The Ghost of My Father by Scott Berkun


From bestselling author Scott Berkun comes this powerful new book, funded by hundreds of kickstarter supporters.

It’s a personal story about his failed relationship with his father, and how his family was torn apart  in 2012.

The book explores the meaning of family, through personal stories about Scott’s struggles to connect with his father, in the past and the present.

It’s an achingly personal memoir of loss, love and the hope of transformation by searching through the past.

It’s a book for anyone struggling with their identity in their family and seeking a bright path through dark times.

Continue reading


I Googled Gidget and Windansea

Are You There God? It’s Me, Gidget.

“Nobody knows I’m a real person — they think “Gidget” is Sandra Dee or Sally Field.”—Kathy Kohner Zuckerman

@Ori would remember the night I walked and told him of all the creepy sites on those dark streets which weave the beach along Windansea into Draper Villas…


firefly flying quietly why she cries, no one notices me...

Authentic Non-Fiction Life

[Richard] Powers is especially effective at illustrating the way the story of the girl with “the happiness gene” spreads across the Internet and, only slightly less rapidly, the traditional media. Thassa’s mailbox starts filling up: “Strange people with Hotmail accounts want me to make them happy. One woman wants to hire me as her personal trainer. She thinks her soul needs a professional workout.”

… This review was written by Jay McInerney (“How It Ended: New and Collected Stories”) and published in The New York Times Sunday Book Review, October 1, 2009. … when I first stumbled into this story the other day, I did a double take… it read like my life…

“Meanwhile, Kurton’s research team is on the verge of publishing a study that correlates specific genetic codes with emotional well-being. But despite the large sample on which the study is based, Kurton is holding back on publication, looking for some missing datum to confirm his findings. When Thassa’s story comes to his attention he thinks he may have found it. …”

I remember listening to a Nobel Prize contending researcher detail his observations of my hyperthymic temperament…

“Kurton persuades Thassa to undergo a series of tests, and when the results are finally published — the ebullient Thassa’s genetic material having confirmed the initial findings — media interest in the Happy Gene Girl goes manic, culminating with an appearance on a Chicago talk show whose host, known to all simply as Oona, “is, by any measure, the most influential woman in the world.” In a canny elision, Powers gives us only hints of Thassa’s triumphant performance, by way of its echoes on the Internet. … “

My effervescent happiness, despite the most contrary of circumstances, led me to be taken and tested, poked and prodded, and accused many more times of being “on something”. Continue reading

Angela Mari
Are You There God? It's Me, Gidget, Neuroscience

Hyperthymic Novelty—On Generosity: An Enhancement

“What will happen to life when science identifies the genetic basis of happiness? Who will own the patent? Do we dare revise our own temperaments?…”

I once met a physics teacher who immediately recognized me as the main character in the play he was nearly finished writing.

“Absolutely EVERYTHING I remember is realLithium just added a layer of fantasy on it (which I could perceive even at the time).”

Born to Be Happy

After reading an article “Born to Be Happy“, I found myself emailing Hagop Akiskal, M.D., Professor of Psychiatry and Director of the International Mood Center at the University of California at San Diego whose “work on dysthymia, cyclothymia and hyperthymia challenged the concept of personality disorders, led to the development of a new instrument (Temperament Evaluation of Memphis, Pisa, Paris and San Diego (TEMPS-A)), thereby contributing to the worldwide renaissance of the temperament field.”

“Information may travel at light speed, but meaning spreads at the speed of dark.”

But being told that I was “hard wired for happiness” seemed a bit over simplified and “hard wired” seemed an insult to this interaction-designer-wannabe-cognitive scientist studying neurogenesis and neuroplasticity.

On “Rewiring the Real

“Digital and electronic technologies that act as extensions of our bodies and minds are changing how we live, think, act, and write. Some welcome these developments as bringing humans closer to unified consciousness and eternal life. Others worry that invasive globalized technologies threaten to destroy the self and the world. Whether feared or desired, these innovations provoke emotions that have long fueled the religious imagination, suggesting the presence of a latent spirituality in an era mistakenly deemed secular and post-human.”

Continue reading


What? You didn’t know I was a graveyard clown?!

True Stories are better than Fiction

My boots were made for walkin’… whether they’re the cowboy or Spanish…

If I sang, would you… sing with me?

Pockets full of posies,

Ashes, ashes,
We all fall down.

She's Gidget. Roscoe was Grandpa.

Hi folks. I’ve been blogging since sometime in 1997—I don’t know where my original blog is, it was on Earthlink, Geocities or something like that—somewhere along the way I stopped blogging. Whereas once I was just an anonymous voice on the Internet—pre there even being such a word as “blogging”—now there was Google.

Going from anonymous to identified, I found myself scared to write anymore.

That era has ended.

I am Angela Baxley, the Spunky Gidget, a clown, from a family of clowns and a legacy of artists and humanitarians, rock n’ roll, and crazy Christians.

I’ll start telling the story. But I’m sorry, mostly it’ll be told how it unfolded, and at my own whimsy and whim. Published on the days that it happened, or as it should be dated by my own judgment.

I publish as Spunky Gidget as my alter identity, @ang @baxley are different personas. Ang, like the nickname, is intimate for my closest friends and family. Baxley is who I am, the one you all love and know. I have other web presences out there, and maybe over time I’ll even disclose those, the who, what, when and why of the identities. In any case, Spunky Gidget is what brought me to the Internet, and that’s how you’ll hear my voice.

That way Angela Baxley can keep her reputation intact, at least for a little while longer! 😉

"Give It Up for Gidget"

Daniel Zackariah Rhodes: He ain
Are You There God? It's Me, Gidget

He’s not Happy, He’s my Brother

What persuaded me?—It was the Word, alone…

There was a summer,
not the last,
the one before,
where it was decided
that my ignorance
should be no longer.

Fade out on scene.

I was taken prisoner.

More accurately, I was carried away in handcuffs to the San Diego Psychiatric Hospital because someone I had known less than seven days had thought I was “strange”.

I was abused, and I was amused—they were not.
It was fear, not faith that they sought in my face.

Are You There God? Fuddle & Judy Blume

I had no fear: “What can man do to me?” (Psalm 118:6, Hebrews 13:6)

Fickle fuddled words couldn’t confuse me.

“Do you hear voices”, she asked?
I hear them calling my name, I sang.

Wasn’t this all a scene to amuse me,
to carry me from the boredom of insanity?

Indeed it did.

San Diego County Public Health Department

Man can cuff you,
rough you, drug you
and count the hours you lay wake.

Still I thought they did it somehow for my sake.
They couldn’t understand why I wouldn’t cower and quake.
I couldn’t understand why they thought I would break?


