Knowing from the Mat Expanded to Thoughts

Had a point when starting this... please help me find it lol 

Why does the ego separate itself into seemingly individual components, that pick on each other or band together? 
      The ego cannot exist without being perceived by the Mind, and tricks the Mind into believing that the Mind will cease to exist without being perceived by the ego. The Mind becomes a function of the ego, simultaneously squashing and reviving the ego to confirm it, the Mind, is still there, computing and perceiving, existing. But if existence as we know it is a function of perception, the ego will always exist so long as we have a Mind, so long as we perceive -- trying to understand and analyze, put words and explanations to, instead of Being and Knowing. If the Mind couldn't create questions and/or observations, in its individual capacity, could it be aware of its existence? The awareness has to have something to be aware of.

We live by the concept that dialogue constitutes existence.

 Waves on one beach ebb, on the opposite beach they flow; a back and forth rapport that never stops. But if the Moon stopped orbiting the Earth, would waves cease to exist? Light would still arrive at Earth in wavelengths, though we can`t see the ebb and flow of connected rays of light from the sun; we perceive a sunny day as one endless time of light. Even when clouds pass through the sky, light is perceived as one continuous stream; the clouds interrupt it.
If we aren't above ground to perceive the sunny day, does the continuous time of light exist? 
Who receives the waves as they flow, and who misses them when they ebb? The beach, the sand, ... But what about the microscopic organisms in the sand...?
We don't see them, yet they validate the existence of the ocean waves by being there, by their own existence -- they perceive the waves in their own capacity. Since we don't see these organisms, or experience them directly, do they not exist? And if they don't exist, do waves not exist in the times that a human isn't near enough to perceive them? 

A tree falls in the forest, and no one`s around. Does it make a sound?
The ego says no. There was no one to create a dialogue with the sound, a response or rebuff, no one to ignore it and thereby validate the existence of something to be ignored.
The Jnana yogi says, what tree?
The Mind says "I don't think I know." 
The Heart knows the ground receives the tree with a sigh as the dirt below compacts under the weight; the birds who built their nest become homeless as the tree falls; neighbouring trees feel sadness for the loss of their friend, and excitement for his new life on the ground as a nursery log; the bugs, initially shaken by the rumble as the tree hits the Earth, rejoice at the arrival of a massive new feeding ground and home. 

Perhaps dialogue constitutes existence, existence as we perceive it in our limited physical brain. But this Mind sensing existence is only a function of perception (I think, therefore I am). Perception is a side effect of existence, but awareness of existence comes from perception. So, do you still exist if you're not aware that you exist, if you're not aware that to others you exist? 

There is no such thing as existence or non-existence; words are a feeble yet mighty attempt to explain the unexplainable, that which can only be experienced without perception.  Existence is a concept, and concepts are not Real.

 

This all came to me while working on yoga flow for school. It took over an hour to put into words, and still I feel there's much more I could expand on, turn around and contradict to prove points. However we all KNOW the underlying point; expand your consciousness beyond perception. It's all in the inference, as usual. 

A Lesson in the Ego

  Today I went for a swim at the pool, having been too busy to work out all week. I was super excited to be there, with my goggles and front crawls ready to go.
Being new to the whole thing, I opted to share the slow lane with an older woman.
As I was swimming on my back, I saw her splashing closer&closer to my feet, her head above the water.
 Already beginning to be irritated, I maintained my pace, waiting for her to move to the side to pass me ... but her hand slid across my toes, and in a huff, I fluttered off to the side, continuing to swim parallel to her. It happened again, and I angrily thought,
"I should say something. Who does she think she is, swimming into me, twice, and her head's out of the water!"
Then I asked myself,
"Why are you so angry? Is it really because she swam into you, because she didn't apologize like YOU would ... or is it because she's not acknowledging your existence, and the ego doesn't like that?" I smiled, knowing it was the latter. I continued swimming, being mindful of the where the woman was.

As I was getting dressed, the woman walked into the change room, the ball on her red&white bottomed cane bumping rhythmically across the floor.
<3

Meeting Strangers in Vancouver

Let me begin by saying I've been somewhat of an introvert for the last three years. Naturally though, I'm a chatty motherfucker, and I love to meet new people. Cities are a great place to do this, especially big cities like Vancouver. I don't have to walk more than three blocks to meet skaters, people on their lunch break, construction workers and mostly harmless homeless people – or, people who smell homeless. A big variety, is what I['m trying to get at. I'll cite some examples from the last three days.

Day 1, I'm dying for a cigarette. I've made it to the stage where I don't have any of my own, but I bum or buy, or trade, for one around eight-nine o'clock ish at night. I've only got a looney, and I'm hoping to get one for tomorrow too, so I don't have to meander about downtown Van in the dark. I trudge up to the library, grumpy and not expecting to have much luck; I haven't seen a single smoker go past. My spidey sense tingles as I pass two men in their forties on the steps.

“Hey there, do either of you gentlemen smoke? Could I buy one or two off ya?”

“No, no, here, just have one, here's a few for the road!”

“Thank you, sir, how's your evening going?”

I sit and chat with Chris Seymoure, allegedly a world bridge champion (google search turned up two plausible results), and Kevin. Chris just about chats my ear right off my head; bridge this, my old lady that. I learn that 'my old man' would not be my father like i previously thought, but my boyfriend. Ontarians and their slang... :P

I'm quite interested in Kevin though, he keeps piping in with very conscious, aware observations, and just has a very grounded vibe. He seems to get irritated with Chris, and leaves. I finish their gift of a Palm Bay, and head back home to bed.

