heathervescent

Years in the Future

One of my favorite times in Los Angeles, was when I lived on Future Street. I'd come home and turn off Division onto a one-way alley that shot straight up the hill. I lived in a house hidden behind 2-3 story high Cypress trees, switch backed on the street. My pardner was a vivacious woman 20 years my senior whom I met when I sublet her Venice house - my first place in the City of Angeles. She was writing her first US book (having been a successful Italian Fashion Writer for decades).

Those years in the future I was pro-active about my life. I was focused on actively _creating_ the life I dreamt. Living in the future gave those activities power. I literally and figuratively lived in the Future. It delighted me to no end.

But I knew those days would come to an end. And they did all too soon. I returned to the present and my rose colored glasses got somehow packed away in the move. I came to love my new city, especially the Jacaranda trees, walks with Romeo J Puppernut and a friendship that could not have developed in the future. But I missed the blue sky and blazen possibilities of the future. So I created an artifact, an entity that could bridge the present and future worlds. A funnel. Reaching into the future, existing in the present. Pulling from the undefined, nebulous possibility and manifesting a product reality. And, of course, incorporated with the IRS.

Recently, I have been returning to those future days. I was obsessed with game levels at that time. Life was a DiabloII quest, finding gems, fighting the good fight. But I also left gems, treasures. Returning to those writings, that mindset, those goal lists, the "hidden" treasures are in full light. A perfect example of my mobius self: my past self living in the future, talking/leaving messages to my future self living in the present. 

Last year, things changed. I returned to the Future with professional aspirations. I was ready to accept that I was a "Futurist" with all the baggage of failed jetpacks, incorrect "predictions" and a Hollywood vision filled post-apocalyptic BladeRunner possibilities. I embarked on a study to prepare myself to be a professional futurist. (Don't get me started on the amateur and pop futurists).

So here I am. Back in the waters of the future. Back to the Future!

Burning Bridges, Burning Ships

There must be conflict in the air. That or I'm not longer taking bullshit. In actuality, I know exactly what is going on. I'm making room. I'm an integrator. I wield a sharp ax. I'm a bit insane. I follow logic, my heart and the direction of the universe.

I am a tool. I get used. (I don't always like it.) In the using I am often sharpened and hope I become a better tool. It's hard to get attached to anything with a life like that.

Recently though, I have gone through a baptism of fire. I passed the test. My armor is strong enough for my next task. For the Army I have joined. The ships are already metaphorically burned. I have nothing more to lose. Neither do questions of doing right or wrong go unanswered in my head. Only what the universe asks of me. And if it's to burn it all to hell - (and don't get freaked out mom, I'm still talking metaphors) - I'll do it. You'd better watch out when you start a firestorm with someone with "hbomb' as a nickname. I'm not known as someone who backs down.

Iva Lou, where are you?

I met Iva Lou in 8th grade pre-algebra class. We became fast friends after she loaned me her copy of Singularity. She was much smarter than I in the realm of mathematics, but that didn't matter. Her mom worked for the city council. They lived off a country road in North Kansas City. I loved the ribbon roads we'd transverse from one house to the other. She showed me the magical overpass light arch. We stayed friends even when I moved back to Iowa, although sporadically. We hung out again one summer after my first year of college. Just kicking around NKC. Not much to do.

The summer ended almost tragically when we were in a car accident. I was driving, making a left turn. The other driver ran a red light and hit the side of my car, the impact spinning it around several times and up onto a median. Iva was sitting in the passenger's side. She had a huge cup of soda from a gas station between her legs. On impact, the soda exploded over the inside of the car. The first thing I did, after we stopped spinning was to turn off the radio. Then I noticed the liquid all over the interior of the car. I thought it was blood. I looked over at Iva. She was alive and awake. But her seat was crushed. After a few moments, when we counted the minutes on the clock, we spoke. She was somewhat ok (as much as you can be after a major impact that totaled the car). It was soda not blood.

Long story short. We both ended up at the emergency room and were discharged at the end of the night. I left the scene with a small bruise on the interior of my left knee, and the memory of that night emblazoned in my mind.

This is just the tip of the iceberg to this story. It gets much stranger than the common reality I dare write here.

The summer continued. Iva recovered, but our friendship never really did. In the subsequent years we continued sporadic communication, until I moved to San Francisco and we lost contact completely. Sometimes I think of her. Of that night. Of the first day we met. Of our similar and yet different viewpoints and experiences. And I wonder where she is. If she moved to Utah. If she found love and satisfaction and a happy life.