I felt my mind pull away from sanity
as the days lithium laden drew longer.

They wondered, ‘why won’t she sleep?’

There is no man
but the one
who came from above
who knows what it is
that is best for me.

The lithium,
only a dose of two
or three keep me awake
for more than a week.

What is meant to cause sleepiness,
sedation, to make the violent meek,
made me lose my mind
and left me with only my eyes
with which the truth I might seek.

Have you ever looked into your own eyes
knowing therein alone is the truth?


They’d sought to convince me
I’d never been there before.

You see, it takes quite a journey
to bring me to my knees.

The day I went in in handcuffs,
taken from the garden where I’d sleep,
three needles and they lay me asunder
in the authority of their keep.


I awoke to see a vision,
a woman whose eyes I needn’t seek.
What a beautiful moment of awakening—
Her eyes looked back at me.

I knew that she was Angela,
beautiful skin the color of
the nature of Peru.

I’m not crazy
and coincidence
is beyond

Her name was, of course, Angela.
And Angela, yes, is also me…

But there is another,
as I am Angela Marié

The other is Maria Angela,
or Angela Maria, as I knew her,
she explained once to me sixteen
or as many years before.

There inexplicably,
with the moment of sight eye-to-eye
she lay before me.

Only you must know that I am sane—you see?

With what it is that I knew,
I also knew it could not also be true.

Another moment of reality:
Sanity holds true.
Her name was Angela.

One day
I’ll tell you her story.
I do not worry for her,
for in her I saw me.

Our brief moments,
or at least those brief moments
where consciousness was once again mine,
were interrupted by the authority
which told me I should no longer “be”.

They brought me in, condemned,
to 72 hours of detention
but now they didn’t want me.

I believe there was something
in all I had said the night before,
when they laid me to sleep
from which I wasn’t certain to awake,
that made their soul wonder, worry and shake.

“If you can call someone to pick you up, you’re free.”


Drugged, bruised. I had no family.

I called someone, and he came, and we’d leave in a hurry.

He didn’t ask about what it was that he’d seen.

Some people know you,
though they’ve known you not long,
I imagine you’d believe.


He drove me home,
and I asked
if we could not stop
at the coffee shop
on the way?

Bird Rock Coffee Roasters

I tasted the elixir which became my sanities keep,
little did I know my body knew what it was I did need
caffeine is the remedy when lithium dost thus leak.


Back home he left me, returning quickly to his life which he could only leave briefly.

My roommate, the Trojan, was surprised to see me. I looked into his Greek eyes and told him it’d no longer be.

At once he got out, and I had the day to open the doors wide and see what might come inside.


I swept his room clean, nice and empty, and there I prepared it for what I’d long since wanted it to be to arrive.

Girls came to help, friends like arriving like angels, children who’d come to play with me.

They helped me pitch my tent, safely where I could lay.

That night in my delight, I entered and slept on the hardwood floor.

As I closed the tent folds behind me, I had only that which I adore. I had carried in my bible, that one which I had before the day I was baptized, in it is still taped a hair, the one he taped the first time I considered sharing my life. I had my violin, it is a mere symbol, that it be that one or an earlier of mine, it was simply my red violin.

I suppose here I must stop to introduce the tall lanky weed with blonde hair, the child I knew was my grandfather before time thus upon him grew.

Daniel Zackariah "Johnny" Rhodes

You see the night before after the free had been freed, I decided to take the light out which bothered my sleep.

Windansea Rat

It was three in the morn when out of my room and into the street I’d sneak. I stood there midway in bright as day, equipped with a step stool and coffee mitt in either hand prepared, there’s no wonder why it is that they’d stare. The lost then wandered around the corner, and they looked on at I, as I at they and we neither much mattered if the other so much cared. I asked if they’d see anyone rustling bikes in the night, they countered—”why?”—stiffening as if I was prompting a fight. Oh, I told them, some have gone—disappeared. Since they wander in the night, perhaps they’d look out from now on? What is it that you’re doing, not so innocent yourself? I told them what it was I was up to, with night as my only stealth. The one offered to take that mitt off my hands, and the stool he’d too take, and he promised tomorrow, from sleep I would awake. I offered my home for their slumber, they walked it off waiting to drive to their sleep. While one would humbly accept the offer, the other not accustomed to the kindness of strangers, would slink away after the good deed while I slept in his promised sleep.

Roxie and "Johnny"

I woke in the morning. The cat in hat on my couch did sleep! Oh, momma, oh my! How is it that wonder did not pass by-and-by?! Is this really, could it, would it truly be!? Did he hear the prayer that my soul groaned though my knees had never relented, never ever before meek or weak?

Seuss socks for big feet

Truth I do tell, my heart did swell as the child like golden death did sleep. I slipped out the day for my plunder, and my routines to return to upkeep. I went to Harry’s, the 1960’s family diner that I adore, and Harry’s adored me as ever before. I stopped in Bird Rock for coffee, cappuccino in hand, I pressed on further beyond the border of my imaginary land. I met the mechanic, a good hearted man, he promised he fix it, “if he can”.

Boulevard Automotive

I set off determined to venture further, into the Pacific I’d determined to be, there was a bike for sale I’d ride back along the beach. But mere blocks later—who knows if it were the woman or the dog that I’d first meet?—there walked love, three Cavalier King Charles Spaniels and their mommy who they lead. I asked her, who are they? A doggy I’m in need. She said, well here have one, I have one more than I can keep. She handed me the leash to the mommy, opening her heart to love to lose later and for love lost later to bleed. I said why don’t we walk the block or two towards the ocean, and when it we meet, you go the one way, and I the other—when she thus notices, she’ll turn back and toward my home we’ll walk whilst it is you she seeks? Thus it in my life full of wonder, that she did give me her child, in mere moments of meeting, and in mere moments later of meeting did part, her with love and me with her heart. Rosie was her name, a saucy red head more beautiful than anything I’ve ever loved. A red headed daughter of a black Irish man. Pure breed and with papers, she and I could ignore, we were a pair made in heaven, and heaven we’d explore.

Roxie at Bird Rock Surf Shop

We weaved and wove, wandering where the street drove, making our way back home. Along the way, as life would stray, Rosie became Roxie, and thus began what felt like the dawn of new day. She and I tired as we made our way, and eventually came upon a man who had decided he was too. He stopped jogging to walk aside us, and for a moment my heart arose. In childlike wonder, my mind did ponder, would I recognize my father if my father had aged and appeared before my eyes? He was a physicist, he taught Alice in Wonderland, and at night he wrote. He had a screenplay, of which apparently I was already the star. He stumbled and nearly fell, in a few blocks learning what was relatively little, but recognizing what it was in only dreams he had previously he’d saw. The only difference between her and me were the dreads upon her head, he said, and as he faltered it seems the sight of me nearly brought him to his knees.

