198 Shakespeare St., San Francisco

Second day in a row I dreamed of Amina. I can’t describe the dream at all. The moods and scenery were too elusive and abstract. Amina was on a stage and she was being made an example of a woman who had transgressed something cultural. She hadn’t really, she was just playing the part. The punishment entailed having all of her hair shaved off. All of it. However, when her head was done, she looked like she did when she got her hair cut short in the Summer of 1993. When she was getting another part of her body shaved, I could see that she was pregnant. Very pregnant.

I’m going to drop my “Jurisprudence” class. I thought it would be about the philosophy of law as traced through the historical development of the U.S. legal system. I thought we’d be studying patterns and developments in the law as reflected through actual decisions and what they meant and what historical events affected them.

Instead we’re reading esoteric, pseudo-academic, ivory tower essays which have no discernable relation to reality or practical law. Useless. Instead of studying and learning the philosophy behind our legal system, I sit in class thinking, “who cares?!”.

I’m not going to put up with this anymore. My masochistic days are over. I’m not going to suffer through this class just to prove I’m not a quitter. Dropping the class won’t mean that I’m a quitter, it means I’m smart and know what’s good for me, and I’m much more reasonable about what I’m willing to put with.

Besides, I’ve just gotten to the point where I’m thinking I don’t want to kill myself. Or rather I’m realizing that I simply won’t, no matter how I feel about it. I don’t need this class to push me towards it again and tempt me to want to do it. I still hope I will do it, but I want to make sure I’m doing it for the right reasons.

I wonder if this is really being healthy or if all this is a continuing manifestation of my suicidal psychosis. I wonder if I’m ill and this is all just a delusional part of the illness. I can’t go second guessing myself, though. I’m hurting and I’m aware of my past, but I’ve always been certain of my rationality and I recognize that what I call rational is different from everyone else’s. That doesn’t make me ill. Different doesn’t mean ill in this day and age.

198 Shakespeare St., San Francisco

I was in a room with large windows and it looked like I was on a college campus. The room was cluttered and lit by fluorescent light. It was a cloudy evening and there were a lot of people outside walking to wherever they needed to be. I was practicing lead guitar, playing my red Peavey along with a Roger Waters CD - the one with Eric Clapton. The dream switched and I was “upstairs” in a kitchen that resembled the kitchen at 22 Cambridge Place in Englewood Cliffs. The windows were the same. I continued to practice, ignoring the person behind me, Amina, who was doing something like washing dishes. Generally, what happened next was that she finished what she was doing and came over. Waleed was there somewhere. I think we exchanged words, we were very close and finally it was too much and we unwillingly kissed, I don’t remember if she was crying. We kept kissing, trying to resist and I woke up. I gasped her name.

I’ve selectively forgotten all the reasons why I should hate Amina; the things she did. I know now I still love her and that we never closed and I will continue loving her until we do. I doubt we ever will. That dream. It was more my fantasy than an expression of reality.

I can’t imagine crying for or about Amina. I really don’t feel much of anything anymore. I don’t know if that’s because of Amina. I don’t get attracted to people anymore. I do still find people attractive, but I have no desire to get to know people better or let them know me. I don’t get attracted to anyone to the extent that I would put effort into spending time or getting to know them better. There is nothing in people for me to be attracted to.

Finishing off a Roll of Film

Series IV, Roll 2, frame 30 (Ilford XP2) - Daly City BART Station.


Series IV, Roll 2, frame 31 (Ilford XP2) - Golden Gate University, rear stairwell.


Series IV, Roll 2, frame 34 (Ilford XP2) - Muni Terminus, Steuart and Mission.


Series IV, Roll 2, frame 35 (Ilford XP2) - Bay Bridge.

198 Shakespeare St., San Francisco

None of the actual scenery in the dream was from conscious memory. It was a sunny Winter day after a heavy snowfall in New Jersey or New York. I was driving with Liz in her car. I don’t remember any of the dialogue. We drove up a road that went up a hill with frozen lakes on either side. A skyline, which may have been New York, was behind us. At the top, we turned right and then right again into an area that was like a parking lot or a rest area. Lots of cars were there and people were milling about.

The dream shifted and there were metal stairs leading down from the parking area and it felt like New York City, still Winter. The next part I don’t remember so well. I lagged behind going down the stairs, I think I was doing something with my camera, so Liz had gone off. At the bottom of the stairs, there was a man about whom I don’t remember anything except that he was old and we struck up a conversation. In retrospect, he reminds me of Tony. Eventually he let me take pictures of him which I did. That’s all I remember along with having to change film, XP2, and taking pictures without a lens, just the body of the camera.

I went to New Jersey in August. Things have changed. I actually felt comfortable there. I walked around a lot. I went down Palisades Avenue to Dwight Englewood and then to Englewood. I went through Flat Rock Brook where I always used to go for solace and to get away. Everything seemed a lot smaller than I remember, starting with the sidewalks. Compared with hikes in California, Flat Rock Brook was puny. I went down to the Hudson River Boat Basin and walked along one of my old running paths on top of the Palisades. Not much of a run.

