Subject: Shelter from the Storm
Date: Second week in February, third year of the second millenium

Where am I now? Besides confused?

For those who are having a hard time keeping up, rest assured, so am I. Okay, so right now I'm switching from html editor to wordpad to type the rest of this...

Ah, that's better. Its just a matter of taste really. While some say I'm a wussy for not using VI, I agree. MSWord is smarter than I am, and that's disconcerting. No, unless I'm writing a doctoral thesis I'll stick to wordpad.

Um. So this morning I woke up bright and early at 8:30, and realized I'm in Seattle. Its been two days of pillow fighting and bowling since I've arrived. I came to town to see Frank Bott's photography show. But now instead of catching a ride down with him, I'm catching the 2:40pm Greyhound southbound someday soonish. I think. I expected to be on the road this morning so I'm a bit disconcerted. I think we should call it "displacement anxiety." This is the psychological stress felt by an emotional body which spends too much time in transit. This is best identified by the sensation whereupon waking up, you realize that you are not entirely sure where you are. Jet lag is a different form of displacement anxiety where one's body is reacting to being thrust through space. Even inside a vehicle's shell your body still experiences this force and fatigues accordingly. Thus, 24 hours on an amtrak or airplane can be quite an ordeal.

This morning I awoke bright and early, not entirely sure where I was. I remembered my dreams quite vividly. I rememeber hiding in my parents closet under a loosely knit beige blanket with the door open and expecting "Them" not to see me. Utilizing the literary device of hiding myself in the open which Deleuze references in Logique du Sens via some guy's reading of two short stories of Edgar Allan Poe in which the protagonists hide the letter in the open, the and the antagonist... I digress...

So fatigued am I that I cannot even focus on the page at hand. And strangly rested. I awoke this morning not at all clear on where I was. The dream was sharp enough that It made me forget about being in Seattle, and not Berkeley or San Francisco or points in between; almost so sharp was the dreams edge that it nearly severed the strings binding me to this planetary existence. I awoke with a start, at 8:30 AM after a night of pillowfights. Last night we were at a fundraiser for a film that is being produced. They were trying to raise a Grand, and had a band at a small theater space (The Little Theatre) and hosted a pillow fight. To "Eye of the Tiger" there was a single elimination tourneyment pillow fight atop a low balance beam. Nobody mentioned the balance beam when I signed up... In the state I was in, that alone was a disaster... So Stan kicked my ass. This is the same Stan that unwittingly collaborated with me on the Timecapsule project by casting the cement cube for an installation he did some time ago, and presented as a gift to beth, and benieth which in the back yard is buried the time capsule.

The back yard of where I am now I have to keep remembering. I am in Seattle. I am in Seattle.... For the last three weeks in San Francisco and, Beth reminds me, for the week preceeding my departure, in my mind has there been a consistant misappropriation of name for place. I call on the other and vice versa with infallable failability. I lose every time I try to name S.F./Seattle. In part because I live in Berkeley and not in either of the places I've been inhabiting. But it all becomes liguistics at some point.

I am in need of so much help. I am beginning to realize that. The project I have carved out for the next month is nightmareish. When I was a senior in high school I would skip school often to go to the University of N.C., Charlotte library in order to do research for debate class. ten hours at a time I'd be in there poring through volume after volume on the moral ambiguities of this or that proposition, building cases for and against...

When was in school at Appalachian State U. I once wrote a 30 page paper for a class I was auditing on the relationship between Love and Agression, effectively demonstrating that love and argression are the same, while love and apathy are opposed. I did this siting experimental psychological studies and formulated a new model for Love. The teacher refused to give me a grade on it, saying it was "better than an A."

My love affair with libraries spans back to my earliest memories. fourth grade, playing a primitive RPG called "Oregon Trail" on a TRS-80...


The point is, Now I live in the UC Berkeley library. They have this very wonderful thing called the "Graduate Studies Library" which has a non-circulating collection which includes all the greatest hits of western philosophy in a very concise collection. No need to wade through the stacks, unsure of the credentials of your authors. This collection was hand-picked over the last 50 years by professors to be those books which never leave the library, to always be accessible to all.