I explained that he were going home, and she was going home with me. He marveled and stuttered, my life is unimaginable, or imagined by most to be a dream. He said he has a puppy, and he could go home and fetch food for her to eat. He left us at my corner, the wrong-way one-way dead end at the ocean where sky meets dreams, as he headed up the other way, climbing up the street towards the peek.


So it is that later that night as I climb into my tent content that my life is nothing like others, that which seems so bleak, there remained a child of flaxen hair, an abused spirit with a bored debonair stare, and with him in tow, suddenly, his only baggage—a guitar, and a suitcase bearing the cross marked for the Hell’s Angels, upon which a book of words to sound smart with worn edges darkened by frequent thumbing did lay. He kept Roxie, and made me a milkshake to end my day. I ate from the box, it made by some combination of who knows what but I’ll never forget; luscious, delicious and creamy with berries! I laid my head down to sleep.

Your Local Hells Angels

It seemed he’d slumber pulled asunder, an escaped angel of death, I marveled at what length he dozed. Only on the third day from this arrest was it he rose. He wore my socks, Dr. Seuss striped woven warmers of toes. So happy was me, to finally be free, the Trojan having been disposed. Alas my mind’s sass should have held back for fast it was that the next wave thus goes.

Seuss Socks

As he sat at the table which sat by the window, the writers seat looking out at sea, he gazed aimlessly at the book which lay before him his eyes suddenly I worried would be deceived. Buddha sat fat and lifeless one of those epic idols of stone before the lost child who sat listless, lonely, dejected and alone. He drank a coca-cola, and I asked he leave it alone. He wondered what was wrong with it, and to reason at that moment I was not prone. Exchange exchanged in a toss and a throw its with shame I admit, first the coke soaked the cover, before out the door, um, well you know.

Aaron and Maximilian Diaz

Anyone would be angered by the arrogant dismissal, oh you know, there’s no excuse for anyone to take someone’s possession and even out one’s own door take aim and throw. It seems somehow not much later with things much sedater that I sat on the couch, my lap Roxie’s throne. My feet up and resting, my sleep not yet recovered from drug’s dressing. Behind me a rustle, the police they entered in a bustle, no privacy no concept of domain or that it was my home.

Roxie Rests

They entered and stood over me, and their eyes I did meet, no wilting flower, what ever did they want to thus dare to interrupt my dear darling Roxie’s sleep and stand before and above and behind me?

No Wilting Flower

Oh rile me Satan and I thus shall scorn, your work at which you weary is thus on my nerves thus worn. I say get behind me, and the serpent does seethe. Reject the devil and he will flee, but it isn’t immediately he’d leave me. They picked and they lingered, loitering and looking, until finally I was peeved.

This is my message to you...

What is it, I ask, that you seek? Do you have an address book? (For what should they need an address book, indeed?) I sent them with detailed instruction to where three lay precisely, though each would give them nothing but that which they said they’d seek.

Have you noticed, my nature, gone sour from sweet? Three days after my freedom would bleed, drugged into stupor and stupidity with an edge of a nicotine fiend, they ask will you go willingly or, proverbially, shall we put you on your knees?

I noted that that was no choice at all, and with a sigh I rose in dignity the last moment of peace I recall.

They had asked a myriad of questions, each one asked I answered as fast, precise and accurately as the last. Their questions amused me, how little it showed they’d know. For instance, who asks a girl geek for an address book, not asking instead to see her iPhone? Did I drug my dog, um no? Was it out the door his book I’d thrown? Yes, I didn’t want it in my home. Did you let this man stay here, yes? Does it matter if he had no place to stay? I offered him a place for his head to lay. “A homeless vagrant” though I told them his name and his licensed address no shamed claim to fame. Thus Roxie got fleas, Daniel Zechariah Rhodes took leave, and I’d lose my home.

There’s nine days in between, but at twenty-fours of persistent wakeful sleep speed, thats more than a chapter, and less than a dream.

Suffice to say its somewhere between Angela’s eyes and a tent wander’s dreams.

Though I took the Word into my tent and slept in a wilderness of my own, it was months later I read the book which told me my heart knew I had a home.

So either it’s something in that story, which is long from being done and told, or it is simply the answer.

“I was hungry and you fed me,
I was thirsty and you gave me a drink,
I was homeless and you gave me a room,
I was shivering and you gave me clothes,
I was sick and you stopped to visit,
I was in prison and you came to me.”

It was the Word and the Word alone.

Third World Exotic Surfboards

Are You There God? It's Me, Gidget, Religion

An Apology to My Mother

Mom, I know that I’m scaring you. And I’m sorry for that.

I don’t know how to explain with words what I’m going through.

I can however share with you what I’m fascinated by, and perhaps you can judge whether or not I’m “okay”.

I’ve been studying the Bible for months now, and I’ve perservered despite the fear that what I would learn might mean that I would separated from my family. I miss you guys so much. You seem nearly as a conceptual thing to me as “daddy” is. I understand what that relationship is supposed to mean, but it’s not something I’ve experienced. Likewise, I don’t really know how to be a sister or to be a daughter, it seems so long ago that I was a part of a family. I’m not sure I ever knew how to interact like I belonged.

Here’s a night in the most recent nights of Angela:

I’m an experience designer, so know that it’s an “experience”. I’m giving you my recipe as it were. I could send you the “Notability” file for instance which recorded me and the background (music in this case) while I studied the Watchtower. You can go along as I highlight and respond, and can hear the music that I was listening to and how I interacted in my study with God.

So. First, it starts with Faith. Continue reading

Are You There God? It's Me, Gidget

sdcph – start of the story (July 2011)

Eris' Sign (above my bed)

There is something really very freeing about being interned at a mental institution, the come-what-may, they won’t believe me anyway kind of reality that seeps into your every day, day-to-day, life. This is due, I’m certain to the reality of it all, ironically, that there’s really nothing you can do to defend the honor of your psyche as a virgin who is under suspicion is never quite the same.

It it was this premise that I returned to the land of my forefathers, and yours too, in an American cultural kind of sense, to attend my grandfather’s funeral. Armed with the realization that here it was that I was safe, among my uncles and three aunts, that I could be myself what ever that may truly be. Safe. Something that I’m not sure I could have told you I’d ever feel again, and something that seems certain to forever more remain an uncertainty.

There’s another side effect from being committed to the looney bin… that of the fear of paranoia. A true break with reality. Am I real? Is my life real? Did that just really happen?

You’re driven to introspection, a timid maneuver to navigate your own mind in hopes of validating what you are certain is true, and with a fascination of what you may not really know about yourself. It is in this manner I broke inside. Inside my mind that is.

