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I'm going to Electric Daisy Carnival, again

There's usually a lot of hesitation involved with sharing what the story has been over the last few years. Part of that hesitation is that it doesn't feel like me. A very faint part of myself is what clings to that story. The rest of what comes up just kind of vanishes, meaning there's no place to stick a flag and declare being finished. That was said a lot in an attempt to describe the shifty nature of spiritual awakening. Yet as life continues to be what it is, the story of spiritual awakening sits further and further in the back.

However, this is worth spilling some words over.

My brother dropped me off at the airport to catch my flight to LA. We did the normal thing, hugging and saying brotherly goodbyes and he wished me well with, "have fun at your festival." I'd spent some time after my first EDC back on the east coast in Philadelphia, and we had a chance to talk. It was obvious how amazing the experience at EDC had been and how much it changed my life because it was all I talked about. That and being a wizard.

I laughed, "Oh, I don't think I'll be going to that this year." He smirked, "Yeah, okay."

Three months later, to the day, I'll be heading to EDC.

It was tough making the decision to come to Los Angeles, because I really had no plan or vision or anything. There was simply a strong desire, like a homing signal as one friend puts it, compelling me to be here. I was confused. The first few weeks were riddled with, "Why am I here?" Even considered going to a psychic.

The signs couldn't be ignored though. It wasn't only the signs, highlighting key decisions at times, joking at other times, but also the synchronistic flow of events. To call it "Divine Timing" almost cheapens what the experience is like, but that's what it is. It feels like guidance, as if someone is behind you with their hand gently on your shoulder and are moving you effortlessly through a crowd. It's comforting, because even though you may be staggering, you feel this presence with you to carry the weight of having to figure out the next step.

Even though there are no plans, there's so much support. I feel very safe. There's a guy they call Mooji who says something like, "it feels like you're sitting in the lap of God." I don't want to talk about it too much, because talking about it takes away from simply being in it. I want to be in a position where I'm so dissolved in That, that my words are His words, my actions His actions. It feels like, for whatever reason, getting involved with EDC and the culture of peace, love, unity and respect is purposeful in continuing that dissolution. Maybe it isn't.

Maybe I'm supposed to simply have a good time and enjoy life in every moment. Either way, I'm grateful.

Thank You Magic

I'm in Los Angeles, again, after having spent about two years in Philadelphia. Los Angeles has been a background thought since the first time I moved out here in my early twenties. There's something about the air that tugs at a specific part of me which is otherwise tucked away.

It isn't simply being away from the small town I grew up in. Time has been spent in Colorado, the Bay Area and across the country a few times. Nothing compares to the stale ripeness of L.A. It's a funky town.

There's an energy that swells up and creates a certain kind of perspective which I honestly can't explain. It just feels good, but in an innocent kind of way. Sort of like a child might look at the world with untamed curiosity and openness.

Much of this is owed to simply relaxing and allowing the moment to be whatever it is. Everything settles into a deeper love which is the simple attentive openness that underpins every experience. The moment is sweetly alive.

Part of what points to this is synchronistic events. The idea of synchronicity floats around spiritual conversation and is often brushed off, rightly so. Firstly, no one really knows what it is. The suggestion is that there is some meaning to coincidences. Like the Law of Attraction though, when this is discussed only as a concept, it gets distorted.

The experience of synchronicity is akin to a close friend peaking from behind a tree, as if to say, "Peek-a-boo!" It's a game of hide and seek. The fun part is that there is only one person playing at a time, and that's you, with yourself. So it's more like playing peek-a-boo with yourself in the mirror.

When that's laid over the concept of every coincidence having meaning, the concept buckles. How surprising is it to notice yourself in the mirror? There are moments however when you're walking through the mall or a row of storefronts and suddenly catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. It's unexpected. That's synchronicity.

In a moment, you recognize that everything is in order. It's perfect. You're confronted with that as a fact through direct experience.

Speaking of storefronts, there was one earlier with a sign in that said something like, "You'll never see the magic if you don't look for it."

How do you look for magic?

In every story that has a magic worker, what's obvious is that in order for the magic to work, there needs to be some kind of ritual. There must be a practice of arranging myself or the environment in a way to evoke the mojo. Right along with that is the idea that those who practice must actually practice, building up some kind of stamina to be involved with The Work. (I'm totally stealing The Work from actor jargon, because I'm in L.A., so of course.)

Noticing the magic comes from practicing. One kind of practice is appreciation, which is adding value to something. Ram Dass, one of my favorite spiritual entertainers, says something like, "When you see a tree out in the forest, you don't judge it by saying it's too fat or ugly. You simply look at it and admire it for what it is. So I practice turning people into trees." What would it be like to add value to everything and every experience? That's the practice.

