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So, the last time there was a Friday the 13th in October (and I remember this distinctly) was in 2000. There was a full moon too. I remember this information because it was auspicious. Sri. Loosely (very loosely) translated, that's what it means. The reason I remember this particularly auspicious occasion is because on Friday, the 13th of October, 2000, beneath a full moon and under the Bodi tree (a direct descendent of the tree under which the Buddha is believed to have finally achieved enlightenment) I was ordained as a Buddhist nun. My head was shaved, I was given my orange robes and the name Padma Sri. Essentially that means auspicious lotus, give or take, the deeper symbolism of the name is just a little more personal than I think I'll go into here.

Tomorrow I'm heading up into the mountains with the people who first taught me compassion and the art of being gentle within the world. Somehow I have the feeling this weekend may well be terribly auspicious as well. And y'all thought Friday the 13th was just for horror movies.

Post Script: I would just like to point out that I was ordained in the Theravada Buddhist tradition. Not ZEN!

Ladies and gentlemen, let me be the first to tell you this whole mile-high thing does some funky stuff to you're head and your body. I got winded biking up an incline. I'd barely call it a hill. It was such a slight change in elevation, as a matter of fact, that it might have been a hole. I don't know. The point was I had to get off my bike and actually work at catching my breath. As a former pack-a-day smoker, I can tell you, it takes a lot to feel that emphysematous and, you know what folks? Boulder's got it. Yeah, yeah, it's got a great view and lots of cute little shops and scenic bike paths and stuff, too. What good is it though if you suffer from bouts of spontanous apoplexy? None. There you have it. I fought the altitude and... well, I just feel kinda sick now.

Once upon a time it was brought to my attention that forsight was a virtue I lacked. To wit- wandering out so far into the California foothills one night that I had to call my roommate to pick me up. In fact, it was then that my particular deficit was made known to me.

One would assume that I would have adapted, at this point, to this peculiarity as I have to my inability to retain short term memory (my wallet, if nothing else, is meticulously organized, see also, at times, my pants pockets) but, sadly, I have fabricated no evolutionary or organizational mechanism for this dilema.

Case in point. I do not know the proper assembly for my rainfly. Now, in case you were wondering, a rainfly is the part of the tent you use in the rain in order to keep dry, it's got a flap that covers the doors to the tent as well as the mesh part on top. A proper rain fly keeps rain out. You can now see why the proper assembly thereof is integral to a good night's sleep on a dreary, dismal, freezing cold night like the one I just spent in Nebraska.

Suffice it to say that one oughtn't go camping in Nebraska in October in the rain without a little thought put into how exactly one is going to be sheltered. I woke up around 3:30 with my feet numb in a small puddle that had already soaked the bottom of my blankets.

Perhaps here, though, we can see that I do, in fact, posess a powerful tool in the fight against my lack of forethought: Innovation. That's right. I climbed back in my car, tied my pajama bottoms into knots to make feetie pajamas in hopes of salvaging my toes in the morning and curled up under my coats, shivering and waiting for sleep, or morning, or something.

That's when I saw it. A few drops of water glistening on the windshield, caught precariously in the predawn light, and, you know what? They were the prettiest stars I'd ever seen.

Take that lack of forethought!

Today i realized I'm out here not necessarily because i want to cook. That was a thing for a bit I guess, maybe still is, the reason I'm out here though is because I don't know what I'm doing and there's nothing i want to do but nothing isn't an acceptable career goal. Annemarie's in grad school and teaching and doing all sorts of academic stuff. She said I was a product of post moderninst culture. Not only did I not quite catch her reference, I realized I didn't want to. I am not the academic. another door is shut for me. I had thought, a long time ago, that I'd make a damn good college professor. Now I wouldn't. I'm not what you'd call deep, at least not analytically, at least not anymore. Sort of sad, all that intellect and nothing to do with it. Maybe I was misdiagnosed as a child. Maybe there's nothing remarkable about me at all and I can actually live a mediocre existence and be okay with that. Then again, I suppose I'm asking these questions so I'm doomed to a life far different from even the most defectively inquisitive mongoloid. All that aside though, I would just like to point out that I've got NOTHIN goin for me. Not that it's a bad thing, it's just a wonder I've managed to come to this point.

I lack direction and that makes me sad. I've come to realize that direction and ambition go hand and hand at some points in one's life and to abandon one, one is abandoned by the other. I'm not sure I can live without purpose and waking up in Boulder, with a roof over my head and a couch under my ass an warm, dry blankets enough to keep the frostbite at bay, I was struck with one fundamental truth. I have no purpose. It's devastating. I don't know what to do today. Sure, I need to go out and find a way to make money but, beyond that? Money isn't a purpose. Any ideas? Anyone? Please?!?

The first half of this entry is taken from a terribly sleepy email I started writing last night (I nodded off writing it, as a matter of fact)

Two things about this trip had me more excited than anything else.

One was regional beef jerky.

The other, local radio.

I know, I know, most of you are cringing right now, especially as I go on to tell you how, not only do I have a penchant for local radio, I really like local talk radio. By and large my favorite radio, though, has to be country. The second I got outside the city I hit my seek button and, sure enough, there it was, the golden, dulcit intonations of Alan Jackson, Alabama and Wynona. Oh, banjo, sweet, sweet steel guitar, how I've missed you in my exile.

Within the first hour I'd heard that song Rosemary and I listened to my last full day in the city. 3 times. Then I heard the other 2 songs. That exist. In all the universe. Twice. In time, the monotony got to me and I started changing the station. I listened to Rush Limbaugh. I REALLY liked the guy. No, wait, that was him, HE really liked the... anyway, yeah. At some point, I think it was in Indiana, I had an opinion so I had to change the station. Then, somewhere outside of illinois, I began listening to Christian Radio. In all fairness though, I started listening to it because I thought it was Prairie Home Companion, you know how dry that Garrison Keillor can be from time to time. Just when I began to get the idea that I wasn't listening to an especially tedious Guy Noir set up, it happened. Jesus. Just like that. That's how they get you you know.

Anyway, that got me thinking about religion, just a bit, and how I'm pretty much in the perfect position to be saved right now. Come on, don't tell me you didn't see this one coming. Aimlessly casting about, engaging in reckless, directionless undertakings in the hope that, someday, somewhere, things will be better? I'm just screaming for God in my life. Or something else. Pretty much anything would do right now (NOT ZEN). And that's pretty much the thing, whether I get drunk and fall into the arms of a moderately attractive girl, seek out old friends who feel more like family or turn to some kind of higher power, I'm just resting my hat for a bit. The real question I've got to deal with, I think maybe we've all got to deal with ultimately, is: Why's the hat so damned heavy to begin with?