And then there's the lovely BQ's. This is where lives the Buddhist studies volumes. And to either side, the rest of the world's religions. But the BQ's is the source of my grief, for therein lies the Abhidhamma and the focal point of all this work I've been doing all these years.

Few of you are aware of the underlying thread in my travels. What on the surface appears to be frivolous has in fact been a systematic study. For my trek to mount Everest I carried with me 1400 pages, hard bound in three volumes of the Mathnawi by Rumi. For my trip to Thailand, I brought the 1200 page second volume of the Short discourses of the Buddha. The three months I lived in Bodhgaya were spent reading, and January of 2000 involved marathon study sessions of 8-10 hours a day, interupted only by 3-5 hours of meditation. I have alternated from school to "home(less) schooling" for the better part of ten years now. And so finally, it comes down to this. I am about to embark on the terrifying adventure of consolidating this 12 years of research into a coherent, relevant, and scholastic format. I started from no knowlege, and after all this time and hundreds of thousands of miles of travel, I have arrived at no knowlege. Fuck. I had better get busy.

So my heart has been inflamed for the last three weeks by my dear dear friend Jen. Beautiful as she is Intellegent... my heart is moved to prosetry...

Cold wind whips up ocean bluff and tide receeds.
From a narrow ledge below The Cliff House
We watch a man trace spirals in the sand.
Lost in the maze of deconstruction I ask her
Same question so many times and in every way,
exploring the artist and/in society.

Wandering through Golden Gate park, to castro
to berkeley, Derrida, Noam Chomsky, Lost in La Manchia
While a monkey masquerades as(s) a president and
singlehandedly revives the nuclear arms race.

Tracing repetitive series in our minds we explore SOMA
the nectar of hindu epics and the site of the meltdown
Horses hitched with caution tape. Yerba Buena. Rode Rage.
Brainwash. Then there was the bar across the street where
We meet a seventies throwback, claims he was at BOTH Woodstocks.

We laugh, we walk arm in arm, The impact of words,
the impermanence of ontology, the solstice light in Finland
High Art Documentaries in Chile. Waitressing in Switzerland.
Art School in Toulous. Her Boyfriend somewhere around Zurich.
My heart breaking every minute we're apart. Art and its relevance
to society. Color schemes and marketing. Art made for/to sale.

Chinatown bar. Another wasted night. The Bartender's drunker than us
but not more than I for her eyes intoxicate me so.
Late night at the hostel, the constant flux of new faces
generations passing through the night. Legacies, lineages
unfinished, unbegun conversations. Endless chatter.
Miguel who spent ten years in India, his project for a mobile
techology library. Van that is a mobile photo studio.
His kids in their London flat buying a house in Scotland.
Gail, the Computational Liguist, discussing how computers think.
Doosi, the Australian model with professional snowboarder boyfriend.
Gregory, my friend from Cafe' Vita constantly trying to out me,
flirting together constantly. Being two bisexuals watching the
Superbowl together in a room of Australians and English.
then one day he's gone. The homeless Salon.
Strange randoms who walk in and burst into song...
Acapella blues jams till 3am. Pool playing with Lucky.
living for the days. North Beach at night. Smoking without end.
The crazy redhed Damian from L.A. though Irish.
the single french traveller without good enlish.
Quiet reserved Japanese couples. Jeremy and his latest conquest.
Chisato the Japanese girl at the pizza place. The SF Brewery and
refillable half-gallon bottles...

Bushwacking through Berkeley Forest. Hunting Chantarelles which
we never did eat. Making plans for indefinite futures. Projects
begun taken just so far then abandoned for the next big thing.
Travels incoherently planned and hastily executed. Loss, emptiness,
the signless, the baseless, the wishless essence of existence.

What are you living for? And what am I. Hideous existential nightmare.
Shelter from the storm, my love. We give us shelter from the storm.

all original material in this site is Copyright Hudson Cress, 2003. All events are part of the elaborate fiction that is my reality. And resemblance to actual events is pure coincidence


se of existence. Life is good in otherwords, and Grad school beckons from across the bay.