Everything was suddenly so detached. That is why it was so comfortable being there. It meant nothing that I grew up there and the familiarity of the landscape didn’t unnerve me or haunt me as it did in other times that I had returned. It felt like it was all behind me. Finally.

It was the same thing with being at the parents’ house. And strange about the parents, they really didn’t affect me much at all. Part of me just didn’t care anymore; most important, I felt that they couldn’t touch me anymore. They were no longer a threat. They didn’t have any control over my life anymore. Even their insidious suggestions, hints, and moralizing about my future had no affect over me. It was liberating.

Whereas before, I felt threatened by how they intended to control my life, now I could ignore it, laugh at it if I wanted to. The result was that I could tolerate them, even be civil and patient with them. As far as I’m concerned, I’m untouchable. They cannot touch my life anymore. They can do or say whatever they want, it’s my choice to ignore or walk away from them. I even allowed them to do nice things for me and I let myself appreciate it.

Even in phone calls since then, I don’t get irritated. If they talk about things I don’t care to listen to, I hold the phone away. In the same way as I often do, but without the annoyance, without the seething. I even contribute to the topic and try to explain when they don’t understand. Unlike before when I knew they wouldn’t understand what I would say and I would steamroll it by them anyway and let them ignore the fact that they had no idea what I had just said.

Apparently it’s making them happy. Good for them. Too bad they have no idea why it’s happening. It’s not because we’re getting along, it’s because they really, really do not matter to me anymore. Then they call and tell me if I want a new camera, I should just buy one and they would pay for it. Nice try, that’s them trying to gain control without even knowing it. That is how they used to assert their control. It doesn’t work anymore. Besides, I don’t have a job yet, they’d be paying for it anyway!

If I’m nice to them over the phone, I get rewarded. I jump through the hoops, I get a snack-treat, go buy yerself a camera. Nice try. I actually felt comfortable with it, too. I didn’t get off the phone with the usual antagonism. If they feel happy, that’s great. Truth in their reality is no longer my concern. When they try to lasso me with money or a new camera, it simply misses. Or rather, the lasso doesn’t exist anymore, it’s no longer part of my reality. They throw the lasso and I’m already in a different dimension. Maybe I always have been and I’m just starting to realize it.

I feel at peace about killing myself. I feel like I’ve released a load of bitterness and resentment. I feel now that I won’t kill myself filled with bitterness and hate. I can feel it as an attempt to accomplish something useful. I don’t feel that I need to because my life is unbearable. Now I can not want to, but still do it because it’s important.

My past is still here. My past is still a road that has led me to where I am now, the person I am now, and the damage is still here. It still needs to be healed. Becoming a ghost and addressing the source of my torment in that form is one way to do it. There may be a way to go about it while staying alive, but I’m not sure about it.

There is something very selfish about staying alive which would make me feel unsatisfied with my life. And I might have the chance to heal my soul, but it would leave the parents in their unenlightened, material delusion. It would be no benefit to them either. It would only reinforce their misconceptions and fool them into thinking that their lives were successful.

They are wrong. Their values and priorities are all wrong and it would be a disservice to them to give them the benefit of doubt to let them emphasize money and material gain. It would be wrong to passively allow them to be complacent with their position in society.

198 Shakespeare St., San Francisco

I took a short drive down Route 1, looking to find something to shoot, looking to find somewhere I hadn’t been before. I ended up at a beach in Linda Mar. There was Taco Bell right on the beach. Lots of surfers. It was another world. Houses right on the beach and houses with ramps for boats that went right into the water. Not vacation houses.


Series IV, Roll 2, frame 18 (Ilford XP2)

The beach was in an inlet. I headed off to the left where there was a protrusion of land out into the ocean. There was a road that led to the cliff area and it was a short climb down to the bottom where it was rocky. People were fishing down there. I walked along the bottom of the cliffs, past the fishers, out towards the ocean.


Series IV, Roll 2, frame 22 (Ilford XP2)

I guess it was kind of far. Eventually there were no more people fishing. Then I got to a point where I knew there were no more cliffs. The waves were rough and the rocks weren’t as easy to navigate. Crabs scuttled into the shadows as I approached. I thought about the crabs in Japan with carapaces that looked like soldiers’ faces. The ‘Tales of the Heike’.

I reached a point, an end, I knew that I had to go . . . up. I don’t know what I was thinking, I don’t think I was. It didn’t even occur to me to turn and go back the way I came from. It was only moments after I realized I wasn’t going any further that I started climbing upwards.

So once again, I was going up a cliff thinking how stupid I was and how much I didn’t want to be there. Growing up on the East Coast, you feel safe anywhere you go. There was no where in nature to go where you really feel at risk for your life. Going up this cliff, it occurred to me that I was in serious shit. If I slipped and fell, I could very easily be killed. It would not be a matter of rolling and sliding and getting dirty and scratched up. It would be bouncing off sharp rocks, breaking bones, hitting my head, getting washed out to sea. Dramatic!