Halfway back, a baby faced Native guy asks if he can bum a smoke. Knowing exactly how he feels, I feel bad saying no, but I've only got the one and it's for tomorrow.

“I'm sorry man! But if you've got a second, I'll you the story of why I can't...”

We talk while he rolls a cigarette of butt sluts, just fucking gnarly. I don’t even want to know where the butts came from.

“Birch bark trees, you know them? Ever seen a birch bark tree in the summer? Seen a birch bark tree in the fall? Winter? They're totally dead in the winter, they start dying in the fall. But Spring! Birch bark trees come back to life in the spring!”

“Like a phoenix,” I comment, grinning over how many times he's said Birch Bark tree in stumbling to make his point.

'Exaaaactlyyyyy, man, like a phoenix!” He shakes his head, laughing. “Where do you come from? I mean – wha – why are you here? Just.,.. where the fuck did you come from, man,” he yells, flailing his arms at me like a seriously smashed Vanna White.

“I'm a faerie elf, I mean a wood elf,” I laugh, knowing I actually am a little forest creature.

Day 2: School lets out at five. The Science Park is still sunny and warm, dotted with older men browned by the sun like caramelized sugar. Feeling particularly confident and empowered, I find a nice flat spot to practice Pigeon pose. An hour and a half later, I head home, taking a shortcut through one of the arenas. I remember Chris and Kevin telling me about a skate park of sorts being down at the Terry Fox memorial/monuments, and on a whim, I decide to go check out the scene. In all honesty, I wanted a smoke, and was feeling lonely. What better way to counteract that than to interact with strangers!

For a few minutes, I stand on the sidelines, feeling like a bit of a creep. I'm enjoying my iPod, scoping out the skaters and getting a sense of not only who smokes, but who is most likely to let me trade for one. There's a group of four guys who look to be on the edge of early-mid twenties, inching towards late; 26-27 at the most, I thought, but more likely 23-24. Next to them are two men, one obviously older, drinking beers and basically oohing and aahing over the skaters. I decide to approach the younger of the two older men, since the four guys are doing that thing where they check me out in what they think is ninja-style. I smile at them, they look away; I laugh to myself and walk over.

“Hey man, do you think I could bum a smoke off you?” I smile, already in “endearingly-cute mode”, an effect of being around so much testosterone.

“Pff! You can have a few, my dear! Would you like a beer?”

I sit and chat with Richard, and a bit with his uncle Ron, for a couple hours. Initially Rich is a pretty chill guy, talking about working up in the oil fields versus working down here as a rodbuster (*snicker*), his kids, his ex and his medical marijuana connection. After an hour though, he's repeating himself, and I start focusing my energy on the skater in the Ron Burgundy shirt.

I let him know I'm watching him, dropping any ninja-style tactics that I might have had going on. When Richard gets up to piss on a wall around the corner, Burgundy-guy comes over to his friends. Feeling really drawn to his energy, I'm sick of waiting for him to come introduce himself.

“Hey man, what's your name? John? Nice to meet you, I'm Rbonka. Where are you from?”

John takes a seat against the wall next to me, leaving Rich's 'spot' open. Rich and I are sharing a joint, which I offer to John, knowing he'll chat a lot longer if I do. He starts rolling one of his own, and we talk about his lower back getting hurt the other day, going to the Vapour Lounge and him being my practice yoga student. When it's been dark for an hour or so, Rich and Ron leave, Rich obviously pissed at Ron because Ron doesn't want to stay and chat with me. John and his friends remain, and god it's like dealing with a bunch of girls, I swear. The conversation dies, and I have to carry it, which quite frankly is exhausting so I gap out while they discuss a pro retiring to run his dads company. I'm bored, this has run its course. I grab Johns number and am making a sandwich at home in 5 minutes,.

Day 3. Last night I was laying in bed, feeling lonely. I wanted a cigarette, but more, I just wanted to have a conversation. As a very general rule, weed is the best social tool for a young'in in Vancouver, or anywhere in BC actually, as every third person you pass likes to partake. Whether it's once in a blue moon, or every three hours, there's someone within shouting distance who likes to get high. Cigarette smokers, on the other hand, are increasingly becoming a rarity (Where are we on the endangered list, I'd like to know>?). So I whip my supplies into my purse, a consolation prize if I cant win a deathstick.

There's no one out at the Terry Fox memorial/monuments, save for a creepy dude huddled over a backpack in his lap. I sit on a block far away from him and quietly take in the surroundings. Just as I'm thinking I'll go smoke-free tonight, a woman comes out of a nearby pub and sits next to a running Terry statue. Without hesitation, I get up, and feeling like a great white, glide purposefully towards her. I'm wondering why I'm going to her, she doesn't strike the Spidey Sense as a good candidate, but my legs keep going, confident that's where I'm supposed to be.

“Hi there, I'm Rbonk. Do you think I could bum a smoke off you?”

She doesn't have any others, but calls out to the man walking towards us, calling him Chef. He goes back to the pub and when he gets back, tosses a pack of cigarettes at me. The three of us talk about the text-to-landline robot lady voice, the woman giggling over all the dirty things her friends have texted to her landline.

