The girl at the corner coffee stand gives me free coffee. I can?t remember her name, but I went to her wedding last year because her mom was room-mates with mine and ever since then, she refuses to let me pay for my grandé mochas, no whipped cream. I tip her extra, and thank her. She?s very nice.

I had a horrific dream last night. It took place in some futuristic, parallel dimension, and in it, a friend had just returned from a South American expedition and a group of friends and I had him over to hear about his travels. We were excited to hear his stories, and all gathered around to hear how it went.

During the course of tale-telling, he began, with difficulty, to detail the findings of a dreadful disease he had encountered. This sickness was passed by simply touching an infected object, or being bitten by mosquito that carried the disease. Incurable and deadly, somehow a tribe of people had learned to survive with this pestilence and even incorporated it into their culture. He had spent most of his time with these people, studying them.

He pulled off his rucksack to show us a few artifacts he had obtained. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a fly on his back that was hiding under the pack. It quickly flew off into the corners of the room, free of its confines, and I nervously looked around to see if anyone had caught it. They hadn?t. Turning my attention back to our raconteur, we examined the items he had brought back: a key, a book, a few leaflets, and many pictures. He explained that all the items were possibly infected and for none of us to touch them, so we sat back while he described the pictures for us.

Suddenly, one of the dogs in the room that had been quietly sleeping in the corner, got up and came over to investigate. Wrapped up in conversation, no one noticed when he picked up the key with his teeth and swallowed it down.

I was lost in the sudden comotion that erupted in the room. Everyone began to panic, and I turned to my friend who began frantically digging through his pack.

"What?s going to happen to him?" I asked. "If that key is contaminated, will it affect a dog?"

"I?m not sure," he replied, "but let?s hope not."

We waited for what seemed an eternity, and eventually the dog went back to sleep in a corner. A few people were pacing nervously about the room, and I started to wonder if this visit was such a good idea. The light in the room had dimmed with the setting sun. Everything began to take on the air of a "Blade Runner" scene.

I climbed up a flight of stairs to a loft above the living room where we had been sitting, and the dog got up and began to follow me. As he was climbing the stairs, he suddenly began to retch, violently. Everyone stood to see what was going on. A few started to gasp at the sight that followed. The dog?s gags became more desperate, more vicious, and he began to throw up a clear liquid. Suddenly, the liquid turned bloody, and as he vomited more blood, he fell to the floor and began convulsing and shaking. I turned away, as a few girls in the room began crying. Someone screamed for help.

And just as soon as it started, it stopped. The silence that followed was eerie. I turned around. Lying in a pool of blood was a pile of fur and flesh and bone. The dog?s skull had split, and it?s hair had shed in a mess around the body. Horrified, I turned away. The crying resumed, and our visitor stood solemn by the scene.

"Well, you?ve all just witnessed how deadly this disease is, first-hand," he said, softly. "It strikes without warning, and there?s no predicting when it will hit once you?ve been infected." He turned to his belongings and began packing them up.

"What do we do now?!" I screamed at him. "You know, you?ve probably killed us all." He apologized under his breath, and continued packing. I could sense he was just as horrified as the rest of us, but somehow it seemed as though he didn?t care. Frantically, I scrambled down the stairs, past the body, and grabbed him.

"I saw a fly."

"What?" He stopped suddenly, and turned to face me.

"A fly. It was under your pack, and when you took it off, it flew into the room somewhere."

"Shit. Nobody move," he said, and everyone did as he said. He began to walk around the room. I ran into the restroom and pulled off my shirt. Standing in front of the mirror, I examined my shoulders, and found a small, red bite mark. There was no way to tell if whether it was an insect bite, but I began to panic. I ran out of the bathroom.

"I think... I think I?ve been bitten." Everyone turned around, and my friend turned with something clenched in his hand.

"It?s okay, I got it." He opened his hand to reveal a flattened fly, the same one I seen escape, earlier. A sigh of relief passed around the room, but I was still scared shitless. Everyone began to leave, and I pulled my friend aside.

