I now have my one-way ticket to parts unknown! I leave July 4 from NYC and fly into Sao Paulo, Brazil. There, I find a place to leave my moving-bag, and spend the next couple weeks or months trekking around the country. PLUS, the funnest person in the entire world is going to meet me to explore (read: cut down) the Amazon– getting drunk on riverboats, hanging off trees, seducing headhunters, discovering new species, endless craziness!

Time is running out… My schedule for the next two months includes:

• This Saturday: Rocky Party! Cast, crew, and their guests are invited. Come to get drunk, naked, and off.
• May 30: Salon Party! Come if you love discussion! Wine, philosophy, and good company.
• June: Poker night? ICA visit? Camping trip? Vege dinner party? Drug orgy? Everything I have time for (which, admittedly, will be limited)! Salons on June 10 and 24!
• June 28: Brazillian Party!!! (Going Away Party)– EVERYONE should come to this! It starts Saturday evening, and continues into the Rocky afterparty. I’ll set up an evite in June.

I need to go climbing, dancing, driving, hashing; I need to get my visa, storage, jobs, and give use sell pack and trash all my stuff; I need to finish teaching my Future seminar, writing up my other seminars for OpenCourseWare, and coding a working beta of the Travelers Network. And I need to spend all the rest of the time with good friends.

I’m torn: I don’t want to lose my friends here! But I don’t want to try to force a remote-presence, like some awful year-long goodbye, and I don’t want to distance myself from the incredible things I can be doing in Brazil. I’ll probably never return to greater-Cambridge, except to visit, but there are too many special people here that I don’t want to lose track of, touch with, or connection to.

Should I start posting every day, like the LJ blogs with very active readerships?
Should I build an virtual park/living room, where I can run into friends online?
Should I just forget everyone, like I’ve done in the past?
Would you join a group forum, where we commit to posting something notable every 10 days?
Would you Skype with me every once in a while, just to catch up?

Live fully.

Steer Roast isn’t a party. It’s a living, breathing creature. Even when you’re not immersed in one of the endless pockets of music, friends, joints, and nitrous canisters, you can feel it throbbing all around you.

Especially when you’re on excellent new drugs. Brief Trip Report

Today, I could start a sex commune. Don’t ask me why– I don’t know– but it’d be glorious.

I’m starting an “Ask James” F.A.Q., with answers to all the questions I wish people would ask me. Like “Why Brazil?”, “What is the meaning of life?”, “How does one start a sex commune?”, “Why have I stayed single?”, “What role does religion have humanists?”. Not that my answers are right or my questions necessarily relevant to anyone, but I have an awful lot of both and each one demands its own little soap box. And one big soap-box of soap-boxes in corner seems better than clutters all over the floor.

Do you have any questions for me? Feel free to reply anonymously.

The last week has been absolutely incredible. Ever since getting drunk with a friend last Sunday (right after he realized it was his 21st birthday!) and talking about life and women and moving, I’ve been feeling much better. Which isn’t to say I don’t feel anxiety and all the rest, but I’ve caught my emotional breath, and the incredible weather doesn’t hurt!

I forgot how beautiful spring is! I saw the most beautiful thing in my life last week (except for some women of my acquaintance), even if it just a tree lit by a street lamp:

Moving to Brazil is becoming more real– I’ve started to look for a job down there, or a telecommuting deal up here. I’d been belittling the move (Hey, everyone has to live somewhere– why not Brazil?), but that fact is I’m moving to Brazil despite a gazillion reasons to stay, because I think life will be more incredible if I do. If it’s a mistake, I can always move back, or try a hundred other countries.

For the past week, I’ve been swimming in good music! My second couchsurfer, who’s from Brazil, gifted me with a CD packed with Brazilian music, and my favorite guru for music-stalking, , just introduced me to a pile of new bands– not to mention, some new friends. I haven’t had enough time to enjoy them, but I’m in no hurry (time is short, but a hurried life is shorter).

Finally, I took my (third) couchsurfer, a PhD student studying the sociological effects of fractal geometry, to “Yeast Roast” at T.E.P. As we came in, the whole house was chanting “Yeast! Give us bread! Yeast! ‘Till we’re dead!” as a huge tray of yeasty delights was slowly lowered from the ceiling. She spent most of her time chatting up undergrads in the naked roof hot tub.

I’m in such a weird emotional space right now. I’m lonely, and anxious, and conflicted, and melancholy. And I know it’s temporary, I know at least some of the causes, and I know a part of me that enjoys the confusion, but life right now has none of the thrills I know it could. I wish sometimes I could cry.

I’m not lonely exactly for lack of friends or opportunities, but friends aren’t what I’m lonely for. It’s two-and-a-half months before I leave, and that’s too long for a lame duck social life and too short to pursue any new relationships. And I don’t have the time or the energy to organize the social life I want– and I’m not even sure what social life that would be any more.

All my employers want an ever-bigger slice of my pie before I leave. When I find extra hours, I end up pouring it into jobs I care less for every day. And I’m not getting to work on my own projects. It’s like I spend all my time driving up an ever-steepening slope, but it feels like my wheels are mostly just spinning in mud.

