“3 January 1988. Art is the pure realization of religious feeling, capacity for faith, longing for God.

All other realizations of these, the outstanding qualities,abuse those qualities by exploiting them: that is, by serving an ideology. Even art becomes ‘applied art’ just as soon as it gives up its freedom from function and sets out to convey a message. Art is human only in the absolute refusal to make a statement.

The ability to believe is our outstanding quality, and only art adequately translates it into reality. But when we assuage our need for faith with an ideology, we court disaster.”

- Gerhard Richter, “The Daily Practice of Painting; Writings 1962-1993″

It’s a few days down after Bikesledding the F-Line in San Francisco (F for FUCK you, bicyclists) and I definitely have a concussion. I’ve resolved to this, in denial since the onset that my strong brain would be affected, as I’m pretty sleepy and hazy. Referring to my take-home blunt force head injury cheat sheet, compliments of the emergency room, I’m going to heed to a few of their recommendations:

“You have suffered a minor head injury,” yes, I know, but thanks for the reminder. And, thanks for putting my name on a tag on my wrist because I keep forgetting.

“See if you can talk and move around normally,” define normally.

“Avoid aspirin, alcohol, or recreational drugs.” who knew I was so awesome that I had the foresight over a month ago to take a break. I rule.

“Avoid activities that could lead to a jolt or blow to your head.” there goes my sex life.

“You should not drive a car, ride a bike, or operate dangerous equipment until fully recovered.” Car has been sold, I think I’m square on the bike for a few more days, and my masturbation hand has stitches in it. Check. Check. And, check.

In the days prior to my concussiveness, I took a photo-bike trip. Here were some of the results.

It was bound to happen, I suppose.

There are a few things tragic to bicyclists in San Francisco and last night, at 115am as I was biking home from work up Market from Soma, I found three of them simultaneously. I got squashed into the F-Market Muni rails by a street cleaner spewing water. True-brew for head-over-handlebars! In all situations, DPT street cleaners get right of way when you’re not motorized. But, for my sake, the rite of passage for being an urban biker, and experiencing my first blood-ridden bike injury sur concret, wasn’t all that bad.

A gnarly gash to a thumb that sent me to the emergency room for stitches and a sweet, rotund forehead abrasion are my souvenirs of the experience. I feel initiated into a fraternity, actually, and I was laughing by the time I left the hospital. To say I didn’t feel like hot shit would be a lie. Perverse, isn’t it?

Perhaps it’s a concussion speaking, but I didn’t lose consciousness (cheated!) and though I both noted that the roads were already slick from fog-mist at departure, and I was aware of the task as I needed to go over the rails, my live-geometry skills were off, and in a perverse moment of everything lining up against me, I hit the rails too straight and… somersault.

The upsides are that even though I bit it into the intersection, no perpendicular motorized vehicle ran a red light last night, which, you know, is usually de rigeur in Baghdad by the Bay. A taxi was practically waiting for me when I got up off the ground and my trusty Gary Fisher only seems to need a chain reset and a seat adjustment.

All in all, a fun hazing.

The End.

It is near. And, I am happy. Things are wrapping up in my work-world. A date has been set for the launch, anxiety is dissipating and confidence returning, something about Mercury retrograde, perhaps.

So, what has changed in recent months, amidst all the silence of this digital forum?

Thirty-three days have passed since my last repression.

Two months and five days have passed since I last “updated.”

Periods of my life of abstinence, whatever I was abstaining from, have always served me well. The teetotalism of the Fresno Years, those few years without perversion, a childhood of understanding.

I’ve made peace with Jesus Christ, for, like, um, the umpteenth time during a truly religious experience. Need all I say be “Jesus Christ was an artist?” Perhaps the original conceptual artist. The man was a genius if nothing else, if history holds some truth of that period of time. How to discern what did occur and who’s version is honest and whether or not miracles did happen, who am I to judge? The stories of the past being retold in halls and hallows repeatedly are insignificant; the truth within us is what matters most. Truth sold is false.

Atheism has never since been stronger in my blood, either.

I began to read “The Fountainhead” by Ayn Rand. While on one of my recent aeroplane flights over the Orange Curtain it dawned on me of the irony in timing, beginning to embark on this novel as I prepare myself for moving to Chicago for a period of my life. There is happiness there, Chicago, and within the book. I know this. Much like I knew the truth that day in Buena Vista Park when it was Jesus and I having a discussion on Trust.

The happiness in Chicago, like the architecture, is a different one than in San Francisco. And, not one that invalidates how I feel about Baghdad by the Bay, a truly incredible place, the Rebirth of Atlantis and a City with a Pyramid. And schizos. And people who find Jesus in a Park.

But, truth is everywhere, and it is inside happiness, inside us, inside a park or at the beach. Truth is within Everything.

And, whether we choose to personify Truth, identify it in inorganic tangibles, or relegate it into the cosmos, ultimately Truth is Freedom. While the decision for some to personify Truth into a dead man of many years ago, branded and corporatized through untaxed, unregulated pavilions of worship does make me sad, it’s really no different than my phenomenon of experiencing Truth as I watch a David Lynch movie and calling him my God. Because really, David Lynch is God. But, so am I.

So, peace be to you, to quote my Catholic roots, and also with you. Why fight? Why bicker over who’s Truth is more Truthful? People aren’t so much concerned about who’s Truth is right, it’s more about someone else calling them wrong. Anyhow, I digress.

I’m back at peace, and it’s a nice place. This, without my meditation practice. But, that’s a whole other story.

The stars and the sun dance to your drum. It’s pandemonium.

I believe we can change
We can make it more than a dream
And, I believe we can change
It’s not as strange as it might seem.

- Pet Shop Boys, “More Than A Dream”

I am in the midst of my fifth, sixty hour week in a row.

Silence is so accurate.