"What do I do if I?ve been infected?" I asked, frantically. He motioned for me to quiet my voice, and pulled a weathered notebook out of his sack. By the time everyone had gone, he handed me the notebook.

"While I was down there..." He paused, and looked around. "I got it, too." I looked down at the notebook in my hands. "Those are the notes I took from the tribespeople who helped me get through this. There is a lot of wisdom in those pages. I know it by heart now, so I don?t need it. Here. You take it. Read it." He grabbed my hand, and squeezed.

"I?m sorry," he whispered before heading out the door. Over the next few hours, I reluctantly cleaned up the mess, stopping occasionally to vomit and wipe tears from my eyes. When it was done, I sat down in the dimming twilight, stunned at the day?s events. The notebook was lying on the table next to me and I picked it up to read what words my friend had written. What I read was horrifying.

The tribespeople had learned to live with this disease, mostly by learning ways to avoid becoming infected. Inevitably, though, people did become infected. They had a special name for the event, the precise moment when someone caught the disease, although I don?t remember it. There was a ritual ceremony to commemorate the moment. The infected person was given a list of ten rules or suggestions he should do, now that he had become a ticking timebomb with no visible clock, and although I remember reading them in the dream, only a few of them come to me now.

A few points described the symptoms of the disease becoming active, and what to do to prevent infecting others. The one point that stands out most in my mind, however, is the atmah -- a life journey, or quest, one must undertake once he has the disease, and he cannot wait another moment to begin. The inflicted must leave at once, ignoring all belongings and responsibilities. The exact time the disease will become active always varies and can never be predicted, so the person must take full advantage of the time he has. The ultimate goal of one?s atmah is known only to the person, himself. It is a deeply personal and spirtual journey.

Upon reading this, I realized I had to leave. I had to do what I had always dreamed of doing -- of traveling, of seeing the world, of being things I?ve always wanted to be. I had to begin my atmah. Frantically, I began gathering my things, but remembered the point of ignoring all worldly posessions. Confused and frightened, I wondered if I could do it. Could I really leave all this behind? The thought of dying like that dog petrified me. While wondering, I realized I was wasting time. I had to leave. Now.

I took a deep breath. And woke up.

After dinner and drinks with friends on Saturday night, we made a quick visit to the Hide & Seek where we danced and I watched several boys attempt, rather unsuccessfully, to pick him up. Although I claim to be fully past our relationship, part of me seethes with jealousy when I notice any interest from him in someone else, or vice versa. Perhaps it?s male instinct rearing its ugly head. Maybe it?s my anger at not being hit on. In any event, I played it off, and feigned happiness for his popularity.

Sunday found Eric and me walking the dogs in Bear Creek Park -- an activity I?ve wanted to do with Sumo for a while now. It was a good walk, and conversation was plentiful. We talked about virutally everything, from pet care to dating interests, from new technology to simply being lonely. I felt a connection developing. A few points during the hike, I even visualized a passionate convalescence in which previous misdeeds were disavowed and we were reunited in an embrace, followed by the inevitable, movie-screen kiss. Eventually, one action or word would eliminate that fantasy and jerk me back into reality, confused and annoyed.

Looking back on the weekend, I did have a good time. Rather than analyze the reasons behind my bête-noir, however, I?ve come to understand that I can put judgement aside, accept other people, and enjoy their company. I realize that I may not find Eric palatable as a boyfriend, but that by accepting him for who he is, and even accepting the things I dislike about him, I may be able to like him as a human being and he may be able to do the same for me. Only time will tell, but we may have honestly and simply found a way to make this aftermath-friendship work.

The boy couldn?t have been more than 7 or 8 years old, although in the desert sun, traces of age seemed to blend into the sky and road that, ultimately, blended into each other if you looked far enough out on the horizon. Heat waves bathed the pavement in mirrored ice that melted and iced over, repeatedly. It reminded me of a particularly hot summer in ?84 when we drove through the Arizona desert. The thermostat in our Plymouth minivan read 111 degrees Fahrenheit, so we stopped for ice-cream, but it melted before we could bring the iced confectionaries to our sweat-soaked lips.