“That bitch'll say anything! Can you imagine ... the lady had to actually sit there and say those words for the robot to know!” She finishes her smoke, smiles and tells me she's got to go back to work. Chef takes her spot on the steps beside me, and we talk about languages, accents, the importance of stretching for the same duration as a sustained muscle contraction, and planning out the best munchies before even toking, Our cigarettes have long since been stubbed out, and he's got to head back to work, but the conversation is effortless. I'm really enjoying having blown his mind with the whole stretching thing.

“Do you come down here every night? If you're up to it, you should come back tomorrow, we could get a beer and have a smoke when I get off work.”

“Well I'm eighteen, but a smoke and chat would be great! I can bring my supplies too if you'd like to try, yea for sure man, when do you get off?” So I have plans to go back tonight, around the same time.

As soon as the Chef's left, I feel more than see a twenty something eyeing me up across the steps. I look at him, smiling invitingly, and say hello.

“Hi! I just have, uh, one question, I don't mean to annoy you, but, can you just smoke anywhere here? Like, do you have to worry about the cops?” I try to place his accent, a sort of Australian, but it lilts all over the place so much I figure it's a speech impediment. Like when I met Jean-Paul, not Sean-Paul, like I thought.

The new guy turns out to be a Californian visiting Vancouver with his dad. It's his last night here, and he went sky diving earlier in the day. I watch the video; we chat non-stop for an hour and a half before he's running back to his hotel, hilariously one building away from my digs.

Making friends with strangers is awesome. You don't have to worry about winning their approval or impressing them, because you can walk away at any time and it doesn't matter. Honestly, you'll probably never see the person again, unless you take steps to ensure you will ;p. If you get bored, you can make up an appointment or class, whatever, and leave. If you don’t want to be YOU for a day, hey, why not be someone a little different. It's kind of like dress up, but with people and personalities.

I'm guilty of liking to use people as sounding boards for my ideas. I also like to teach them what I learned that day, or a few days before at school, because it cements it in my brain. It doesn't hurt either, when a twenty-eight year old, thirty-two year old, forty-something year old, is flipping out and just ecstatic to be talking to you because ... you are you, and not like anyone else they can think of at the time. And before I make it out to be a pure ego pump-up for myself, and important part of this whole thing is listening to them. There are some seriously interesting people out there, smart, hilarious, ridiculous and practical people out there, with lots of things to share. City streets are a goldmine of information, and I'm tapping this resource.

Peas in the Ground... err, bucket of dirt.

The four pea seeds that sprouted! Look at those cute wittle tailies! Sat in damp tissue for two days, but I got impatient and threw them in a small dish of cold water. Less than 24hrs later and this is how they looked! Guess the dark guy is a dudder; I tried to eat it but it was too hard to crack.

Toothpicks marking where each seed was planted. Going to add in the sticks and string for climbing very soon. Should I wait until I see greens above ground or just go right ahead and git er done?

Notes on bucket composting for condos and apartments. Stumbled upon Effective Organisms (EM) and the Bokashi Bin, will have to look more into it. My heart is set on vermicomposting and from my understanding the two are compatible.

Ideal composting notes. Didn't cover hot vs. cool(er) methods. HOT kills weed seeds and diseases, but not sure if cold(er), which reaches up to 45 celsius, will.

And there you have it! A summary of yesterdays gardening work and research.

Cortez's Story: Part 6

That night, I waited for the eleven o’clock sleepover request. Cortez was predictable with that at least: every other night he would text me at eleven fifteen, sometimes eleven thirty and occasionally midnight, and we’d all but follow a script.

“Good evening, Madame,” he would write in a text, “would you care to come for a sleepover? Perhaps some hash to be followed with *winkwink* cardio?”

“Why yes, Monsieur,” I would invariably reply. “I do believe some cardio is much needed. But I’m very near to falling asleep, shall I head over now? Or you’ll have to wait until another evening.” I didn’t want him to think I had sat up, zoning out on TV shows I didn’t like, waiting for his invitation.

      While waiting for his “come on over” reply, I would doll myself up. First I would brush my teeth and give my hair a quick comb through, not wanting to waste too much energy getting pretty. After ten minutes with no texts, I’d put on my sexiest underwear, layered under a tight pair of jeans or a body hugging dress. When, twenty minutes later, Cortez still hadn’t replied I would put on my glasses. I’d pace around the living room, groaning intermittently in a mix of frustration and irritation, Isabella watching me with motherly concern from her perch on the sofa.

      “Are you staying at his house tonight?” She’d ask calmly, giving away her emotions by concealing them so well. “It’s kind of late, isn’t it? Is he going to meet you halfway? I know it’s just a four minute walk, but I don’t like you walking around downtown alone this late at night.”

      Just as I’d be taking off my shoes or pulling out my pajamas, my phone would vibrate loudly. Feeling sick to my stomach with anticipation, I’d ignore it for a good five minutes before coolly strolling over to read my lovers delayed reply. I asked him to meet me partway a few times, giving up after the fourth no-show. When I’d arrive at the Ivy, at least an hour since having been invited over, the door would be locked and the bar deserted. I’d stand outside, waiting and hoping that he’d be paying attention to his phone knowing that it took such a short time for me to get to his place from mine. Usually he would let me in before five minutes had passed, but a few times I stood outside shivering in my ‘cute clothes’ for a solid fifteen. I felt silly leaning against the wall and I certainly didn’t feel empowered and womanly like I had the first few times I spent the night.