They say what doesn’t break us makes us stronger, and now I spend but a brief moment wondering at that vague statement with some cynicism that the person to whom it was attributed quite possibly never really experienced anything at all, let alone the experience of what it is like to be broken. Otherwise how is it that one would leave such a judgement so broad and open to interpretation?

No, I think that trite little smarty pants party pleasing sayings are a little too juvenile for me, but perhaps I’ll have to practice some restraint in my own audacity as it’s not like I have much of a concept to present in it’s stead.

It was only just over a month ago that they put me in. They. Pronouns. Licenses for absence. Excuses for accepting responsibility. They. It’s not like I could blame him, but it’s her that really feels like an untouched betrayal. She would be the second person in my life that I would never speak to again… just to walk away, and in this case, without another look.

It’s not that she put me in really. I can’t fault someone for trying to do what they think was best for me, with limited knowledge and from across the entire country. No, it’s more about the fact that she was so careless her recounting of her perspective. They. They apparently believed her, and I was never to hear from her again. Well, not really. I called her from the emergency room when I still had access to long distance. She answered the phone in the same manner, “Hello, this is Barbara, Angela’s mom”. Somehow that was both comforting and uncomfortable at the same time.

"I'm hardwired for happiness and dreaming."

“I’m hardwired for happiness and dreaming.”

She told them that she thought I was bi-polar. She, this, my pseudo-mom, or as the report has it, surrogate mother. Surrogate. Does that have legal connotation, or is it just an idle adjective with lasting repercussions through out this experience? I don’t know, and maybe I never will. All I know is that I knew better when I read that my mother (listed by name) had said that I had not sleep in six days, was highly erratic and hyperverbal. You see, regardless of truth as a defense, my mother would never be so careless. My mother had already busted me out of a mental institution once already in life, though I’d be amiss if not to immediately address that she had taken me there in the first place as she had always had concern about my ability to handle stress. In reality, I believe I’d had undiagnosed childhood epileptic seizures, just like my cousin—her twin’s daughter.

Yes, so while they were the ones to start this break from reality, or this disconnection from real life, I can’t really fault them. No, I don’t imagine he’ll ever be the same, but it’s her that I imagine I’ll never quite be able to address again.

It took weeks to finally get the reports, the documentation, of what they gave me. Just how many drugs they put into my tiny prescription-ally near virginal body. All told, I believe that it was six different drugs, if you count the Clonzepam that started it all, and Haldol, Atavan, Benadryl, and Lithium, and the THC I had put there myself. But I don’t count the THC, after all drugs are drugs and herbs are herbs.

Lithium. Well that’s a story in and of itself. Apparently there was this town somewhere in the Southern United States where, while none were the wiser, lithium leaked into the entire town’s water source. For near a decade or more the entire town was known as being docile, peaceful with such low crime and violence rate. Joke’s on me, as the lithium they gave me just made acutely aware of every sound that echoed, squeaked, screeched, slammed or plodded it’s way through the hallways, sleepless, and viciously angry.

[Insert “Did I do that?” posted elsewhere.]

Also of particular interest to me is the way that the newest man, in the romantic sense, in my life informed me that I had seemingly employed the same strategies that POW John McCain had during his Vietnam War internment. Maybe it’s just another factor in my seemingly healthy, strong, and impenetrable ego, post-lithium. I also came to believe that I have a photographic memory, and I’m not certain I’d ever have come to that concept if not for the first dose. Maybe just one dose would have done it. I don’t know, all I really wonder is which night was it that I slept 3.75 hours? Perhaps its telling as every other night, on average would have to be just over one hour of cumulative calculated sleep as they report my having a mere 9 hours in 7 days.

All in all the part the maybe gets me the most is that I had to leave the hospital against medical advisement (AMA), and as they advised I should have stayed, and taken the lithium for at least two weeks longer to see it’s true help.

I just wondered, could I survive going without sleep that long?

Are You There God? It's Me, Gidget

picking the characters in your life

That was the night that Johnny showed up.

What was I doing for New Year’s Eve last year? Oh!—how could I forget?! I was in New York City at the Phish show in Madison Square Garden with the Trojan’s son.

When I think about that whole concept of a girl having to define the man she’d want to spend the rest of her life with, with just six months to get that concept together—I wonder if you’d have to decide based on some one you know, or if you dream man would be some sort of composite that you just haven’t realized yet?

I wonder if I should feel guilty that I probably can’t even recall all the men who have ever claimed love for me? How many hearts have I broken?

Nah—I need to remember that life is short, and I’ve never really thought that it was true that if you can’t be with the one you love that you should love the one you’re with. It’s about taking that deep breath and remembering that you used to fall asleep every night with dream in your head of what life would look like, in the paradise that your father painted.

What if you believed that you were already there?

That you were in just some kind of symbolic lesson or joke? That your father is really there? Could you believe as I was raised to believe that your father would one day live again? If so, would you recognize his face if you saw him?

Would your father be someone you know? The man in the few photos you have? Or grown older? Would you know his face, if you saw it, either way? Mine died so young, when I was so young. What if he was a phycist?

How do I explain how confusing it is that I seem to have two mothers—only not if you think of it as One who gave me life, the Other who gave me death?

What lessons would you take away? To always listen to your mothers—or perhaps, is it, to wary of the mother who’d commit you?—or would it be the mother who’d bust you out?

If a homeless man came to your door—would you take him in—feed and shelter him?

It didn’t feel like risking my very life that night. It felt like the night that a 21-year old blue-eyed blonde version of grandfather walked through the door.

What if you had to figure out your very own movie? Backwards? Would it be a wedding movie at the end? Or would it be death?

What if you’d already lived it? Could you recall the scenes?—Would you try? Or just live it out as each breath expires in time?

What if the movie was a wedding mystery movie!?! Where you have to figure it out—like Momento—backwards in reverse until the beginning or you get it or something?! Wait?! Didn’t that guy— wasn’t it?!— wasn’t it about some guy who had stuff happen because he couldn’t sleep? No! Wait. That was The Machinst. What happened in Momento? What happened in Donnie Darko for that matter? Was Momento also about not being able to sleep? I can just remember him not being able to remember. Donnie Darko, I can’t remember why he couldn’t sleep. The Machinist—he couldn’t sleep, but I couldn’t remember why…

…any way! What if you had to figure it all out? I think I’d circle around to remembering that I liked it better when the Devil slept in my bed and nearly burned my house down, and a girl helped me pitch the tent in my spare bedroom after I kicked out my Trojan horse of a roommate, and The Devil’s uncle brought his kid’s over to watch Annie in our secret garden that reminded me somehow of the surf version of the set of Dirty Dancing. I introduced them to my version of Mister MacGrewgor, and told them about his garden.