I crossed my arms. He seemed to take that gesture as an inquisition and looked up at me, squinting slightly, but continued to nervously dig his toes into the sand. He was the modest sort, after all. I looked up for an answer. The sky was silent and impossibly blue. A reluctant breeze ruffled the boys feathers, which barely touched the tops of his dusty Levi 501s. Out of impatience, I reached forward and grabbed the boy?s shoulders.

"I can?t help you if you don?t talk to me." Trembling, he struggled against my grip, and several feathers came lose in my hand. Startled, I released him suddenly, and his stumbled back, landing hard on the dusty, road shoulder. I offered my hand to help him up, but he ignored me and rose clumsily. Sniffling silently, he gave three powerful sweeps with his wings and disappeared into the sky, leaving a trail of dust and feathers.

I watched him fly away, and then turned back towards my pickup. Sticking a feather behind my ear, I walked around to the front to examine the damage. A shattered headlamp shouldn?t be too expensive to replace, I thought. The basketball-sized dent in my bumper, however, would be another story. It?s amazing how much damage such a little body can do to a pickup driving only 35 MPH.

My compiler project is really the only ball and chain I have to deal with right now, since work and my other classes have really stepped aside to let me focus on it. I?ve temporarily shut down my other website and have stopped going out on the weekend; two major time-consuming activities in my life. There is one other activity that seems to have filled the rest of my free-time, but it?s of a more personal nature (and if you can gather what that activity is from such a vague description, you?re more of a pervert than I am).

I?ve pretty much lost contact with the outside world, including many of my friends, and I?m hoping that this temporary estrangement I?ve imposed on myself is a good idea. After all, being unsocial can become a bad habit; I know, because I?ve lived it. Other than my father and Sumo, I?ve been keeping to myself, and I think that was a stalwart in picking my life up off the floor. This, of course, means virtually no dating has taken place over the course of the past few months, and the quiet on the love front has been nice, but distracting.

I suppose I should document a small scare I had last week concerning a certain VD. After a brief, relatively anonymous encounter with a boy I met from Los Angeles, I came down with a cold and quickly noticed a small abnormality where one certainly shouldn?t be. Looking up several informative sites on the internet turned up a novice diagnosis of what could only be an STD. I was horrified, needless to say.

In the course of a few hours, I had not only looked up support groups and dating services, I had also scheduled an appointment with my physician to have it checked out. I was determined to accept my misfortune as a hand dealt by fate for some greater purpose. I believe I went through all stages of grief in a matter of forty-seven minutes. After registering with several sites and finding a few potential people to talk to about my newfound "problem," I went to bed thinking my life, as I knew it, was changed forever.

The doctor?s office was empty, and I was admitted as soon as I stepped into the waiting room. Relieved, I spilled my guts and dropped my shorts. No doubt my doctor was taken by suprise that I had done so much research and was resolute in my acceptance of this disease. He took a brief look at the goods, and quickly denouced my claim. It was not an STD.

"What do you mean, it?s not?" I asked, almost defiantly. "Are you sure?" He nonchalantly scribbled in my records and cleaned up, noting that my "abnormality" was a common irritation and would disappear in less than 24 hours. I stood there with my mouth open. Wait a second, I thought to myself, I should be relieved.

As I walked out to my car to return to the world of paychecks and networked computers, I couldn?t help but feel disappointedly happy. I was disappointed that I had gone through all that torment and frustration and pain, only to come to accepting something that was completely imaginary. I was happy, of course, to realize that I was -- indeed -- clean and undamaged. I burst out into a fit of laughter, followed quickly by an outburst of tears. I came so close to throwing everything away for a few minutes of pleasure. So close.

It?s scary to think where that road may have taken me, but at this point, I have my engine pointed in the right direction, and it?s time to see where it will take me. No looking back. This time, I have a good lesson tucked under my belt. I know how to avoid being derailed by this monster in the future. Now, let?s see if I can use that knowledge to my advantage.

