August 17, 2020

 I\’m at Storyville again.

Yesterday was probably the hottest day this year Caitlin and I rode up to Bellingham. I showed her the city. We even rode through campus (illegally). 

Riding through campus felt like a metaphor. A motorcycle, for me, symbolizes individuality, exposure, and awareness. \”Illegally\” riding through campus felt empowering. I really don\’t like to use the word empowering because it\’s currently being overused, but it feels appropriate: I am no longer a student; I am an individual revisiting my past while asserting myself. 

Caitlin says that I woke up last night talking frantically, looking up, asking something over and over again, and then I laid back down and was panting heavily, trying to catch my breath. I vaguely remember panting. I don\’t remember my dreams too well. I remember one where I am walking through downtown Seattle but I can\’t really see the ground; skyscrapers are going up and down as if they were bridges, towers, and walkways all at once—something that used to point up but that has now turned into a labyrinth.

I get the sense that I urgently need to do something.


There is a reminder on my phone that says, \”Take a noches towel.\”

There is a young girl, no older than 18 across the street sweeping and tidying up a restaurant called Grappa. She is beautiful. And I honestly feel that I can say that platonically. As I have grown older I am beginning to understand the \”beauty of youth\”. It is the beauty of a fruit on a vine—symmetrical, unblemished, smooth, taut-and-supple, fresh. But this is not beauty in its highest form. The best raw fruit often is bruised and blemished; a few years reveal the deeper qualities of natural beauty. And the most beautiful things require much time, effort, and care; and many of the most beautiful things can only be understood after long reflection.

Beautiful young people are like fresh, not-quite-ripe fruit on a tree.

Beautiful adults are a bounty of ripe fruit; it does not always look the prettiest, but this is when it is at its best.

And with age, beauty may be lost. But there are ways to preserve it. The first way is to attempt to desperately retain the qualities of the beauty of youth. The second is preservation by way of transformation; the body becomes spirit/spirits: like how fruit can be fermented into preserves or alcohol. The beauty that comes with age takes work to make, and it takes understanding to enjoy.

body becomes spirit

I need to think more about wabi sabi. I have an intuitive sense for it, but I don\’t really have the words for it.

Earlier this morning I wanted to angrily kick rocks and say that Plato has nothing more to offer me and that, intellectually speaking, I am worthless. Well, Plato still has value… I know that much. But I\’m starting to wonder if I might better off skipping grad school and instead train to be a motorcycle mechanic.


The Mercurial One. Always changing.

\”Tell us of The Rat King,\” they say.

\”He is only a distant and dubious vision.\”

Despite recent adventures and excitement, my world seems like a wasteland; it is missing crucial things. A better world is promised around the corner, but I know that this is all I get.

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