I had a bunny once. And this summer I had a beautiful dog. And a summer wonderland. Would you regret what you did this last summer if you knew it were the last summer of this earth?—Oh, it’s been nagging me that thing he said. But you know, there was this other thought that struck me, which is that — jeez — I really need to remember to spin it up faster and remember that you have to remember the scenes.

Queue music….

—Glad that you’ve come back—Cat Powers, Lived in Bars—Could that be your long lost aunt? How old is she? Does she have a twin brother?
—Bob Dylan
—The Ozark Mountain Dare Devils

—Wait?! What if… We kow your house so very well… we’ll bust down your door if you’re not there… She keeps bringing me back to happy… air planes… out of here.

And we’re back again—is it a wedding video? Mystery? In reverse? Or is it a life mediated by reminds, which all seem to point you in some direction, but you’re just not sure which one?

Remember when you met all those crazy people? Why is it that that felt like the beginning? Was that all after Independence Day? I met the old man who looks like John—you know— like John the baptist with dreads.

If you could imagine Jesus— would you imagine him to be more like a blonde, young, lanky Southern California’s next authentic rock star, or would he be in long hair and birkenstocks? And—oh! my!—can you believe what you almost sold your soul to design last year?!—you’d almost forgotten.

What if you took a few drugs and ended up finding your way to Jesus… would you trust Jesus? Or would you believe he was drug induced or psychotic behavior? My father hitch hiked his way across the country in 1975, from Indiana to California, finding himself in a Moonie camp just about an hour north of San Francisco and met some guy named Brent Blakeley who doesn’t believe in making money, or the Internet, and told you that your dad was alive for an hour, to an hour and a half before a trucker came along at that time of night to see him laying there, and to call 911.

You think of your mother, holding his hand—”you blew it buddy”, she said to him. And as his hand slipped from hers, she knew that that was that.

You remember her telling you a story. The first time you’d heard this one. She doubted whether or not your dad could make it. Stay true. But to what, you can’t recall? Not to the religion—but in some behavior? What did he do again? How did he disappoint her, and make her doubt him? He got drunk at some party—? Was that the night she doubted? I wonder if he knew? Or if he believed she believed in him?

One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, Hardboiled Wonderland and the End of the World, Steinbeck’s East of Eden, and what else have you read this past year?

And all the movies you saw? Shutter Island, The Adjustment Bureau, Limitless, Source Code… and?

Don’t forget to bring in the Raymond Chandler romance. The Man in the White Suit. He looked so good from so far—and even better in your memory.

The TV shows—Weeds, Californication, The L Word, Entourage, Dollhouse, Nip/Tuck, and How I Met Your Mother.

The bands—The Bird and The Bee, Cat Power, Ozark Mountain Daredevil’s, Bob Dylan, Dave Matthews, and finally some Avett Brothers, or just listening to your iPod on play all the way through, one song at a time.

Are You There God? It's Me, Gidget

Are you there God?—It’s me, Gidget.

Are you there God?—It’s me, Gidget.

The last year was all such a maze, a mess, you’d never even believe me if I tried to tell you. Eventually, I have to admit I barely believe. How is it that I could wander into such a mess—and how is it that I’m here closing in on a year later and haven’t really told anyone the story?

I’ve been simultaneously amused and lonely. And I have no idea how I would manage to bring you along in the story, even if you were absolutely interested. And perhaps you’d just think I were crazy.

You wouldn’t be the first.

Are You There God? It's Me, Gidget

Bishop the Surfer

Here’s the deal. You’re not allowed to worry about me. Instead you’d better be realizing that I intend to learn how to surf and I want to get to be me, the Gidget on Windansea. I’m not threatening you, I’m letting you know it’s not a concern, and it’ll happen in that order. I wouldn’t want to surf Windansea without you to see! 🙂

So the parking attendant spoke to me last night in the dark. Zac had been under a pile of kids, so I didn’t approach him (again). There just isn’t a “step aside” space in the hall like in PB and he’s always occupied somehow. Anyway Uriah said he’ll point me out to one of the elders.

As far as if you’re allowed to answer questions about stuff that’s more “out there” like we had talked about long ago… If you meant you could now, versus after reinstated, one of the things I wanted to know more about was Beth-Seram and the belief he held that the they’d come back (Joshua, David…) in our time (thus the house). I didn’t know any of that until long after out of the hospital. However, coming out of the hospital (under the influence of all the drugs they gave me) I lived that “fantasy”. In reality I met people, the ancient dreadlocked surfer John, a kid named Russell, and started hoping that that somehow something had happened in the hospital so that I could believe I was meeting the beginning of the resurrected ones, living among us in San Diego. There is a home in my (old) neighborhood which sits on a beach that is dedicated to with a plaque, and the gate is labeled, Paradiso. You have to admit, if paradise had to spring from a spot the way Eden is limited to one, La Jolla is a worthy pick for its merits.

So I learned the bit about the house, thought whoa, and was left wondering alone where he got that from, what scriptures? I’m not suggesting that it’s valid. It obviously was not accepted into our doctrine, but I’m curious to see how he ended up there. Any why San Diego? Seems so arbitrary. I wonder how many other deeds have ever been so unique as to be held in trust for resurrected ancients?!

Don’t worry. I know Uriah is a modern human and not the resurrected of David’s army. 😉

I also know that Steinbeck’s choice of location for East of Eden is also irrelevant. But it does make for great daydreams!

Are You There God? It's Me, Gidget



Write using outline such as the rights of the patients—and then how they were violated.
David as the male lead.

What is the resolution?

Compare to other books and media. Shutter Island he ends up lobatimized. So does One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. Rosenhan Study, result in schizophernia diagnosis and being held, medicated to the effect of depersonalization and powerlessness (including behavior and responses from staff to psuedo-patients).

Paint a portrait of my healthy, happy and secure life prior. Colorful.

List names of staff, and describe them vividly.

To dignity, privacy and humane care : Bra and belt were taken on admission, but was not offered a means to cover my breasts, and as I began to lose weight, to deal with my jeans falling lower and lower on my hips. Turns out that bras are allowed without underwire, and that I could have arranged for clothes. Instead, I was harassed by staff about my appearance, including sexual harassment by the orderly referring to my butt.

To be free from harm including unnecessary or excessive physical restraint, medication, isolation, abuse and neglect : those who took me in treated me as a criminal, forcing me to the ground, wrestling my arms behind me until I called out for mercy, and cuffing me so that I lost feeling in my hands. Medicated, despite no need for it.