Upstairs, the bong would be packed and waiting, and after a few bowls I wasn’t so mad at Cortez anymore. So what if he took forever to answer his phone? He was busy having deep and hilarious discussions with his interesting roommates. Did it matter that he was always conveniently “waiting for a buddy” and couldn’t come meet me, when the walk was so short? You’ve only been propositioned for sex once walking over here, my high brain reasoned, just relax and enjoy the attention he’s giving you now.

      The only variation that night was when I coyly asked him to put on a ‘raincoat.’

      “It even glows,” I giggled, tilting my head to peer up at him through my eyelashes. “We haven’t talked about what we’ll do if I get knocked up by accident. I’m pro-choice,” I said quickly, not liking the change in his face. “But I know I couldn’t have an abortion. Not after everything I just went through and knowing that I would love that ba- er, yeah...” The air in the room was thicker than a good beef stew. Cortez said back on his haunches, thoughtfully tugging at his goatee.

      “Well, Madame, I would try to convince you not to have it,” he said after a long pause. He coughed forcefully. “But uh, ultimately that’s your decision. You’re very young though, and I’d hate to see you alter your life so drastically.” I looked at him quizzically, feeling slightly repulsed.

What kind of statement is that, ‘I would try to talk you into something you don’t want to do but ultimately it’s all about you?’ I had hoped for, and really I had expected, a supportive reaction. “Okay Taylor,” I had wanted him to say. “Let’s use protection every time then, because I don’t want to put you in the position where you’d have to make that choice. And if we have an ‘oops’, don’t worry Madame, I will take care of you two.” It didn’t have to be true; it just needed to be said. I bit my lip and reached for the blanket, not wanting to be as exposed as I was. Cortez saw the change and before the disappointment in my belly worked its way to my tear ducts, he leaned forward and wrapped his arms around me.

      “So it glows, you say?” He whispered in my ear, goatee tickling my neck. A single tear rolled out of my eye, and I rubbed it into his curls before he could notice. I was suddenly aware of the fact that he was almost a decade older than me.

      “I’m not really in the mood, Monsieur. That killed it for me,” I tried to whisper too quietly for him to hear.

 I felt embarrassed that I’d let my emotions into the pre-arranged no-strings-attached, friends-with-benefits deal. I thought back to my excitement when Cortez came back from a weeklong rave on Bards Island and told me he hadn’t felt the desire to sleep with any of the girls there, not even the stripper who had flung herself at him constantly. A doubt crept into my mind, thinking about the times he’d called into the Trout, claiming to have witnessed a crime or that his house had been broken into when he wanted to lay in bed with me. I shoved it to the side when Cortez scooped me up and held me in his lap all night. I was woken up later by his erection, presumptuously wrapped in a condom, prodding the backs of my naked thighs. Bizarrely turned on, I rolled over and tangled my body in his.    

I felt a familiar disgust when I woke up in the morning, alone. There was no sign of the man who made me feel like a lady almost a month ago. I lifted my head groggily, yanking the sleeping bag-cum-blanket to cover my bare bum. I remembered him waking me up in the night and groaned. I certainly did not feel like a lady, and I wanted to not feel as terrible as I did in that moment. Dressing quickly, I packed the biggest bong rip that I could handle and chased it with three cigarettes. I figured Cortez owed me at that point, suppressing any feelings of guilt. He entered, hair wet and even scragglier looking than normal from the shower, as I was tugging on my boots.

      “Oh! Did you want to have a shower, Madame?” He closed the door, un-tucking the green towel from around his waist. He held it out to me, despite it being soaking wet. From the rank smell of it, it was still dirty from when we’d shared it two mornings ago. I shook my head slightly, puffing on another cigarette. He shrugged and re-wrapped his naked waist.

      “I want to shower at home,” I mumbled, looking towards the door. It was the first time I had woken up and Cortez’s legs weren’t wrapped around mine. It was too coincidental to have just happened by chance after the brief emergency baby plan discussion, and I’ve never been one to believe in coincidences.

      “Oh,” he drew in his breath sharply, surprised. “Okay, Madame. Are you upset with me?” There was an uncomfortably long space of dead air.

      “No—Yea, I guess… I’m starting to have feelings for you Cortez.” I glanced up to see his reaction. “I’m not in the same place as I was when we started… doing this. You’re too fucking busy to come meet me, but not busy enough to not have me run over here in the middle of the night. It doesn’t make me feel good; I feel like your personal hooker or sex doll or something. It makes me feel icky, and I don’t want this anymore.”

      “What is it that you want now, Taylor?” Cortez asked, solemn for once, lowering himself to sit on the edge of the bed next to me. I couldn’t help but notice the person-sized space between us.

      “I want… I want a boyfriend-girlfriend relationship, Cortez. I want to be your girlfriend and cuddle up and watch movies, bake cookies and lay in bed all day—just lay there and enjoy that. We’ve never hung out in the daytime except at work. I… I want to do things in the daylight with you.” I cringed at my awkward finish, but it fit perfectly. Cortez sighed reaching for the pack of cigarettes and lit one. He offered the pack to me and I took another, ignoring the churning in my empty stomach. The breakfast of scrambled eggs and home-grown veggies had apparently been a one-time deal.

      “Well…” he started, fiddling with a piece of hash and staring at the wall. “I just got out of a serious relationship, I told you—”

“I know,” I interrupted. “That’s why I don’t think we should do this anymore. You made it clear you don’t want anything more, and I didn’t either – in the beginning. Things in my life changed, and this isn’t working anymore. It doesn’t make me feel good.”

