I would go back to school and get a MFA.

(Although I know personally if a financial incentive is not present, my drive isn’t as strong.)

Every few months, i wander over to a graduate school program. In creative writing. In journalism. In film. Then I imagine how it would be like to be in school again. Especially now that I have the maturity to pursue a degree with thoughtfulness and rigor.

Yesterday as I cleaned out my room for an incoming sublet, I came across articles I had written for a home newspaper in 1995. My writing was clear and vivid, capturing an objective, interesting perspective. I remember how I applied for the classes in the school newspaper and yearbook, rejected from both. I always blamed it on my inability to communicate in person and I slunk away in disappointment, never trying again in college or after.

And when the earnest awoke again, I found myself surrounded by writers in their fifties and sixties. People who suddenly awoke to find that their dreams plundered by demands of children and careers. In a room today, I sat in a circle, free writing, and I wondered about the other attendees—did they just wake up now too?

Deep personal human stories…with a greater philosophical meaning that transcends the physical world in front of us.

I listen intently hoping for a moment that it will teach me something, especially about myself. I am curious about others because I want to understand myself.

Then there are stories like Oblivion that I hoped was more than just a story of a man, a lover, and misguided sense of being. Being who I am, I am always seeking for the greater meaning and I kept trying to find it.

Especially pens made for HER!

Featuring diamond engraved barrels!

I personally always prefer rubber all over.

They say, I want to travel…but…

“Yeah, but…” is pernicious. Because it makes it sound like we have the best of intentions when really we are just too scared to do what we should. It allows us to be cowards, while sounding noble.

So said another blogger.

To some extent, I pity the dreamers who never achieve their dreams, because they let everything else get in the way. It’s not just travel. It’s working out. It’s painting. It’s music. It’s everything else.

Every week, someone says, “I wish that I could do what you’re doing.”

Usually I smile, but I really want to say, “Why not?”

Is it the mortgage? The kids? The job? The vacation? I know that I once got into that spiral when I started thinking about the responsibilities.

So why is it that people complain about what they cannot have (or maybe they’re just humoring me)?

But most importantly, do they really want it?

I used to think that I would love:

I did that all, and I didn’t like it. It wasn’t my thing. Regrets? Maybe for the money that I lost. But to know that I didn’t like it is the most valuable reward.

More than the standard person, the trick to get to me…is just by listening to me. Really listening to me and showing that you really understood.

There are some who believe that it’s simply sitting there and letting their ears open, letting the words flow in. But to me, it’s asking clarification questions and prompting with curiosity or their own anecdotes.

The worst thing to do to me is not listen to me. Ignoring is one thing, but to return with criticism and misunderstanding is the worst thing to do.

Yet, today as I stood with a coworker who I did not want to build rapport with for professional reasons, I suddenly struggled. I can’t help but comment on the cuisine, the bright sun casting a feeling of 70 degree weather in the valley, the ways of suburbia. It’s just what I do. And just like any other typical person, he couldn’t help but also converse as well. And then, there it was understanding.

Today, I drove up the 280 and relished how its ease and freedom unlike the horrible 40 minutes I drove yesterday on El Camino Real hitting traffic lights every few minutes. Perhaps because the former felt habitual. It felt like it understood me.

In the last week, I apologize profusely when I instinctively pulled my sleeve back and my deep purple bruise on my right forearm displayed proudly. Not quite looking like a birthmark, I didn’t want people to feel repelled by it. Then upon noticed by another party, I pull the sleeve down and tell myself not to pull it up.

But then again. Why am I protecting myself from being seen by others? Why not show it as a proud marker of cycling? After all, I did exactly what almost all cyclists do in San Francisco. What do I have to hide?

When I was 15, I had a bad habit of scratching my bug bites. As a result, being allergic as I was, the bites would get gruesomely swollen. Yet, I never felt shameful enough that I would stop wearing shorts. So at school, I walked around with the large red welts without any self-consciousness. Some people did remark and I obliviously described it—yeah, so I got bitten…and I like scratching!

Whether that repelled people or not (most likely?), I am not sure. But is it that now I have become so self-conscious, so sensitive to my surrounding that I would try to cover a vital part of who I am? Granted, it was only an injury, but is it a metaphor?

When you can talk to someone about it without feeling a rush of emotions.

Despite sounding like a teenager, it’s especially…

I finished reading The Power of Habit: Why We Do What We Do in Life and Business.