To receive information about your treatment and to participate in planning your treatment : I repeatedly stated that I should have NO benzodiazepine’s, or Clonazepam specifically, as it could kill me (seizures). They came in with three large needles, while still handcuffed to the gurney, and administered drugs without informing me what they were, or for what purpose. While I was unconcicious I was further administered drugs without my consent. Upon requesting records, I was denied information, and it took days after release and repeated requests before I was to receive information.

To consent or refuse to consent to treatment, unless there is a legally defined emergency or a legal determination of incapacity : I was not a legally defined emergency or incapacited. In any case, I should have been allowed access to my family and doctor.

To prompt medical care and treatment : Do we consider three days prompt?

To have reasonable access to telephones—both to make and to receive confidential calls or have such calls made for you : I was denied access to telephones to be able to call my parents, every single time I requested to do so. Instead I was told I could use the patient phones to call collect, which did not work. I reported this time and time again, but was never allowed to call my family.

To have access to letter-writing material and stamps—to mail and to receive unopened correspondence : No one told me that I could have access to such materials, thus I did not request. I also was not given any means of accessing phone numbers or addresses, so I’m not certain what use this would have been to me.

Of f i c e o f P a t i e n t s ’ Ri g h t s—( 9 1 6 ) 5 7 5 – 1 6 1 0
Of f i c e o f Hum a n Ri g h t s—( 9 1 6 ) 6 5 4 – 2 3 2 7
Emergency Treatment. A situation in which action to impose treatment over a person’s objection is immediately necessary for the preservation of life or the prevention of serious bodily harm to the patient or to others and it is impractical to first gain consent from the patient.

Gravely Disabled. A person who is unable, by reason of a mental disorder, to provide for his or her own food, clothing, or shelter. A person is not gravely disabled if someone else is willing and able to provide these basic necessities.

Are You There God? It's Me, Gidget

coffeeshop gray day.omm

The concept of a chill struck my mind. My back to the world, it’s the reflection of the cars passing afront my favorite sidewalk coffeeshop that busies my laptop as I try to focus beyond at the words on my screen. I turn to iTunes for music to bring the focus with a failed attempt at the finding the Ozark Mountain Daredevil‘s—wrong iTunes library— opting instead for Bob Dylan.

It’s programming you see. He and I tangled encoded cords between each other. I allowed his access for nearly a year and a half—surely I’m still on his mind?

Early on he sent his manuscript, supplied with Russian vodka and vermouth to accompany my reading. Next came chapters written for me, each addressed with a letter and a mix tape style custom made CD, each with their own custom designed cover and inside sleeve, music for me to listen to as I read, drove, or lingered over my laptop on a gray and dreary day at the coffeeshop.

It’s by those memories that suddenly I feel more than just the concept of a chill. The acuity of the moment felt like an expired breath seeking the intimate exposures of my skin, my neck flexed momentarily as I wished to glance over my shoulder, but resisted.

Yes, it’s programming. The scripts are simple, and something that I believe women had a command of, before, well, before some point in history. Now men reach out for the power of persuasion with Bible bound Neil Strauss inspired manuals, and for those who know both the powers of romance and persuasion possibilities seem limitless.

Where could I find someone with whom I might banter over the idea of the sociological influences in transitions from matriarchal to patriarchal societies? I hear there’s a woman who has written about some sort of a archetype of a man, considering from the Nephelem to Luke Skywalker, and I wonder what conclusions she’s come to…? I decide, if I could be anyone in Star Wars, I’d be an Ewok.

He sent me books. Yes, real books—real, bound books—mostly printed by Vintage. We shared a passion for the noir of Raymond Chandler, but he was the one to introduce me to Cissy, and the civilized drifter’s life behind the scenes.

It went from being a modern age Facebook stalker kind of thing to a bona fide romance of the mind. A slow seduction kept so through the chastity of Internet inspired indifference, though he was a suitor without regard to if I’d read his letters and his writing, listened to his CDs, or considered his martini.


Maybe he doesn’t know that I merely stacked his affections, eventually ending up with an entire collection of CDs, a bookshelf of books, a bottle of wine, and finally the beginnings of a complete outfit one-item-at-a-time like winning items clothing from a game of strip poker.

The night we were to finally meet in person couldn’t have been anything I’d have dreamed up. Beyond the reason everyone gathered for me that night, of first shock there was my mother from whom I’d been estranged for the past ten years in from North Carolina, then it turns out that my friend just happened to be in from Boston, and was headed south from Orange County in his rental car to come see me, and finally was the what had been the best laid plan to finally lay my eyes on the flesh of the dandy. Managing two men, an old friend, and suitor of love, before my mother’s eyes was an exercise in performing reality on the crowded stage of surreal.

That night as he was leaving he kissed me. I could barely hear the whisper of his breath as my ear lingered too close to his lustful heart beat. As I broke the embrace I knew—we are what he writes of.

Drawn to my side again, we shared a morning of Robin Henkel at my coffee shop, we walked the beach to small cove amid the rocks of the small cliff where the ocean meets an abrupt end and settled in on the sand. I set aside William Maughan, my words giving in to his embrace, his kiss. My body was distracted by the strength in his, my mind fell with my shoulder to the sand as distance lost it’s way in the space between us.

The next time we’d meet would be the last.


The Cleanse Song, Bright Eyes

I met him at my favorite coffee house, Bird Rock Coffee Roasters. As I joined the line to order, I noticed him. I summed him up. Nicely dressed, but so is everyone else who lives here. Nothing striking about him. A little shorter than average height. Given to talking to people, I told myself I wasn’t going to talk to him. I needed to focus. I’ll pass.

He picked up the white cardboard container of organic oatmeal, examining it’s nutritional values and marketing.

“I’ve been wondering how that’d taste.” Oh, well… Well, I had been.

“I was wondering the same. I don’t imagine it can be that good, but I’ll try it.”

“Right? Can organic oatmeal in cardboard taste like anything but, well, cardboard?”

He smiles. Warm, dark eyes, with dark eyebrows that made him seem both deep and sincere. He buys the oatmeal and orders a coffee, and then takes the corner table against the garage style window.