“I don’t want to make you feel bad, Madame,” he sighed. “I too crave the closeness from the bond of a relationship. Right now I can’t commit to that, though I would love to take you out for a hike at Walakak Park. And I’d love to bake with you, and watch movies and you know I love to cuddle.” He pulled me gently down onto the bed and held me. I stared up at him, looking for clues in his eyes.

“I’m confused, Monsieur,” I whispered, feeling frustratingly young. I wondered if the age difference was too much. Older guys know the right things to say, I reminded myself, whether they mean to or not. “I want the distinction of girlfriend. You say you don’t want a relationship, but what you just said contradicts that.” I waited for his explanation, but he dropped his face in to nuzzle my chest. “No, Cortez, be serious. I’m not going to keep sleeping over here if you aren’t interested in a relationship. This is hurting me.” His face still pressed against my chest, he sighed heavily before looking up at me.

“Compromise? We’ll not be in a relationship, but how about we make our friendship,” he smiled coyly, “exclusive? Though I haven’t felt the need for anyone else with you around, rrrraaawwr!” He didn’t wait for an answer before biting my neck. “Deal, Madame?” He drawled lustily, looking into my eyes.

“Okay,” I agreed hesitantly. “Exclusive… friendship.” I forced a smile and kissed his nose. A strange expression crossed his face, like the kiss was an offensive pleasure. He quickly covered it with a hungry grin, growling and rolling quickly so that I was laying on top of him. My hand reached down to pull off his towel, and he had me undressed in record time.

Another three weeks later, and we’d yet to go for a hike. The plans had been made several times, but it wasn’t Cortez’s style to set a time. I would rush to finish everything that needed doing for the day early in the morning. The first time we were supposed to go, I woke up at six thirty so I could be ready at the drop of a dime. I was hoping that our daylight activity would bring back the tenderness that had petered out of our relationship. My good-bye kiss privileges had been taken away ever since the discussion about babies and exclusive friendship, and I wanted them back.

 “We’ll go early tomorrow afternoon,” he promised, breathing heavily as he took in my naked body, contrasted sharply against the Mexican blankets. “God, you’re delicious,” he breathed.

But I had no texts the next morning, and by eleven forty five, I knew we weren’t going to Walakak Park. To be completely honest, I had known when he’d first said it. I had just hoped that he would give me the simple hike that I wanted, since he always got what he wanted. When I called him out on it, he turned it on me, saying “Well Madame, you didn’t text me either.”

“No, I didn’t,” I shot back, “because I was sitting around, fucking waiting for you. I didn’t want to be “clingy” or “needy” or -- FUCK! -- “girlfriendy” and then you’d be mad about that. I didn’t think I’d have to remind you to do something you claim to want to do with me. It’s literally the only thing I’ve ever asked of you.” I scooted backwards on the bed, pressing my back, clothed for once, against the cool wall.

“I guess we both flaked out, Madame,” he said, a warning tone in his voice. “I’m sorry you feel so upset about it.”

Cortez's Story: Part 5

It was a beautiful summer night. I clearly remember looking up at the constellations in awe. The light from the full moon hid the smaller stars, but seemed to stir up some kind of emotion in the larger ones. The stars of Orion’s Belt twinkled and flickered, trying to communicate their Universal wisdom to me. I smiled at the sky, stretched my arms wide and spun in circles on the sidewalk. After three rotations my smile had grown to a grin that hurt my cheek muscles. I felt free and in charge of my life. I sent Cortez a text to let him know I’d be there in about twenty minutes, and asked him to meet me outside of the Trout. He agreed, saying he would put on his shoes and head out the door to meet me halfway.

Two separate men had offered me a ride downtown in their mud splattered and rusting trucks on the increasingly spooky walk to downtown, which I had politely declined. My texts to Cortez were going unanswered, and a phone call had gone straight to a voicemail box that was no longer accepting messages. I stood in front of the Laughing Trout, waiting, for ten minutes without a sign of my new friend. I wondered if I’d missed him somewhere along the route, concerned as I was with avoiding eye contact with the few people I’d passed. I walked the perimeter of the pub, thinking maybe he’d misunderstood me. Forty minutes later and I was still sighing in disappointed frustration. I wondered if it would be better to try to get back into the house or wake up David and Isabella two blocks over.

Just as I was turning to leave, I saw Cortez’s thick goatee shining red in the moonlight as he sauntered towards me. He was as completely relaxed as always, showing no sign of being late or having received any of my attempts to get a hold of him. I was momentarily annoyed before hearing his voice whisper in my head, “Relax. The dishes aren’t going anywhere.” I’m not on a schedule, I reminded myself. I didn’t have to be at work until six in the evening. I shook it off and started walking towards the man, smiling so sweetly I forgot what my issue had been in the first place. Had he really said he’d meet me, or did I just dream that up somewhere between the third and eight bowls?

“How’s it going?” I asked coolly. In a state of denied puppy-love, I was terrified to say anything negative, critical or otherwise uncool for fear he’d label me as immature or judgemental and vanish from my life. I felt more whole than I had in a long time since we had become friends, and I didn’t want to lose that. I plastered an unassuming smile on my face.

