non participation

Mist and drizzle, but under this huge what may be a Torrey pine the ground is dry for writing and exercise. Two others, at least, in this park: a man with sideburns reclined in his car; the tall, somewhat formidable homeless guy who sleeps here under the awning of the little league bleachers, who collects cans.

The king of days for non-participation! For those from nations with a christian history. Those who participate are doing so, and we are left to ourselves. The others are not participating in their usual routine; streets are more quiet, more places closed than at other times--externally, the world is not participating either.

More drizzle, umbrella now.

Hard rain. Wind.

Black and red, green, blue, drops on the screen. Wish I had my tarp?

Not a lot different from a solo mountain day.

Well--

Challenging times recently. Was a bit wrapped up with one of the more living. With these, I get to the point where I simply witness. Odd, for the witnessed, has never lasted. I respond, somewhat, to calls to life--my response unmet, the call given with half a heart perhaps as I imagined, and there was no other half here: well that is hard.

So the heavy rain passed. Tree drip now. Gusts of drip.

Were the living one gone--perhaps I'd just be focused on some project. The only project comes to mind: work on shipping out: three character refs.

dRIp; A drip on "Tree drip".

She is gone and left me her cat and her neighbor.

I could go south to Huehuecoyotl.

Could get some job here. Feel somewhat drawn to adult daycare for the developmentally disabled. Those I see at Kroc.

Oh. An old friend, and what are those? What is a friendly feeling? What is concern from 3,000 miles distant? Well hers, from that far and five months past, affected me. . .

Life could be would be different elsewhere. But I'll be moved rather than make a move?

Something special and true about this space when I, as now, do not eat or read to avoid it.

Self as cultural being seems to be the topic, I feel close by, of a meditation.

Should you complace with the culturepractice of another . . .

And where does the energy to live or will come from. . . Is there anything in interaction beyond culture? Interaction = mutual valuing of culture?

My pickle is: self-imposed isolation due to non-participation in transportation as practiced here. Why have I no will to change? I am so comfortable? Fire--is there any way to be on it?

Is my no-will so strong because when left alone, when I leave the calls to interaction, when they leave me, I am comfortable, content?

No need to ramble more here. The goal of writing has been met. I thought I might resolve or affirm to make some change in my non-life--such as not being here, not living here by next December.

Barking dog.

Pretty lame in a certain way if I'm still here then. Only in comparison.

I've become aware how much strength there can be in being with a partner. With that strength, potential for harm. Much of culture is built on partnership. And the single ones. . .

Well--no one is entirely. Somewhere there was an interaction.

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What do old friends mean? Friends of an old self? With whom will the next interaction be? What claim do they have on me? What do I have for them but witness?

Sun and bright sky. Glistening on needle-leaves.

You can be my friend if you embrace my culture.

My culture? Walk. Sense. Contemplate. Stay near.

Shipping out, rather a disruption.

The meditation (last week) got me focused on companionship perhaps only to learn a bit about culture.

A dog walker by my oddness. "Good morning!" Showers.

The warmness of my brain--comfort there--in interactions with others challenge comes in. Did not used to have that central warmth, or did, but sought so much in you that I never knew.

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A newer friend invited me to church. Got the note a few days late. By then non-response not so hard. But actually had thought to ask.

A statement of faith her church has. Culture. Reproduction. Do g-ds have faith? In what? Do they state?

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Distant light blue.

I'd interact more were the quakers, unitarians, buddhists, grand christian cathedrals (St Barts), not separated by the transit I avoid. In NYC.

A creative response. Neighborhood door-knocking. But I only live here waiting to leave.

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Kevin is that friendly guy who swims in the day. A student at CalPolySlo.

Showers.

Cheetah is a female-sexed dog (my mistake). Gender? Yearnings, trans-species? (Second Life avatar and persona?)

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I rode with L to her work yesterday and helped her mend some student work before firing. Took pictures. A wonderful thing to do--somewhat somber too, a sort of unimagined event. But she's gone now till the fifth. I had never been. A place so much a part of her life. And broadening to me to go. UCSD *is* 15 min by car--1.5 to 2 hours by transit. Not a wonder SANDAG still seeks to build highways. The sky a distant illumined blue beyond a long mottled plain of clouds. The campus of SD Jewish Academy fairly rich with art, artistic thought, and I know from my own experience in a private school with art tiles (less art than was here but more natural beauty: All Saints' in Carmel Valley)how this adds to good memories, connection to place.

Good so good to just be and work and read, often silent, with this other's presence.

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Wind in trees, not much dripping. Moving orange mesh fence. Sound of cars on road, a rushing. A plane-- L is on one; another, undulating jet sound. Birds, a chatter conversing. A drop on umbrella drum. Rustling leaves. Ants progress on curb of wheelchair walkway. Phone hangs, dims, attempting to receive something. Reflection, in the dark glass, of eyes, rosy nose, whiskers over lip, red edge of synthetic fleece hat. Looking around. Purple flowers. Straightening spine. Transmission did not succeed. [Later arrives: a post to sdtjdph I'd scheduled for seven days from the 18th].

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Time to exercise, to send this out?

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reread; shivers; time to move.

Peace & creative love,