Going back to Law of Attraction for a moment, the way it's described is that the more open you are to a certain kind of experience, the more the Universe provides that to you. If you want to be angry or depressed all the time, you'll always be presented with reasons to be depressed and angry. If you want to be happy and blissed out all the time, you'll always be presented with reasons to be that way.

It's another way of saying that the way you think about the world is how the world appears. The confusion of Law of Attraction as a concept is that the bait is that you can get anything you want. You can't. You can certainly have any feeling you want though. The car, money and job are ways to get the body-mind system into feeling whatever it is those things would provide. The more attention there is on the feeling, the more there is.

Still using appreciation as an example, it's possible to feel appreciative of what there is and as a result, grow deeper in appreciation. Simply saying, "Thank you" to whatever happens is a ritual. Someone cuts you off in traffic? Thank you. The little old lady is taking her time putting her groceries on the belt? Thank you. Someone close to me disappointed me, again? Thank you.

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Those are the magic words.

Going with the silence

Guilleromo Del Toro's Pacific Rim is a fantastic action film that has many underlying characteristics of a spiritual narrative. One is the concept of The Drift.

The Drift is the space between personal thoughts, thoughts shared with a copilot and the computer system for a giant mech warrior. The Drift is silence, they say. That seems to be analogous with the Flow or even the Force, to stay with the film theme. It is a space where thinking is left to the side and the entire experience becomes a harmonious flow of events. In the case of Pacific Rim, that translates into a mech warrior fighting giant monsters called Kaiju.

How does that translate into daily life?

The key point about The Drift is silence. Attention shifts away from constant focus on the chatter to the availability of the moment. Open world games are a cool way to demonstrate this.

In a game like Grand Theft Auto, there are certain objects in the environment which are simply available for you to use or interact with. Of course there are cars, but there are also weapons or even trash cans that can tip over if you kick them. The object of the game isn't to steal every car, use every weapon or kick over every trashcan, but all of that is simply available. The moment is available in the same way. Everything is simply here.

Opening up to the availability of the moment is simply noticing the silence behind everything that's happening. This is where tools like meditation come in handy.

In meditation, you're training attention to come back to the silence and to notice it more frequently. The more the habit builds, the more it becomes a way of experiencing reality. Attention begins to rest more and more in silence. Going with the Flow then becomes going with the silence.

This reduces the mystery around going with the flow. It doesn't need to be a mystical experience that's out of touch with ordinary life, but can be met right here. It's impossible to live and experience reality without doing so in the flow.

Confidence in the resolve

A friend warned that jumping to Los Angeles again without a plan is probably not the best plan. He's always been reasonable and clever. It's because of his advice and direct help that I've gotten jobs on the East Coast. So I listen. The challenge now however is that reason isn't being followed.

What's being done is completely unreasonable. This is the third time I've jumped to Los Angles, in a configuration not too different from the others. The first time, I had very little savings, very little focus and a very limited amount of time to get it all together. It was a failure. The second time was absolute luck. I had grown desperately angry about being on the East Coast. That fueled a series of events that allowed me to land a job before leaving to LA and a place to stay just days before touchdown. Each time resulted in homelessness.

It's reasonable to say there should be some measure of planning to accommodate a soft landing. It's reasonable to suggest that having a job before leaving is the best way to go. That makes logical sense. However what's being followed is a commitment to being intimate with the moment.

There's a certain confidence in the resolve that creates a comfort and sense of stability with whatever arises in the moment. Whatever happens, I'm still here. Another friend says it quite eloquently, "I'm not dead yet."

I can't convince anyone, not even myself, of what that experience is like. I feel grounded, and there isn't a reasonable explanation as to why. What's apparent is that decision-making comes spontaneously and there is a drive toward following through with whatever the decision is.

Los Angeles has been a goal since returning to the East Coast. There wasn't a rush, it was simply an expectation lingering in the background. Then one day most recently, while casually thinking about LA, a voice pierced through sharply, "I'm ready to be back in Los Angeles." That's all it took. It's like something clicked and the entire process oriented itself toward another jump.