“Great! Have you seen the moon? She’s gorgeous tonight,” he said brightly, throwing back his head to howl at the luminous sphere. I continued to smile politely as we walked through the deserted downtown streets. We made very slow progress with Cortez setting the pace, stopping to inspect this flower or admire that tree. “Sorry I was so late,” he said finally, “I was waiting on buddy to come get his paawt.”

“No worries,” I heard myself say, my voice high pitched and girly. I forgot wanting to ask why he didn’t text or call me, why he didn’t mention waiting for someone when he was supposedly going out the door. We had stopped in front of The Ivy, a popular bar and music hotspot. I didn’t have enough fingers to count how many times I had wished to go in there just to listen to big artists like K-OS or K’naan. “Uh, you know I’m not nineteen right?” I asked playfully, poking his taut stomach.

“Of course, Madame,” he smiled mischievously, giving my long hair a short tug. “I guess I forgot to tell you… I moved! Got away from the roommate from hell just in time.” He unlocked the heavy wooden door, chuckling quietly to himself.

“Won’t I get…? I don’t know, thrown out or something?” The naïve words hung in the empty air and I wished I could snatch them back. Cortez just grinned, showing the broken tooth. He waved me inside and I didn’t hesitate again. I ran up the steep stairs leading to the second floor feeling like a VIP.

Cortez’s new ‘pad’ was a three-bedroom apartment occupying half of the third floor. It smelled unmistakably of fresh weed and stale cigarette smoke. There was something else too, that half-clean smell from being inhabited solely by males. That being said, the place didn’t look particularly bad. Sure, the kitchen was a disaster zone overtaken by stacks of dirty dishes and the surface of the coffee tables were a mystery, but I knew I sure as hell didn’t want to wash dishes after having done that for eight hours at work. There were ashtrays on either of the tables and one in the kitchen, keeping two very grimy bongs company. Books on Norse mythology, gardening, conspiracy theories and the Simpsons covered the living room table, distracting the eye from the stacks of books on window sills and the ignored dinosaur TV. Countless hand-drawn maps, tattoos, cartoons and pot leaf doodles spread across the dining room table, inching their way towards the chairs. I inspected a support beam between the dining and living area, coated in stickers. The place had a welcoming, lived-in feel.  

I followed Cortez into the first room off of the black-light lit entrance hallway. It wasn’t much, but at least it had real walls. My perma-smile grew at the pile of clothes occupying almost half of the room. I noticed with delight that the bed was still simply a queen sized mattress on the floor. A stereo surround system huddled off to the side at the head of the bed and a long, rectangular table sat between the mattress and the wall.

“I love it!” I gushed, tossing my backpack beside the door and rolling heavily on to the bed. I had mistaken the brightly coloured Mexican blankets for sheets and they were rough against my skin.

“It’s a cozy little cubbyhole,” he sighed, bent backwards in a standing back bend. I loved that he was into yoga and his ‘om’ symbol wrist tattoos. “Shall we have bowl, Madame?” Cortez gestured grandly to the branches hanging above a National Geographic poster at the head of the bed. “Some pretty good stuff from the last harvest. Oh, and some hashish too; check out this stuff.” He hopped over a pile of t-shirts, scooping up a mould-coloured chunk from the top of the stereo. He inspected it with pride before handing it to me. Practiced in stoner etiquette from the yearlong haze with Erica, I followed protocol: hold it close to your eye, sniff, inspect it, turn and inspect the other side, the top, and bottom; sniff again, drop your hand to give it back, sniff, inspect and take a deep inhale of the smell once more.

“Wow, I can’t wait to try it,” I said lamely, placing it delicately into his large palm. I didn’t know anything about hash, or about pot really, except how to smoke it and how it made me feel. I didn’t want to make an attempt at a compliment and expose my lack of knowledge or expertise.

I fiddled with the stereo while Cortez heated the nug with a lighter. When it was sufficiently pliable, he broke off a couple granules and mixed them with half of a bud straight off of the branch. I was practically bursting with a feeling of ‘cool’. Here I was, in an older, very smart young man’s bedroom above the town’s most popular bar, about to smoke as much free pot/hash as I could handle. I thought of the days with Erica, when a pot dealer or grower was who you not-so-secretly aspired to date. I think the reason is fairly obvious: endless supply. I guess there is the ‘cool factor’ too, though I’ve long since lost sight of why I ever thought dealers were cool.

A few hours went by, during which I told Cortez all about my experiences using chemical drugs. We talked about how to recover from the loss of dignity and self-respect that resulted from sleeping with whomever caught my eye at the time. I surprised myself by telling him how I was scared to have sex now, feeling like I wouldn’t be able to enjoy it sober, if at all. He reassured me that over time I would move past the disgust I felt for most guys. It was a few hours later when Cortez wrapped up his own tales of teenage promiscuity and drug abuse. So high I could hardly see in the dim room, my eyelids felt as heavy as sandbags. I had had two more tokes after saying I was too high, not wanting to be rude and refuse the ever-full bowl.

“What time is it?” I asked slowly, the words stretching out like taffy. Unable to understand most of what Cortez was saying anymore, I needed to sleep.

“Uhh, let me see…” He leaned over me to pick up his phone, plugged into the stereo. “It is … four-forty-three.”

“Seriously! I’ve gotta sleep.”

At my request, Cortez had brought in an unzipped sleeping bag for me to use. I placed my glasses on top of the stereo and burrowed into the blanket. The thin sarong with a big pot leaf in the middle wasn’t thick enough to keep me warm.