The Cleanse Song, Bright Eyes

Hear the chimes, did you know that the wind when it blows
It is older than Rome and all of this sorrow
See the new pyramids down in old Manhattan
From the roof of a friend’s I watched an empire ending
Heard it loud and long the river’s Om
Time marching on to a madman’s drum
Don’t forget what you’ve learned all you give is returned
And if life seems absurd what you need is some laughter
And a season to sleep and a place to get clean
Maybe Los Angeles, somewhere no one is expecting
On a detox loft through a Glendale Park over sidewalk chalk
Someone wrote in red, “start over”
So I muffled my scream on an Oxnard beach
Full of fever dreams that scare you sober
Into saltless dinners
Take the fruit from the tree, break the skin with your teeth
Is it bitter or sweet? All depends on your timing
Like a meeting of chance with the train station glance
Many lifetimes had past in a instant reminded
Of a millstone house in a seaside town
When your heart gave out in a mission bed
So your wife gave birth to a funeral dirge
You woke up purged as a wailing infant
In Krug Thep, Thailand
Hear the chimes, did you know that the wind when it blows
It is older than Rome and our joy and our sorrow

Are You There God? It's Me, Gidget, Religion

The Pear Tree Notebook (1995-2000)

Could it be true? Do you really mean it when you say ‘I love you’? It all seems so natural… it was meant to be. Together we are, yet so far apart, is it too far to touch your heart? I never wanted to leave your arms, so close to your heart I had finally found where I belong. You held me so close I could feel your need, I could touch your fears—I could feel your pain. But, together, these fade away—I forget a time when heaven wasn’t a placve I could live, and the stars I could not reach. Could it be true by some cruel twist of life, we could never have met… Two lives meant to be together forever separated by mere chance?


You kept me warm—did you feel my fingertip kisses on your soft skin? Curled up nxt to you I could stay forever, warm and safe in your arms. My heart was melting away—did you hear my silent whisper to be yours? Where are the words to describe how it felt to lean close to you—to breath your air of contentment? How do you describe how it feels to be so close to you no longer feel contained by anything? Everything felt so right, it was meant to be, god showered us with his blessings. Not ashamed for him to look down on our embrace, not afraid of his diapproval on our kiss. He sees everything so clear, and now he’s given that gift to me. No longer commanded by body, but thought. In control of myself so I can let go.

Do you think this will wear off? Do you think we’ll forget how it felt to be together? One minute I’m so sure you really do love me, the next my confidence shakes. But I close my eyes and I see us together. I don’t want to surrender myheart to pain. Are you sure, my love, we belong togehtrer, forever and always? I want someon to hold me close and understand, to love me endlessly.



Empty : 12/5/1995 [was this Mikey to me?]

As I sit here in my empty room, I feel the tug of longing in my chest. As I lie here in my empty bed, I think of all the wrods left unspoken, and the chances I may yet have to speak them.

As I live here in my empty life, I realize it’s empty because you’re not in it.

I need your smile to keep me happy. I need your laught to keep me whole, I need your embrace to keep me warm. I need your love to keep me sane.When you are not near me I feel a void begin to form inside me. It starts as a peculiar emptiness near my heart; then it quickly swells and grows, threating to engulf me. I fight it back with thoughts of you; but it keeps returning, keeps stalking me like a lunatic bent on my destruction.


Mikey, I want to do this right. I want to take things by the book, to make sure nothing goes wrong.I’ve never felt so confident about anything, so sure that it was meant to be. I feel like you have been sent to me from Jehovah, and you seem to think the same of me. I want to marry you, althought I’m not surethat would be good to that in the next year. It’s amazing to think that Jehovah has made a provision for us to be together and feel so complete, ofrever. Even though I feel like it’s so right it wouldn’t be smart to trust that feeling from just one day. It would be like living a dream if I was engaged to you in a year. But if we think about that now we may be disillusioning ourselves. It’s a life time decision, and if you’re right for me then I’m not scared to make it.

I guess you’re probably wondering why I’m talking about this right now. I don’t really know—maybe its just waht’s on my mind. Could I wake each morning next to yo? Mikey, I’m content like I am. I have you, you ahve me and as long as you know how I feel about you then I’m okay. I love you Mikey, but we have to be careful. The Watchtower suggest setting limits, that sounds like a good idea to me. We need to find out what we each are really like. Are you ready to love out and support yourself—and someone else? I’m gonna talk to my parents about this weekend. We need to spend some time togehtrr talking, and hanging out. I’d like to sit with you through the assembly, too.

What are you goals? What do you want to do? Where do you want to live? Do you want to have kids? Are you thikning about marriage? When? I can see myself engaged at 17, and married thereafter.


Are You There God? It's Me, Gidget

La Jolla Bird

Well I spent the day bumbling through my daily Bird Rock walk. The 3am walk with random neighbors brought me a philosophy student from Oxford and his two friends. We walked the darkness towards light as I wove the stories that keep the memories bright. Ever haunted by the corner where you turn left, inevitably to miss the home of my charming Chandler and the woman he loved.

We walked to our cultural center, known to the outside as Bird Rock Coffee Roasters, or just “Bird Rock” to us. I told the story of the families memories that haunt me, the jukebox that should be and the future that seems unsought.

Back home, I slept the rest of the night, as it seems I’m on a 4 hours on, 4 hours off schedule. I think about all the Microsoftie’s who brag on the few hours they can live on. I miss my eight solid hours. It seems the culprit may be the intense bright light across the street which shines in on my bedroom… well, until last night when a stranger took to removing the bulb leaving me to sleep in peace. I think of circadian rhythms and how my sleep cycle was affected by the lack of sun living in Seattle.

The day? Well, that’s the usual stuff you know. I went to Bird Rock, met and talked to the new people, the by now old friends. A potter chose a bike for me, as it’s obvious to all that I need a bike rack. Off I went in pursuit, first leaving my car to have the convertible repaired, on foot.

That’s when I ran into Loni and her puppies, and Rosie became Roxie as our bond formed in the serendipitous sunlight of the day.

My walk home (the bike abandoned, what would I do with a bike and a dog?!) was long but a labor of love. I wanted her to feel as comfortable as possible in transition. It’s so easy to see the “humaness” of an animal. Their eyes tell all, their body language. … I think of my own body language and wonder what it is that makes some so afraid of me while others so delighted.

I met the brains behind an outfit on Bird Rock’s main drag. I’ll leave that to later, as he may wish to introduce himself.

Physics Teacher's Pullover

Rosie (not yet Roxie) and I crossed paths with a jogging Physics teacher from Bishops, and the day progressed into kind of intelligent conversation on which I thrive.

Art and music finds its way home.

Here I am, 10pm and tired. A amber colored silken Roxie by my side, and thinking of how much more of the day I’ve failed to recount. I’m sure it’ll be fine, as tomorrow begins anew with more stories.

I’m looking forward to working my crew tomorrow. Plans are exceedingly underway. Larry comes in about three weeks from LA. Ori and Tara likely sooner. I go to San Francisco (oh, how I hate to leave my little stretch of Windansea/Bird Rock) to meet the founder of Burning man on the 19th. (Heads up you SF’ers!)

Time seems so short between now and Nicaragua. I can’t wait to see Gaia though. Turns out the physicist has the same plan, long term.

Most of all, I can’t wait to introduce Roxie to Kingston.