I’m torn over the dozens of friendships I want to make better here. I’m torn over what happens when I leave to those relationships when I leave. And if preparing to leave has also been freeing, I waver on how much to explore that freedom, and how much to care. And in my confusion, I’ve said some hurtful, inappropriate things recently to good friends who didn’t deserve them.

Mostly, I’m just sad. Sad to be leaving, and sad to be alone and getting more alone every day. I want to enjoy my last few months, and instead I’m comparing them to an imagined other life I think I could build for myself here. Not sad enough to change my plans, but just sad enough to want to forget about them.

I just did my taxes. It could have been worse, but I cleared out most of my bank account and still owe the feds thousands. It won’t stop me from going to Brazil, but it won’t make it easy. And I still haven’t gone to the consulate to find out how legally I can work there.

C’est la vie.

Plan to do something fun with me before I leave! Want to go camping? Want to bar-hop and check out some new music? Want to just hang out, drink tea, and talk life? Distract me in a new way, and I’ll shake off this haze before a jet engine blows it away.

Sign up to host couchsurfers! The Couchsurfing Project isn’t just a website; it’s a movement. People around the world can offer up their couches, and search for couches in areas where they’re traveling. You don’t pay anything (for the site or the couch), hosts aren’t expected to do anything but let you sleep on their couch (though, many will show you around if they have time), and you end up meeting a ton of cool people as host or surfer.

I feel a guilty pleasure that my first two requests for couchsurfing are from women from exotic places (well, other continents anyway). Here’s some women, traveling alone to a far-away country. And she says to herself, “Here I am, a woman, with breasts and hips and everything– I wonder where I should stay amongst all these couches available in the greater-Cambridge area? Oh, this person– a guy– looks nice!” Is it bad for me to be proud of that?

Of course she isn’t sleeping at my house to sleep with me, and I would never make a move on a couchsurfing guest (unless, I suppose, I really thought she wanted me to). But I can’t forget the sexual potential.

The problem is, there aren’t any good sites for sexual tourism. So Couchsurfing has to make it extra clear that that’s not what it’s for. But I’m sure there are some women using the site who want it for that. And I think my last couchsurfer tried to hit on me.

My most recent couchsurfing request is from a guy in Florida who used ALL CAPS in his email to me. Who does that? Is it fair for me to not want him to sleep on my couch if he uses email that way?

Your Money or Your Life is a how-to guide to financial independence– really, to never needing to work again. It takes a very holistic approach, trying to heal our attitudes toward money. And as a result, it’s “steps” can be pretty daunting. Part A of step 1 is to determine how much money you’ve made in your whole lifetime (first penny to last paycheck). The other steps include determining how much your job costs you, keeping track of every cent you spend, and estimating how happy those cents make you.

I worked through it once, a few years ago, and it was pretty enlightening. But I fell off the cart before very long. I want to give it another try. Does anyone want to do it with me? I’ll buy you the book!

We’d work independently, but share our experiences, and keep on each others backs to do all the steps. And we’d let ourselves be brutally honest about how we use money in our lives. Tell me if you think you’re interested!

I’m back from traipsing around Montreal!

Half the people who said they’d be there chickened out. But Claudia and her S.O., Matt, were couchsurfing, so the three of us hung out with a neat variety of people. Most nights ended at a couchsurfer’s, chatting, listening to good music, and smoking. Anything less than a purse full of pot is legal there, and if you don’t want to go to the park for it, delivery guys will come to you with pockets of anything that might interest you. So, yeah, lots of smoking.

Canadians are incredible! Their liberal government is no chance; if the government is doing things wrong, they never just take it. They clog the phone lines with auto-dialers, slash officials’ tires, put rats in the statehouse– up to the limit that they won’t hurt someone (I’ve never felt so safe in a big city). And in return, the police don’t really investigate direct action crimes, and the government does no more than fine. A friend of mine made the mistake of calling their health care “socialized medicine”. The response was proud: “Don’t use the right-wing term! We have Universal Health Care. I pay my taxes so that no one will be denied the care they need.” People in Montreal work 20-30 hours a week. If you work 40, they’ll tell you you’ve got chill out or you’ll miss out. And cafes that sell non-fair-trade coffee go out of business.

Montreal’s shopping scene is pretty spectacular too. The streets are filled with unique little shops, with fantastic window displays, eclectic collections, and fun curators (if I can use that word). There was a sex shop and a head shop that actually had good clothing collections. The food, the neat buildings and architecture, the contemporary art museum, the endless cafes (including a couple art cafes), the live music, were all great– but you should go see for yourself.

From the sounds of it, Montreal is the wildest place in the world, for about two months (mid -June through mid-August). You can’t throw a stick without tripping over a festival. I suggest going then, but more than that, I suggest going! It’s only 4-7 hours away (car vs. bus), and every corner is worth turning.