“Yea, I’ve got to hit the hay too. Gotta work to pay the bills right? We start at the same time tomorrow—or today I should say.” He shrugged, yawned and pulled off his t-shirt. He had the lean muscles and golden tan of a roofer, and it was all I could do to not touch his sexy stomach. He slid the ever present dirty bandana off his head, placing it on the rectangular table beside him. “Oh, and I should warn you that I’m a cuddle-er. Don’t be surprised if I’m spooning you in the morning.” He smiled innocently and batted his eyelashes, igniting an excited feeling in my stomach, like a kid who knows Santa is coming very soon.

“No worries,” I laughed lazily. “I love to cuddle! I’m a great little spoon.” We shared a long look, grinning at each other.

“How would you like your eggs for breakfast?”

“I get breakfast?” I gasped in mock shock. I flashed back to a list of pick-up lines and funny responses I’d read online, bored and in the peak of insomniac nights. “Unfertilized” was one of the replies, and for a split second, I thought I would say it. “If you’re making me food, I’m happy with pretty much anything. So long as the yolk’s not runny!”

 “Well then, scrambled it is.” Cortez lifted the edge of the sleeping bag, shimmying over to cup his body against mine. I could feel his attraction to me through his worn flannel pajama bottoms. I blushed, feeling complimented rather than cheap; I trusted Cortez and felt he wasn’t just another horny boy out for a bedpost notch. Previously sluggish and slow, I suddenly felt wide awake like I’d been injected with caffeine. “Sorry about that,” he said, embarrassed. “What can I say, you’re a beautiful girl.”

“I thought you just saw me as an irritating little seventeen year old,” I whispered, turning my head to look at him. I realized I’d been wrong to pick vibrant blue or green eyes as my favourite, noticing the swirls of green and gold in his gentle eyes. “You’d be my mentor or something.”

“You don’t need a mentor, Taylor,” he whispered, his quiet voice dropping even lower. I could hardly hear him and I leaned closer to not miss a word, unlike during our philosophical discussions when I often just got the gist of what he was saying. “You’re a very smart girl – young lady actually. You’ve got a good head on your shoulders, and I can see very good things happening because of that in your future.” He smiled softly, pausing before leaning down to kiss me ever so gently. He pulled back quickly, looking at me quizzically, no doubt wondering if I was going to take off in a panic. My mouth curved into an innocent smile by way of answer and I pulled his face back down to mine. The back side of my body melted purposefully against his front.

It was one of the best nights of my life. Sensitive and experienced, Cortez was incredibly gentle, and I felt I understood the term “making love” for the first time. He took it slow and was unbelievably attentive to my needs, ignoring himself. Unfortunately I can remember only a few key highlights, being stoned so far out of my tree I could touch the stars, but it felt just as special as when David and I had lost our virginity to each other. In the morning I woke to him nuzzling my neck, our sticky bodies still tangled together. He was a complete gentleman, letting me use the only clean bath-towel first to dry myself.  

“How many sugar and milk would you like, Madame? And would you care for me to add a square of pot butter?” He asked in a haughty French accent, stirring a pot of coffee. I laid curled up on the living room futon sharing bong rips and cigarettes with his two roommates while my hunky hippy cooked a colourful organic omelet. The four of us lazed the day away discussing gardening, pot, high school and what the world was coming to. No one asked how old I was or if my parents knew where I was.

Cortez reproduced the same feeling of safety and comfort during our sleepovers every other night, during which we slept little. We would wake up around noon, have one last round of ‘cardio’, cuddles and tokes before I went home to get ready for work. I’d smile to myself all evening, brightening when Cortez was nearby. It was just a friends-with-benefits arrangement and I was okay with that; I didn’t want a boyfriend then.

Still I couldn’t wait to tell Jacky, my one remaining female friend, about the evolving friendship with Cortez. She was ecstatic for me after I recounted every detail of “the best I’ve ever had,” and hopeful that it would blossom into a relationship.

“It’s high time you had another boyfriend,” she said, sucking so hard on a cigarette she was practically eating it. “I love David, and it’s so great that you guys are best friends, but you deserve to be in love again.”

“But Cortez doesn’t want a girlfriend, and I don’t think I really want a boyfriend either,” I kicked her playfully under the table. I knew I wasn’t exactly being honest, but I’d been lying to myself about craving the theoretically safe confines of a relationship for a long time. I wasn’t going to stop now. “He was with this thirty-six year old for like, six years. They just split up in February. He helped take care of her kids and refers to her as his ex-partner. He’s not interested in being in a monogamous relationship for a looong time. Hey, you’ve smoked half of that thing. Sharing is caring!” I held out my hand, pretending to be mad though the half-full pack was well within reach.

“Mmkay, so is he sleeping with other chicks?” asked Jacky, making a show of passing on the cancer stick. “Or is this an exclusive friends-with-benefits type of deal?” She watched me intensely.

“Uh, well, we agreed that if we meet someone we want to sleep with or whatever, we can, but we’d let each other know that was happening.” I watched her smile droop.

“Hmm,” she said thoughtfully, lighting another cigarette. I quickly finished the shared one and sparked another. It occurred to me that I was never a half-pack a day girl until I started sleeping with Cortez in my worst smoking days, but didn’t discourage me. I felt very grown up as bohemian Jacky and I refused soup, opting instead for an iced-tea and cigarette lunch. After we’d each finished, she stood up and wrapped me in a big hug. Her bony shoulders jabbed my neck. “I don’t want to see you get hurt, so be careful okay? Are you guys being safe?”

