to portraits of national beauty to language lessons. All it takes is a search and a click, and a whole world of information appears in front of the user. Denying an entire country access to this resource for the sake of a few stupid groups is ridiculous, bordering on cruel. Good Muslims can stay good Muslims, even if some people in the world disrespect their tenants. Discipline is one of the chief virtues of Islam, and by hiding potentially corrupting elements, the Pakistani government is denying its people access to that virtue.