I had a fabulous time, despite missing out on most of the famed nightlife. Montreal’s weekend is Thursday through Sunday. I arrived Sunday night, while the biggest rave in the Americas was romping behind hundred-dollar tickets (I didn’t go). I left Thursday evening. Both ways, the bus was absolutely full, and I was one of the last people on (last person on, going)… but I didn’t get advance tickets and it didn’t matter.

No trip would be complete without personal realizations. First, that there’s no way to beat couchsurfers for learning about a city. Montreal is an incredibly distinctive city, but I would have missed out on all the interesting parts (the people parts) if it weren’t for them. Second, that economic forces dominate and devour the world, washing out Montreal’s old city and once-distant suburbs alike. Fortunately, my Travelers’ Network business has the potential to put an end to that, with various pareconic ideals. Last, that I’m an appalling snob, I think (I’m not sure– do you think so?). I don’t feel like one inside, but I think I act like one and just cover for it (to myself and others). I’m sorry, I’ll work on it.

Basilica Notre-Dame	Place d’Armes	River with Dome
Mont Royal Park	Typical Montreal Street	The Whole City, Dark

Want to come to Montreal in a couple weeks???

I’m going there March 23 – 29 (or thereabouts), loosely in conjunction with three different pairs of MIT friends. You should come with me!

I’m not looking for a big group, but depending on who’s interested and in what, I can make any arrangements. I’m most interested in just bouncing around the city, playing by ear: some sightseeing, some nightlife, eating good food, wearing funny hats, trying to speak French, maybe some couchsurfing.

According to wikitravel, Montreal “has an inordinate number of attractive, fashionably dressed people.” And if you’re worried about the cold, we can spend time exploring their 18 miles of tunnels. So get in touch with me already, if you’re interested. Or if you have recommendations!

I’ve heard rumblings of a Rocky trip, but I forget who rumbled or if it’d already happened. Anyone know those plans?

Death is Zeno’s paradox forever!

Maybe it’s obvious, but I just realized it. And no one be worried by a guy’s inebriated musings.

The rationale has two points. First, the edge of all things, seen at a close enough scale, is very fuzzy. In fact, it follows a half-life decay. There’s no edge to a couch, at the thread level, or the crashing of a teacup into a floor, in microseconds. There is no point at which it “ends”. Second, the brain gets four minutes of electrical activity after the rest of the body has shut down. The synapses of your brain keep firing, and your brain keeps thinking.

Think how it would happen. The event happens– like a heart attack, you feel the impending doom as your body piece-by-piece trips over itself, and you realize what happened, what is happening. There’s some pain, but it doesn’t take long. And then it stops, except for a dull ache, that you don’t realize at first is dull enough to ignore. It’s even a little warm and cozy.

You realize, “I’m here, but I’m stuck! I’ve got to open my eyes and fight back, or at least say my final words. What did I want to say? About love? Oh!” You dash about, straining to move your dead muscles, and eventually resort to just trying to give some sign that you’re still here. And eventually you realize that, no, you really are trapped.

The red-hot anger flares up, but soon it’s sifted into pure sadness– or maybe it comes the other way around. Why did it have to happen now, at the height of your life (though you never thought about it that way) with so much left undone? By what idiocy am I here?! I wish I could yell! Or say something. To anyone, or anything. Or that it would at least just end.

Your head slowly starts spinning with the ramifications. This is the eternal end. What was that religion your parents talked about? What if it’s all true, even the silly parts. Did it matter now? Maybe, but… is that a light you see? You throw yourself into a religious fervor. Oh, the warmth, just like you heard about! There’s the feeling of oneness! Wait– is that a figure? Is it God? No, it’s someone else. Oh, mom, I’ve wanted to see you so long! And you’re not alone: my relatives, past loves, lost friends!!! It’s like a dream, and you have long conversations with each one, and try to right some social wrongs and tell them who you were. And something else is with them.

Before you realize that you’re just faking it. You’re alone, still trapped in your head, with no one but yourself for company. This is as bad as those times you convinced yourself you were floating. You’re still here, you’re still dead, and time’s running out.

You can feel it running out– you start to lose touch with the whole idea that you were a body to begin with. You realize that even your brain is swiftly dying.

But it’s been so long. Or has it just been seconds, since the event? You realize that time and space have no meaning for you, nor anything you could say or do, in this new world around you. It’s a world you could make anything inside, and try to stay there until infinity, but it’d be a sham. And nothing would change the fact that you’re over.

But these are your last moments! You rally to the call, and began to chant the greatest idea of your being. Maybe your name at first. But what a fool, what a con, what lost possibility. But you know that doesn’t matter. What matters is your being– your very individual-ness, from the big scar to the dopey voice. Being. Being… The word starts to sound forced, as your army of shouters grows thinner. Not being. No, everything is your spirit– your drive, your passion… whatever that was. You can’t really remember, but you know that’s not the point. Spirit? Still not right; it’s something bigger than you. And it’s also the Others, so wonderful. And the world, the universe. Something greater. Really huge. And very orange.

The all is orange-oranging, you slowly realize. And you cast around for the word. How long have you been here?

The orange! No, the word. The word? The what?

That… (and you know it)

This…

…

.

You reach into eternity.