There was a poem that came up some years ago after my first time to LA:

And here I stand
In full command of my fear
Thinking, wishing, dreaming
That I can be that thing I see
Standing far before me
With air that breathes my lungs
Words that touch the tip of my tongue
And arms that reach out for mine.
This is the moment I rise!
And yet, there's a pause.
For what cause? I don't know.
But it goes to show that even in the moment of inspiration
There's a stagnation to our ability
We're only human, you and I
Why reach for the stars when we'll just
Fall
Crash
Burn
And die?
Why push past every obstacle that's in our way?
Freedom doesn't lie there.
No.
It tells the truth.
And that's what I need:
The honesty to believe in something
So
Ridiculously impossible that it takes
All of me to be.
Baby, I'm on track!
To where? Who cares.
I wouldn't dare stand in the face of fear
Without the confidence to make it shed a tear.
No, this fear belongs to me
And here I stand, in full command.

This is my manifesto.
Whatever fear there was has burned away, singed by the friction of another launch. It's all completely unreasonable, but whatever space is left by the absence of logic is filled with total joy. There is peace and confidence in the undercurrent of the moment. I'm going with the flow.

Hope and Hunger

There were two distinct moments after the first major leap where I lost hope. Once was sitting on the curb near a co-op, organic grocery store in Los Angeles. There were some folks earlier that day who told me to check the dumpster out because they always throw out perfectly edible food, like fruit, with minor blemishes. Hunger sent me over there.

Hunger is an interesting feeling because it pushes the body into survival mode. This isn't the kind of hunger where you're between meetings and don't have enough time to stop and grab something to eat. This isn't the kind of hunger where you wake up in the morning and feel like you could swallow a whole farm for breakfast. This is the kind of hunger where you haven't eaten for days and your whole body is oriented toward finding something, anything, to satisfy an avoidance of certain death. It feels like that.

So I'm sitting on the curb, debating whether to run up to the dumpster. There's a security camera watching over it and a parking lot full of witnesses. Somehow I had to dash over there, dig through it, retrieve a few pieces of treasure and retreat. The other debate was personal. "I'm awakened," the thought went. "Isn't there supposed to be some kind of grace or something to take care of this?"

As I'm sitting there, stalling between deciding when to run and crushing under the reality that Grace doesn't mean entitlement, a familiar face rides up on a bike. It was one of the people who told me to go dumpster diving. He looked down, smiled at me knowingly, reached into his bag and gave me the largest apple I'd ever seen. No words. All action. Then he rode away.

Another time hope was lost was a hungry night in San Francisco. I'd spent the day wandering around, essentially lost because it wasn't clear that San Francisco is an island, and that once you're there, you're stuck. With no money, I didn't have any means of leaving. The whole day was spent walking around trying to find a safe place to sleep later that evening. Nightfall had come, and with it, the cry for food.

A small bakery was closed but had the door cracked open. There were people in the back in what I assumed was something like a kitchen. I peaked my head through the doorway and politely shouted, "Excuse me! Excuse me! Do you have anything I could eat? Maybe something you were throwing away?" A man turned to look at me, shook his head, and turned away. "Do you know where I could find something?" He ignored me. "Sir?" He continued to ignore me. "How could he do that," I thought. "I'm a human being. Where's the love?"

Later that night I made a cardboard sign. I had grown fed up with being in San Francisco and was angry that this awakening thing wasn't working like it was supposed to. The sign read, "Vallejo." The thought was that I could stand by the on ramp to the bridge, hold up the sign, and by magic, someone would stop and taking me off the island. Every driver ignored me.

Hunger started to press again. After a number of hours, I turned the sign over and wrote, "HUNGRY." Drivers started to pay attention. Something said to start smiling, and so I did. People began rolling their windows down and offering loose change and dollar bills. "Holy shit," I thought. "It's working." Some other momentum picked up and the hunger subsided as well as the cold. Focus shifted to earning enough money to catch the Ferry the next day away from the island.

The next morning I stood out there again to earn a few more dollars, and in addition to ten dollars, someone gave me a freshly opened breakfast from Starbucks.

It's interesting meeting those experiences again through these words. Each time, hope was lost. Really, an expectation was challenged and I was made a fool of.

Grace doesn't always work the way I think it should work. It never works that way actually. And—Christ—what's humbling is that even though I'm a brat or grow angry or impatient or whatever the case may be, it always works out. Always. There's something behind the drama that knows.

Things tend to work out for people who have balls

That was the first thing someone said to me when I moved to LA.

I moved to Los Angeles to become an actor. I had no idea what I was doing though, but thankfully my cousin offered a place to stay until things clicked. They never really did and so I was invited to find some place else to wait to for things to come together. I had worked at Universal Studios Hollwood twice as a performer, but it wasn't enough to cover rent, so I was asked again to leave and wandered the streets for a couple days until a friend offered his spare room. The only stipulation was that I'd actively look for a job. It wasn't until the last minute that I found a job as a ride operator with Universal again. By that point I had destroyed our friendship though. I was used to being spoiled and took it for granted that someone offered a place to stay.