“If we shadows have offended, Think but this, and all is mended, That you have but slumber’d here While these visions did appear. And this weak and idle theme, No more yielding but a dream, Gentles, do not reprehend: if you pardon, we will mend: And, as I am an honest Puck, If we have unearned luck Now to ‘scape the serpent’s tongue, We will make amends ere long; Else the Puck a liar call; So, good night unto you all. Give me your hands, if we be friends, And Robin shall restore amends.”—Dead Poets Society

My spirit carries no bruises, though my skin tells tales.

Tonight I lay my head down in peace, and Roxie lays her next to mine in a symbol of her humane love. I wonder if she misses her babies, as I adore mine.

Oh, and the first artist-in-residence of the center has arrived. We close the evening with Into the Wild. How appropriate.

“There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, There is a rapture on the lonely shore, There is society, where none intrudes, By the deep sea, and music in its roar: I love not man the less, but Nature more.”—Lord Byron

Choose your own adventure: Nothing to Undo or Change the Lense.


Belief and Technique for Modern Prose, a list of 30 “essentials”.

“The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow Roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars, and in the middle, you see the blue center-light pop, and everybody goes ahh…”— Jack Kerouac, On the Road

Jack Kerouac’s Belief and Technique for Modern Prose, a list of 30 “essentials”:

  1. Scribbled secret notebooks, and wild typewritten pages, for yr own joy
  2. Submissive to everything, open, listening
  3. Try never get drunk outside yr own house
  4. Be in love with yr life
  5. Something that you feel will find its own form
  6. Be crazy dumbsaint of the mind
  7. Blow as deep as you want to blow
  8. Write what you want bottomless from bottom of the mind
  9. The unspeakable visions of the individual
  10. No time for poetry but exactly what is
  11. Visionary tics shivering in the chest
  12. In tranced fixation dreaming upon object before you
  13. Remove literary, grammatical and syntactical inhibition
  14. Like Proust be an old teahead of time
  15. Telling the true story of the world in interior monolog
  16. The jewel center of interest is the eye within the eye
  17. Write in recollection and amazement for yourself
  18. Work from pithy middle eye out, swimming in language sea
  19. Accept loss forever
  20. Believe in the holy contour of life
  21. Struggle to sketch the flow that already exists intact in mind
  22. Don’t think of words when you stop but to see picture better
  23. Keep track of every day the date emblazoned in yr morning
  24. No fear or shame in the dignity of yr experience, language & knowledge
  25. Write for the world to read and see yr exact pictures of it
  26. Bookmovie is the movie in words, the visual American form
  27. In praise of Character in the Bleak inhuman Loneliness
  28. Composing wild, undisciplined, pure, coming in from under, crazier the better
  29. You’re a Genius all the time
  30. Writer-Director of Earthly movies Sponsored & Angeled in Heaven

(Source: Wikipedia)

Are You There God? It's Me, Gidget

Written July 10, 2012

One Saturday night I accepted a date from a stranger, a man I now refer to as ‘the Boo Radley’. I had already had plans to go see Gregory Page play at the Westgate, and so I met him for wine, and he joined me for the show…

When you fall in love, you can’t eat, you can’t sleep. But it didn’t happen quite like that, then again, this isn’t a story about falling in love. I love food, I love my sleep, and for the moment, I might have thought I loved him. Alas, while I ate with a passion, as I usually do, loved like it was for only a moment, as one should, I did indeed miss my sleep…

We’d met that weekend, a weekend of fireworks—hey! don’t judge—I say that with only a touch of corniness, it was July 4th, after all.

Give me a break, as much as this isn’t a love story, it is a crazy one, and as with the best of them, it begins with that classic boy-meets-girl moment. Continue reading



Mario, can you please send me a Surface? I can’t remember the guy’s name, but the guy in Seattle on the corner in the mission has one. he lived behind me on the alley with the theatre. also, though it’s a larger ask—ask the uncle, if you don’t mind, or jack would get it—we need the minority report surface. we need to return the creative visions to the creatives, the world’s current culture can only stomach the microsoft creative vision in the form of cool games… and i’m not sure anyone else see’s the mass of human capital sitting a wasting at microsoft. i’d love to have eilon and scott and mark and brian and… a reunion. but first give me the designers tools, and any visionary designer who’s still left on staff. (or did we all give up when gates decided to save us instead of making more money? why didn’t he appoint a trustee to his most valuable asset? i can’t wait to know, but i can wait to ask.)

btw, i am trying to start a stock market crash on the internet.

i walked away from SF to find a quieter place to think, and i saw that my klout dropped.

well i rose to the top of the design scale on empire avenue.

since i don’t follow money stuff, i just apparently make good choices because it keeps making more play money locked away under the same steady smart choices—i mean what’s real and what’s play?

Would you bet on me?

You can play how ever you want. Nobody has to know. The reality is we’re in a war for resources. I am fighting for you minds, because I have your hearts, but not your action. You all love me, and people like me, and we keep leaving you. Because you keep hurting us.

So place your bets. Whether that’s to abstain from the silliness. Or to invest, or to… see this is a game of augmented reality of the furthest bounds i’ve started to conceive. Continue reading


creative asylum

“Come in,” she said, “I’ll give you shelter from the storm”

There’s an amazing story that happened one day, when I realized that I had managed to finally lose San Francisco in it’s fog, Seattle in it’s gray, and New York in it’s busy…

I had found “a nice place for old people — and their parents.”

The way that I look at it, that’s perfect. I’m an old soul.

I call it home now.

And apparently now I’m looking for a home for the crazy people.

We call it a creative asylum.

I want to care for the minds that make the world sing.

Do you need asylum?

You, my friends, may always lay your head next to mine.


Culture, Neuroscience, Psychology, Technology,

People and Projects

Welcome to the new people. If you don’t know why you’re here. Don’t worry, it’ll come. The door is open. If you were to ask Loxie she’d tell you we’re all stars. Want to know more? Come visit us. Does an open door make you hesitate? Oh no! Don’t worry, someone will hold your hand, if you want to come in.

You see, we’re here because we need each other to reach our dreams. Continue reading

Are You There God? It's Me, Gidget, Correspondence

make a movie for me

via gmail to friend

a woman (think: me, megan) wanders through life and we with her as you notice that she has a special certain “force of nature” about her. energy drawn to her, sometimes manifesting in chaos (have me recall the experience the other day as the man drove off the road). leave plenty to be more thinker than obvious.

then transition into griffin & sabine by nick bantock.

i don’t recall a visual description of sabine, but if she’s able to be carried by her, I will solicit Gaby Hoffman. (Did I tell you about her?)

you game? all i need is a yes, I can reach out to both… i know you have to finish rocking tiger eyes… there’s an infinite future, until there is none.