My insides squirmed and I felt nauseated. It wasn’t something that had intentionally happened, but Cortez and I had used protection maybe once in the past two weeks. Reflexively I started counting days in my head, wondering if I’d be saddled with a baby after having miraculously made it out of the raving year without so much as a scare. The look on my face told my friend all she needed to know. She smiled knowingly and started digging through her purse.

“Here,” she said, dropping a handful of neon-coloured condom packages on my empty plate. “These ones glow. Oh Taylor, you look like you’re going to cry. It’s okay hon, we’ve all been there. Anyone who says it feels the same is a liar.” She laughed lightly, brushing my arm comfortingly.

“How do I… ask him to use them now? I don’t even know how to put one on right.” My cheeks were burning. An old lady walking by gave us a mean look and I scooped the condoms into my purse.

“C’mon, you’ve never had to ‘remind’ a guy to use protection? Just be like, ‘hey I don’t want to have your babay, put this on or you don’t get none.’” She laughed, snapping her fingers and wagging her head all over the place. “Trust me, once you mention the b-word, they’re more than happy to put these one of these puppies on. And if not, run as fast as you fucking can, girl.”

Gardening: The First Official Foray

As with all daunting tasks and impending major life changes, a bowl of chocolate for breakfast... and erm, lunch and maaaaaybe dinner... goes a long way!

Would be interesting to check out!

We started the week off here in a productive fashion, the likes of which I haven't seen from myself in quite a while! The Universe seems to pulling for me to make the lifestyle changes I've been dreaming of, so I'm doing my best to take advantage of the help. For example, this week is Spring Break so the younger one will be home aaaaalll day. How fortuitous, then, that the owner of one of the largest apartments in our building asked me to take care of her cats for the week. Not only do I get to cuddle the adorable Persians (okay, yes they do have to grow on you before you stop calling them smush-faced freaks -- endearingly, of course) but I can run upstairs for an hour's Yoga escape. After sorting through crap online dating site messages, I filled a bottle of water, grabbed the iPod and speakers and scurried up a few floors. I had a hard time clearing my mind, not surprising since I haven't done Yoga consistently since coming back from the Philippines; consistent for me is at least every two days. Starting to get into chanting these days, ever since discovering the effect of "Om Mani Padme/Pemme Hum" on my mind and body. Another *sign* was when my favourite Yoga teacher offered to burn a CD of "Tibetan Healing Sounds" from a seminar-type event of the same name here on the island. It starts with "a" or "aaah", focusing on the third eye and visualizing the vibrations of the sound breaking apart any longstanding conflicts. I noticed that I had a few mini headaches when I was really focused and "on task" as my past teachers would like to say. Not sure why this is, but I remember hearing mention of it when I was actively using binarual beats off Youtube to study (Gamma waves) or relax (Theta waves). I believe it's something about changing the frequency of your brainwaves and releasing tension. In any case, very cool and I'm excited to keep practicing and move on to the next sound and chakra.

Dwarf Grey Peas, from Sugar Shack Seeds, wrapped in cold, wet paper towel until they sprout a wee bitty

Pea seeds -- look very bumpy, are shockingly smooth when placed under the tongue. Inspiration for this nifty discovery from Anastasia of the Ringing Red Cedars Series, where she states that holding seeds in your hands for ~2 minutes and in your mouth for 15 will give the seed genetic information about you. It will grow to be resistant or able to fight off all of the icky, tiny, 'unnoticed' glitches in your system. Why not, I figured. I don't currently have enough space to set it up as a proper experiment to find a discernible difference between the matured plants, but it only took me an extra few minutes to add a personal twist to planting.

A little note to explain the bucket of dirt in the living room... Don't say I don't love ya, my OCD co-habiters! Figure I may have to stash this bad boy in a closet around day 4.

I learned a lot more about peas than I expected today. First off, the different types: There are three groupings and each is eaten at a different stage in the growth cycle.
1. Shelling/English/Green PEAS : these are the kind you eat just the juicy, developed peas inside and chuck the pod.
2. Sugar/Snap PEAS: I used to hate these guys because they can get quite fibrous, but now see them as the ultimate lazy snack. You eat both the pod and peas.
3. Snow/Sugar Peas: Like my Dwarf Grey Peas, you pluck the pod off of the plant when these guys are no more than three inches in length. It should still be flat and the peas NOT developed. 

Peas taste better from the garden because that's when they have the least amount of starch. Peas picked this morning will already have an increased starch content, making them tougher, more fibrous and not nearly as sweet as when eaten in the garden. They are confusing little buggers that don't do the best in containers (wooopsie; ah well I was told it can be done, and so it shall!) and prefer to start in warm soil and environment. After they've sprouted though, they produce better-tasting and higher yield in cold weather.

That's all according to the interwebs, and soon enough I'll be able to add my experienced two-cents. Seems to be that gardening is like style: there are similar ones, and even genres if you will, but when it comes down to it we each have our own method. Hoorah! Feels good to have something down in the 'garden', besides the ever-shooting garlic bulb and nine struggling strawberries. They look like they're struggling, some of them anyhow; I do believe I saw the teeniest beginnings of a flower bud on one! Now if only the snow warnings would slip away quietly and quickly so that we can usher in the sunshine with sheer will.