Days were spent smiling at guests and evenings looking at the stars as I slept on the street. It was cold, but bearable. A storage unit held whatever belongings couldn't be carried and I'd bike there every morning, change, wash up, then head to the theme park for my shift. It dawned on me that this was an actual lifestyle when I noticed a janitor in the park one day. I saw the same man sleeping on the street not more than a half mile from where I slept. The thought of being stuck homeless scared me, so I called my Stepmother, knowing my Father would rescue me. I gave the bike to the janitor, stayed a night at a friend's house and flew back to Philadelphia the next day.

Returning home was difficult because I had failed. I was angry with myself for not only failing, but also being entitled. I was angry at my Father for being right as well, because he had warned me against following my heart. Reluctantly I agreed to his plan of going back to school and eventually working for the NSA. Working in government didn't feel right though. I tried to bargain with him, but his last text read, "You're a grown man. Do what you want." He died that summer.

I didn't want anything to do with the east coast after that. It was a backdrop for pain, suffering, disappointment, loss and anger. It was also a reminder of the sense of entitlement that, in my eyes, was the reason for the failure. I loved my mother, but couldn't tolerate another moment being near Philadelphia. So it became a point to work my ass off and get back to Los Angeles.

Paul Giamatti plays a wrestling coach in the movie Win Win. There's a kid who has a lot of talent and the coach asks him one day what drives his performance. The wrestler responds with something like, "I imagine my opponent is trying to drown me, and I do whatever the fuck it takes to get out." That became the mantra: do whatever the fuck it takes to LA.

Seven months later I was back in Los Angeles for round two.

This time there was more focus on being established in LA while pursuing a dream of being an actor. I didn't want to feel entitled, but wanted to earn the possibility. A job was secured before moving out and things worked out where a studio apartment became available. I spent two and a half years working at Myspace while studying at Groundlings.

The job came to an expected end which coincided with a commercial talent agency signing me a few weeks later. "Here we go," I thought. "Things are starting to line up." However, there was still a nagging insecurity in the back. There was doubt as to whether or not acting was the right thing to do despite all signs pointing toward it. I was afraid to live my dream. My focus went from wanting to act to figuring out how to stay in Los Angeles without acting. At the same time I started pouring money into a career, getting professional headshots, signing up for services and taking more classes. My heart went one way and the mind the other. That lead to a true leap of faith which revealed a peculiar kind of trust.

It's been about two years now and I'm back on the east coast, gearing up for round three. I've seen how stuff works when you have a certain disregard for fear. It's not something I have a handle on, so it can't be said that I have balls. I don't. Instead, what's available is a constant opportunity to simply be and trust that things will work out.

Christopher

We met at the Starbucks on the corner of Hollywood & Vine. His hair was long and loosely locked, draping over a scarred leather jacket. Twinkling eyes smiled up to greet me as I took the only seat available near the window. I'd come here often to be entranced by the cinema of people walking by, an occasional celebrity sighting or the Tetris of cars as they jockeyed through a busy intersection. Sometimes I'd listen to music, lectures or read a book. Sometimes I'd watch quietly, letting the scene erupt in silence

Christopher's eyes fell back down to a guitar that had been cradled in his lap. Chatter and espresso making swelled as I nibbled banana nut bread and kissed hot chocolate. People outside poked their phones while walking by or stared ahead purposefully. Waves of commuters would rush by from a nearby train station or sometimes a bubble of tourists would float through, but overall it was calm. This was a day to watch quietly.

"I don't really know much yet," Christopher's voice cut in. I glanced over to find him caressing strings and tickling chrome pegs. He looked up again and smiled, "It still needs tuning." The guitar found its way to him while traveling. For the past year he'd been backpacking down the coast from Seattle, hitching rides along the way and making new friends. His story spilled out and the more he spoke, the more open I felt. His guitar rested by his side and my hot chocolate grew cold as words danced between us. Time bled.

Staff had grown impatient with a homeless man who seemed disoriented. Christopher's attention shifted. He gazed as the man struggled to speak while being pressured outdoors. Suddenly Christopher was out there pleading with him, "What do you need?" No response. He continued, "Are you hungry?" Christopher came back, grabbed something from the display and went outside to present it to the man. Their eyes met. The man took the gift and shuffled away. Christopher watched like a shepherd.

His eyes were sad when he came back. It didn't feel right to ask what happened. "We always forget," he murmured as he studied the scene in front of us. The air clogged before he melted again with a smile, "but we remember." His eyes snapped to me with fierce clarity, "We forget so we can remember."