Raised by Wolves

Gaki: writing myself Real

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The Streets of Velo City

On my way to L.A., to indulge in the uber-geekfest that is the Electronic Entertainment Expo.

In part, I'm headed there just to have a good time, and in part to do a little career-snooping as well, resume' in tow. But I can't deny that I'm glad to be jumping into my car and barreling off down the freeway right now. I need a mission to go on.

Velocity. Velo City. The place I go in my head, when I'm on the run because the shadows are gathering too thickly, and turning the world grey and cold, and every little thing around me becomes the potential trigger of vicious daydreams; either visions of horrors yet to unfold, or of beautiful things that will never happen.

The gates to Velo City are everywhere, but difficult to recognize unless you know what they are. Walking is one gate, and on some days I will cover miles of city streets, or acres of trails. While I'm walking, I have a purpose, and in so having, I can leave the grey world behind me.

Running is another gate; for while I run, the tumbling mass of switchblade thoughts is turned to a nullity, is battered into submission by rhythm. Breathe in, breathe out, step after step, as the blood is forced to move through the alleyways of my mind, scrub them empty and clean of everything but the moment.

Anger is another gate, and sometimes it is all that keeps me sane. I love all kinds of music, but when my heart is aching, and my chest is so physically heavy with it that breath becomes a struggle, then punk rock comes to my rescue, gives me three chord armor and a screaming affirmation of denial, blesses me with hurt and hope, grants me the ability to lift my head up high again and say, "Fuck you, world. Hit me again. And make it hurt this time." You might not undertand what I mean by all that; then again, you might.

The gate at my disposal now is the car, also dubbed the "Search Engine" and the "Spaceship," which has carried me across this entire country and back. From the thoughtful mists of Oregon to the hazy no-time of Los Angeles; from the mythical Wyoming to the teeming Lower East Side of New Yawk, to rough n' tumble in the city of Trouble, N'awlins, and all sorts of places in between, that battered Merc Tracer has been my faithful steed through the toughest times. When I'm on a Quest, then all the mortal concerns fall away, leaving me with a grin under starlight and the comforting sound of rubber tires eating away mile after mile of highway.

My friends live here in Velo City, too, in a neighborhood consisting of phone line, Ethernet cable, cel battery and satellite relay. Their paths can be traced by grafitti tags and party fliers, open mikes and the hiss of turntables, keyboard clicks and war cries, and sometimes even the scream of wind they leave through the air at 11,000 feet and falling. They can be followed from web page to notebook page, from virtual realities to real virtualities, from art project to artful life. They can be identified by the scope of their dreams and the vibrancy of their spirits, and each in their own way sets things on fire. And when the road sees fit to deposit me in front of their doors on occasion, I am nothing short of purely grateful.

The shadows are closing in, in this place. I have to make it to the gate soon. E3 on Wednesday, and all the cyber-activity my sleep-deprived mind will be able to handle.

See you in the City.

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I read this entry backwards.

Your words so often hit me like a mouthful of a good red wine. The first taste is good, but then it's got so many layers, and the flavor changes when you swallow it down and begin really to digest.

So to say the least, I'm mulling this city of yours and it reminds me of that book I recommened to you where so often things take on a life of their own. Like metaphors, thoughts...and ether-al cities.

Have a good trip.

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