Throughout it, Duhigg discusses ingrained habits like eating too many cookies to lifelong habits of willpower and belief. Then he goes into targeted merchandising and addiction.

How does that apply to a hipster who buys nothing from large supermarkets or chains. Especially one who never frequents large chains?

But then again, you ask me. I have a habit of novelty. Trying something new thrills me to no end. I wonder if this is the reason that I like living in the city. It reflects value, self-importance, and reputation. I hang on to my identities of being a know-it-all and wiser-than-thou persona. And if I have a good experience, I will gladly tell you about it.

But I rarely go to the same restaurant or shop twice in the last 6 months (with the exception of the 23rd/Mission Market which supplies me with an onion here, two jalapeños there, four tomatoes tomorrow). I am a value seeker, yet I go for months without going to Foods Co., my budget grocery store of choice. If you find me there, it’s most likely that I am hosting a party where I don’t care if the results are superbly organic. I buy online where it is the cheapest. Sometimes I buy on Amazon, but sometimes I have someone else buy it for me. Maybe on ebay or craigslist. I don’t cook the same things as I used to four years ago because lunch is available at work. Brands? I don’t even understand what that is beyond the big electronic manufacturers. I only know milk brands, but if it has the word organic, I am intrigued. I buy when the shop is convenient. Clothes? I have sworn to only buy abroad, because I don’t want to wear anything that anyone is wearing here.

I watch people who struggle with eating too much, not working out enough, addictions.

But those are habits. My goal of being different—that I’ll go lengths out of my way to do it. How is that for a habit?

“Good thing you were wearing your helmet,” one cyclist said. The one wearing a beret and had traveled from San Jose.

Ironically, earlier I had suggested not wearing a helmet. Which would be a rare moment for me. It’s even rarer than not having bike lights at night.

The following are the times that I didn’t wear a helmet:

That is it. I am the most paranoid person I know. I am the most cautious regular cyclist. Considering how accident prone I can be. I pause at stop signs while other cyclists ride around me. I avoid going down 17th street because I want to avoid all the snaking muni rails. I drive at night because I don’t want to ride at night. I go slow around cars, especially when they double park. I always take the lane and try to avoid lane splitting if ever possible.

I would like to say that my helmet saved me when I fell and landed hard on my right side of my head. But some people think differently. Would I have ridden safer (like football players without helmets) if I wasn’t wearing one? Would I have avoided in between the muni tracks if I wasn’t wearing one? I don’t know.

That night, I didn’t notice any damage to my helmet until the following morning. The lower right side was cracked in multiple places like a jagged knife running upward through the styrofoam. What is certain is that I didn’t get any surface scrapes on my head unlike my forearm (which is now fully purple and hating handshakes). Did it compress? I don’t know. At the very least, I am sad for my fancy Giro black bike racing helmet.

The first thing I did was get up and retrieve the rolling water bottle that fell off my bike. I had to get my things. I had to get my things.

Then I felt this bright dizzy feeling overcome me. I knew that I hit my head and my right forearm and hip were in pain. I tried to remember what I had happened but I couldn’t. Someone was saying in front of me, “I have gotten caught like that. Are you ok?”

I took deep breaths and said, “Yes…I think so.”

Another cyclist stopped and said, “That was quite a wipeout. What day is it?”

I reached back in my memory remembering that I had checked the date indicator on my computer several hours before. “April 5,” I said.

“What time is it?”

I reached for my phone, he interrupted, “Don’t check your watch.”

“Um…9 pm.” (And it was actually 9 pm.)

“Do you recognize these two guys? Do you trust them?”

I gestured toward the one who was wearing a brown beret, “I recognize him. San Jose. But I don’t know him. Should I trust them?”

“Are you with anybody?”

“Yeah, but he was way in front…leading everyone. He was the one wearing the blue helmet. I think that I am going to walk.”

With that, I started walking and called Chris, noting his latest text message where r u? “I think that I got caught in the muni rails. I don’t feel good.”

“Walk over to Illinois and 24th. I am directing traffic.”

I found him as he directed cyclists to turn left, waving his arms left. “I feel weird like a whole day has passed. I don’t remember the moments before and after I fell. I don’t know if my bike is ok.”

Then suddenly I remembered how the group was moving fast and I thought that I should speed up. After all, I can ride fast. A car was blocking the way. I hated going near the muni rails, but I saw other cyclists ride smoothly through the middle and it’s not the first time I crossed the tracks. I’ll do it. Then I fell.