Some people, like memories, never leave you. Even when you think they have left your conscious mind, their essence deposits like sediment on the walls of your cells to infiltrate the tiny grooves of your being in order to re-visit you at unsuspecting times. I had a dream about a yoga slacker last night. Sometimes I think that the people who appear in our actual lives, in our fantasies, or in our dreams, bring messages relevant to living meaningful lives.  This one I think was moon induced.

When March arrived this year in California, I started recalling the early morning runs I had taken while the yogaslackers were snow kiting across the state of North Dakota for 3 weeks. I had to check the dates to find out that I was having these recollections exactly one year later but under very different weather conditions etc. It made me wonder if somehow the experience had not been an imprinted cycle, like the rings of a tree. The impetus to run in sub zero temperatures at 6 AM had been the 2XTM journey, but my own will locked into a sort of machine when it came to the actual running. I was also having lucid dreams and fantasies and some of these dreams brought insights and details that I otherwise would not have known. In one particular dream Jason was part of a sort of traveling circus where characters morphed into machines. I also remember feeling insecure (in the dream) about how I would measure up physically, the very deepest part of my actual psyche expressing itself. Outside the dream, I knew I was no match for the yoga slacker physically, but was delighted that he met my need to have an engaging, clever and intellectually energetic writing partner. Because we did not know each other and only wrote to each other, he satisfied a desire to live my actual and dream lives in delightful unison.

During yoga class I became annoyed when the instructor attempted to replace the imagery of my dream with other images. In the dream we (the yoga slacker and I) were physically in one another’s presence, but the connection extended beyond that realm, like it had in so many of my dreams about him. I can only liken it to an effortless feeling of perfection and of being one with something beyond the physical– a fantasy, a dream or a desire to live in the flow of grace. I reeled in this realm for the better part of the day as Andrew Bird’s Lull played over and over in my body.

Being alone
It can be quite romantic
Like Jacques Cousteau
Underneath the atlantic
A fantastic voyage
To parts unknown
Going to depths were the sun’s never shown
And I fascinate myself
When I’m alone

 So I go a little overboard
But hang onto the hull
While I’m airbrushing fantasy art on my life
That’s really kinda dull
Oh, I’m in a lull

I’m all for moderation
But sometimes it seems
Moderation itself can be kind of extreme
So I join the congregation
Join the softball team
I went in for my conformation
Where incense looks like steam
I start conjugating proverbs
Where there once were nouns
This whole damn rhyme scheme’s
Starting to get me down…

Oh, I’m in a lull
I’m in a lull

I’m rambling on rather self consciously
While I’m stirring these condiments into my tea
And I’m so lame
I bet I think this song is about me
Don’t I, don’t I, don’t I,

I’m in a lull
Oh, I’m in a lull
Oh, I’m in a lull
Oh, I’m in a lull

 Today I did something I never thought I would. I let a 62 year old man cut my hair. He was amazing, wielding a pair of scissors in each hand and chop, chop choping; swaying in time to his artistry. There were so many things I wanted to ask him but I didn’t want to interrupt his artistic trance. I have never seen anybody move like that or scissors fly so quickly around my head. He followed my hair, as he followed my head, its shape from top to back–jawline to neck. As the curls and natural inclinations of the strands revealed themselves, they were incorporated into his creation. As I sat there thinking about how his eyesight was probably not what it used to be, I realized it didn’t matter, he called upon an intuitive sense. He didn’t speak, he just cut. I did find out a few things, however: he was born and raised in San Francisco (North Beach), he had been cutting hair since 1969, his best friend moved from Ohio to California inspired in the 1970s by the song California dreaming, he is Italian. When it was over and I walked to the desk to pay, he must have fumbled for something on the desk because he declared, “I have a hard time acting cool around pretty girls.” He also said what a nice and pleasant surprise it was that I walked in the sudio and when I turned the knob, his “Arrivederci Bella” ringing in my ears, I knew that the pleasure had been all mine. I had spent the afternoon with Tito, the mad scientist hairdresser, in Tito Salon.

Have you heard of one of google’s new features; it provides protection from drunk typing? It’s called mail goggles. When enabled (late nights and weekends), it presents you with a series of complex math problem you must complete before your email will be sent, preventing your from doing the email equivalent to drunk dialing.

I dont mean to be an alarmist, but, does anyone else hear those sirens?  It reminds me of a story Thea once told me. When she was in high school in New Jersey, they held an assembly to discuss the problem of students doing donuts in the parking lot. At some point she became frustrated (she probably wanted to get back to Dance or French class), got on stage and simply stated, “look, if you didn’t do donuts, we wouldn’t have to have this waste of time assembly.” She was booed and hissed off stage by her peers. I recall her incredulity that they couldn’t see she was on their side; that she didn’t want to be patronized by the administration either. At the age of 16, my friend was asking for what she felt should have been obvious: social responsibility. But, that is exactly what we don’t want…don’t want to be responsible for our behaviour, our  health, our own waste, our children, our communities, our economic or environmental problems. We might be able to save ourselves from sending that drunk email, but can we construct a matrix complex enough to keep us from viewing the size of our garbage heaps? Certainly the irony is that we celebrate the assistance we get in never getting very close to our problems. If we become the adolescents encouraged by these devices designed to protect us from ourselves, don’t we also ultimately lose the ability the make conscious, well meaning choices. How many of our innate survival muscles do wish to atrophy?

Isn’t it through discipline that we truly come to know freedom? Isn’t the system of yoga designed around this insight?

What has the world come to? First we get the Internet (designed by the military for those of you who didn’t know) and finger-tip access to all kinds of information and now someone has invented a device to keep our computers off the Internet (or at least make it a hassle to get on) so that we won’t be distracted by what’s out there.

Freedom

Freedom is an application that disables networking on an Apple computer for up to eight hours at a time. Freedom will free you from the distractions of the internet, allowing you time to code, write, or create. At the end of your selected offline period, Freedom re-enables your network, restoring everything as normal.

Freedom enforces freedom; a reboot is the only circumvention of the Freedom time limit you specify. The hassle of rebooting means you’re less likely to cheat, and you’ll be more productive. When first getting used to Freedom, I suggest using the software for short periods of time.

Suggested donation $10.

This is rather bizarre, but in a bizarre sort of way I understand how we need to be protected by our greatest inclinations. I like the circuitous path of the world wide web and the idea that I can have so much information at my fingertips. Sometimes I think I live the most interesting part of my life here, researching obscure facts, reading Emily Magazine,  trolling the lives of my friends and objects of my interest and affection (or obsession). If  I need a break from it, well, I can just close the lid and get off, go for a walk. Don’t we all have that “freedom?” Like Emily said, it’s called “self-discipline.” It doesn’t cost $10 either.

Alice, Laurie, Raymond

When Jena and Ryan introduced me to Rock Band, I wouldn’t go near any of the instruments. You see being a perfectionist and an HSP (Highly Sensitive Person) means not wanting to make any mistakes or a fool out of yourself. But one night while Caleb was visiting, I mustered up the courage to sing, then try the drums, the bass and the guitar. Its awkward at first, but worse if you allow yourself to start judging yourself and most of the others are concentrating on their own beats so much that they barely notice if you make a thousand mistakes and in a way it’s okay if you get booted, because they can show their serious moves and save you.

Somehow working through your insecurities and rockin the bass gives you a sense of accomplishment. When everything else seems like heavy metal, gathering with really good people and channeling the performer in you is really just plain old fun.