10:18 a.m., ice shatters under the pressure as my pick digs in, cold spray dusting my face. I raise up and grip the handle. Canyon wind ballasts my body from the south, up through the gulley, and I cautiously release my right foot. Ca-chink. I look down and readjust my grip. The sight of the ground, 200 feet below, sends a ripple of sour adrenaline through my hands and neck, and I quickly focus on driving my hooked foot into the ice wall. My grip loosens, and I slip. A flash of white ice and white sky is all I see before I somehow regrip the handle of my ice pick.

Catching my breath, I stop to reel in a breathtaking view. I am alone. And it is beautiful.

Adovada Burrito, Pollo Burrito... Lengua Burrito. That sounds close to "legume," I thought. I could tell the drive-thru boy was becoming impatient, so I ordered, blindly and paid $2.00 to the surly face behind the window.

"One Lengua burrito." I took the bag and pulled out into the parking lot. I was starving. Ripping open the paper parcel, I stuffed the burrito in my mouth and took a huge bite. That?s funny, I thought to myself. There is meat in it. Upon further mastication, I realized that it was definitely beef of some sort, but it had a strange, soft, chewy texture. I looked down at what I had bitten into.

A wave of nausea washed over me as I realized I must have mistakenly ordered some sort of cow organ delight. "Lengua" sounds like "language." Oh shit, this must be cow tongue! Now, I consider myself a fairly reasonable person when it comes to food, and I?ll try pretty much anything. But there was something about eating a piece of an animal that helped it digest food that really put me over the edge. I chewed the remaining chunks in my mouth and gulped it down with a large chaser of Sprite.

I chided myself for being so closeminded, but quickly got over it. Tossing the remaining tongue burrito into the garbage, I headed next door to the Taco Bell where I was rewarded with a 95¢ bean burrito. I should have taken Spanish in high school. Who knows, maybe someday I?ll learn it. But until then, I?m going to stick with places that speak English (or at least have a translator on hand).

Recently, I?ve noticed my attitude and responsiveness to other people has been on the downward slide. It started with Eric. I can?t blame it entirely on him, but while I was dating him, something happened to me that I can?t quite put my finger on. I stopped talking and closed up, but I don?t know why. I?ve spoken with many friends about my recent decline (or shift) in attitude and positive energy, but wasn?t able to come to any conclusion. This is a mystery that my mind is savoring by the moment; it begs to be solved.

I adopted a dog because I hoped that an animal would help me get back in touch with the humanity I?ve lost. The tiring hours, long nights, and endless frustration that come from training Sumo only seem to have succeeded in pushing me in the opposite direction. I?m crabby and upset most of the time. I also notice that whenever someone asks me how I?m doing, I reflexively respond by saying "Fine," without a question likewise. It?s not like me.

I feel like I?m changing, but I feel the same. I?m shifting into a new persona that is still identical to the old me, but a different shade. If I lose this part of myself, I know I?m done for. It?s the part of me that has mourned the loss of every other piece of myself along the way. It mourned the passing of childhood wonder and of expectation and parental omniscience. It?s the part of me that cares. If I lose it, I will be oblivious to any future disintegrations within myself. I will continue shifting into darker shades until I blend into the shadows of inhumanity.

I?ve been dismissively grasping in the dark for an answer to why I?ve been fading away from myself, figuring I?d have a handle on it in no time (I always do). Now, I?m starting to get worried. My grasps are becoming more frantic by the day. It?s like misplacing something and calmly believing you?ll recover it without much effort, only to realize shortly after that you?ve truly lost it. You frantically excavate furniture, piles of laundry, knicknacks, and books, desperate to find it.

Experience has taught me to calm down. Retrace my steps. Where did I have it last? Perhaps this calm that has settled over me is a good thing; it will help me think more clearly. As I curl up in bed, with Sumo by my side, I try to wash away the dirt from my mind. Inevitably, unconsciously, I reach out into the space within my head once more for an answer, but come up empty-handed.

Before I fall asleep, I shift a bit more into the darkness.

Older Entries