I kept going up. Going back down was no longer an option. I thought about how looking down would not be a very good idea. When I climbed my way to the top, it was a lonely triumph, but I was defiant looking back down at what I had climbed. I was on top of the ridge that stuck out into the ocean. From there I could see Point San Pedro which I had seen on the map. There was another inlet between that ridge and Point San Pedro called ‘Shelter Cove’.


Series IV, Roll 2, frame 23 (Ilford XP2)

Walking along the ridge back to solid and safe ground wasn’t nearly as harrowing, but still mildly precarious in a few places. There were houses right on the beach in Shelter Cove. It was a private, secluded community. A road came out to them, but it wasn’t passable by car anymore. The road was all overgrown. The walk back on top the ridge wasn’t quite so far. I felt exhilarated.


Series IV, Roll 2, frame 24 (Ilford XP2)

I spoke with one of the fishermen. His name was Tony. He was aged, he might have been Philippino, maybe Pacific Islander. I couldn’t tell much of what he was saying, but he was nice enough. He talked about beating people up in the past. He talked to me before I went down the cliffs and I approached him again when I returned along the top. I didn’t think to ask if I could take his portrait. He had a rugged face with a lot of character.

198 Shakespeare St., San Francisco

September 1996

So this is what it feels like knowing that I will never fall in love again. Attraction is just a game. Falling in love is not in my range of emotions anymore. It feels empty. Numb. Interesting. Love is so important.

Turns out that Susan was interested in me way back last Winter. She didn’t think the feeling was reciprocated and it never went anywhere. I actually did have a crush on her. All for the better; we weren’t exactly compatible. I never quite knew where she was coming from. Apparently neither of us were any good at showing our feelings or letting them be known.

I don’t think I can love anymore. Even hearing about Susan, it was just a fanciful thing. A tickling. There’s no way that I could have ever really fallen in love with Susan. We are too different. Just as I could never have fallen in love with Ana Claire.

Maybe I do know what love is. It’s not anything about a person. I still love Amina two and a half years after the fact and our last contact, and considering what happened between us, that’s an incredible statement. I can’t make a list of things about a person that would make me fall in love with her. Anything I can place on a list, I’ve already found and have been disappointed or betrayed by already. There are things I could like about a person, things that would attract me, interest me, but nothing that would necessarily make me fall in love with that person.

Love just happens. When it’s there, you know it. I just know I won’t ever love anyone again. I’m too damaged in myself, much too uncomfortable with who I am to trust myself or like myself being with someone else.

***********************************

Yukiko moved in at the beginning of the month. We get along alright even though she’s kind of conservative and hangs out with mostly white people. She’s one of those Asians.

If we didn’t have to live with each other, we wouldn’t even associate. She’s a lot better to live with than Jeff, who owns this house. He’s also conservative, but in addition he’s also a typical male. He's a male stereotype. He also has a good side, generous, but he's definitely not the type I would hang out with. Yukiko is clean, considerate, open and amiable. Personal feelings aside, she’s a good housemate.

***********************************

I’ve stopped cutting since I’ve moved back to San Francisco. I also haven’t had the drive to set any dates. Since August. The desire to set a date just hasn’t crossed my mind. As part of my personality, however, it’s always there.

Things have been changing. I feel that I have to kill myself, it’s part of my destiny and responsibility. It is what I’m supposed to do, not what I’m supposed to avoid. It’s not a test, but what is supposed to happen.

Sometimes I feel that suicide is not so attractive an option, but in those times I feel even more strongly that it is something I have to do. Those are the times, strangely enough, that I’m most certain that I should kill myself; when I really feel that I don’t want to. Suicide is not a desire that I should succumb to, but an end that I have to learn to accept.

I cannot die in peace. My soul is too tormented for that. I don’t want to. I think that when I die, I’ll spend some amount of time as a ghost of who I am now. Released, with no judgments. But present, damned, chained. But I think I will be reborn. I think I’ve been “good” enough and true enough to myself that I won’t be reborn in a worse position. But I hurt too much and I’m too attached to that hurt that I can’t advance. I have to settle and understand these issues before that happens. I can’t even rest and take a break from the cycle.

Maybe my role as a ghost will be to teach my parents something. They are the ones I’m to “haunt”. I think that my soul will only start to heal once I’ve expanded their minds beyond their narrow conception of life. If I can change them in some way, set them on some sort of path of realization, instead of the smug complacency in the comfort of their materialism, then I can go forward. The longer I live, the less time I’ll have to accomplish it. I need to heal. I’m a long ways from becoming what I want to become.

I want to kill myself for that reason. Because it is my destiny and it may put me in a position where I can do something that would give my life some meaning. Even though it is very unattractive that I care about my parents enough that I’m trying to set them on the right path.

Series IV, Roll 2 (Pentax K2, Ilford XP2):

Seacliffs, San Francisco:

Frame 10 - Close-up shot of the ruins of a concrete structure that I've shot many times with the Golden Gate in the background, including this time:

Frame 11

Windchimes

Series IV, Roll 1, Frame 30 (Pentax K2, Tri-X) - 198 Shakespeare St.