Today I have been ruminating about a possible novel.

I have been wandering around San Francisco writing, reading, healing, and putting myself out there in doses.

Last night I did stand-up for the very first time.

It was bad, but I did it.

Nobody laughed.

To be fair, the material was written that day and I did not expect it to be well-received.

What was interesting was how the rejection sat with me only for a second. After the past 36-years and past six months in particular, I have acquired pretty thick skin.

I noticed recently that it is a blessing and a curse.

A blessing in the sense that it is something I have always wanted to do, but never had the courage to do.

But I did it.

Now, much like little Garrett jumping to volunteer for Romeo, I did it again.

It was an unbelievably small crowd and I had a cider, so I just said ‘fuck-it’.

I had been worried about my stand-up in the past because it felt more like rants and raves rather than a set.

I was right.

There is an undeniable melody and rhythm to stand-up. It requires being worked out. However, in this moment, I just went up and said some things that were funny to me.

Judging by the absolute silence and looks of disgust on people’s faces: it was not a hit, and that’s OK.

The curse of having a tough hide these days is, it didn’t phase me all too much, and when other comics gave me advice–which is totally appreciated–I listened, but I was a little more observant of those giving advice and allowed myself to be somewhat open and skpetical. I knew deep-down I could be really great at this craft if I gave it the time and energy.

I intend to do so, but I might be best served by some spoken word at the moment.

My sensitivity is not gone, but totally at home now. I’m settling into it, and rather than laugh through the tears, I’m overwhelmingly choosing to just let the tears flow.

I’ve decided to read the great works by female authors in preparation for the next chapters of my book. These chapters will reflect on the dominating presence of women in my life, the great loves I have shared with them, and my great follies therein.

I have been a boy, or man-child, but these experiences and choice to go to San Francisco have revealed what I knew all along: I trust myself. I know what I am doing. Others may not understand or agree and that is OK.

I was not kidding when I told people recently how excited I was to integrate my inner feminine, through a Jungian lens, in San Francisco.

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I had a dream a few months back where I was interacting with the women in my life at the time and they were cold and disinterested. They would have faces of rejection and yet I kept trying to repair, or explain myself and they would often just scoff, look at me in disgust, and walk away.

My ego and desperation had met its match.

The terrain was a wet, red desert clay, with ominous clouds hanging overhead.

After having enough of trying to explain myself and justifiably being pushed out and on, I walked forward with nothing but the clothes on my back.

As I left, I was lost in thought and kept my eyes at my feet. This is how I usually walk, downtrodden.

I jumped a big fence without thinking twice.

I looked up eventually, out of my internal self-pity, and looked behind me to recognize that I was in a bull enclosure.

The enclosure was full of small and medium golden bulls, and one large Black Bull.

The only thing separating us was trash bins. I made eye contact with one of the smaller golden bulls and a few others took notice.

They began to prance over to me stimulated and appearing ready for an attack.

‘That’s OK,’ I thought, ‘at least it wasn’t the BIg Black Bull that noticed me.’

I was still afraid, because I knew they weren’t coming just to sniff. I also recognized their horns were not as big as the Big Black Bull and I still had the trash cans to protect me.

I noticed in the enclosure, a large, soft-featured country boy walking amongst them calmly and casually.

I tried to get his attention, waving my arms in a panic while also attempting not to draw further attention.

The bulls were activated by this movement and began to jog towards me more swiftly.

Then, I accidentally locked eyes with the Big Black Bull.

It began moving towards me heavily and focused–seemingly angry.

Soon enough, they were all starting to nudge the trash cans in between us, until I finally waved down the large country boy. He pulled earbuds from his ears and shouted, across the expanse ‘Don’t move and don’t make eye contact.’

I listened.

In rapid order, the trash cans were all moved out of the way and I was fully vulnerable, in full surrender, or so I thought.

They got close to me nudging me and soon cleared out, or rather parted as the Big Black Bull made his way towards me head-on.

The younger, golden bulls were inspecting me and nudging me to gauge my fear, or balance–I don’t know.

I was terrified, but I didn’t move and was careful to not even breathe too loud.

Then the Big Black Bull got right in my face.

A voice and look of concern–urgency–entered the country boy’s face and he said with worry, ‘Don’t move. Do not look him in the eyes. Breathe quietly.’

It got close and barbed me with it’s large horns.

Then the country boy said, ‘Slowly lay down. Get on the ground and don’t move.’

My perspective shifted into an out-of-body experience, where I saw myself lying terrified on the ground while this large bull inspected me.

The bull sniffed, grunted, nudged, and measured me.

Then it began using it’s horns to tear and rip off the legs of my pants, underneath, where my legs should’ve been, was straw and insulation-like material. I calmly laid on the ground while the Big Black Bull proceeded to shred my pants off my limp straw, and insulated body.

After a moment, the out-of-body version of me smiled and laughed to himself and decided that I would get a tattoo of this bull with a specific date. To prove I survived.

Little did I know, this wasn’t the event that would actually mangle me.

Recently, in my waking life, someone I admire deeply, shared with me the meaning of a tattoo they had received in the past. It had a date and they relayed to me that they now regretted getting the tattoo for personal reasons and subsequent hurt.

In the dream, I called them to talk about the bull experience. I told them I too would be getting a dated tattoo that I would likely regret.

‘Now we’re even,’ I said with a big, gentle grin on my face.

She asked quietly, ‘Do you actually think you’ll regret it?’

I could tell she was listening with her all-knowing smile and gentle humor.

I laughed and said, ‘No.’

We laughed together for a moment and tears welled into my eyes, because I missed this person. I told them I missed them. They didn’t respond. After that, we didn’t say anything verbally, but we did communicate during the silence as if to say in mutual recognition: ‘You don’t need to regret the tattoo’.

I could hear her getting emotional and saying back to me psychically, with a chuckle, a strained smile, and welling tears herself, ‘Ok’.

We hung up the phone. The moment was deeply painful, because I wasn’t sure if I’d ever hear from this person again. But in the dream and in life, I hold out hope that we will someday, just not now.

In a place where we’re both healed, the environment is quiet, and on gentler terms.

As I began to walk on, I could see an ambulance next to a wet, slick road, with a white truck flying by at an immeasurable speed.

The EMT’s raced about tending to a man on a stretcher on the ground a little removed from the road.

It was me.

I had been in some kind of horrible accident, covered in wounds, that by all things considered, should’ve been fatal.

However, in these deep gashes, gaping holes covered in blood, was a skeletal system made of pristine and shiny platinum metal.

It was shining, working–like the inside of a beautifully crafted watch.

My neck was long and there were lights shining where my heart was meant to be and the inside of my throat was filled with a beautiful light.

I looked at my face. I was happier and lighter than I’d ever seen myself, despite the horror of my wounds.

The out-of-body version of me began to cry and I thought to myself, ‘You survived. You will survive. What is on the other side is where you’re truly meant to be. You know this.’

As I moved on past my should-be-corpse, the hustle and bustle of the ambulance, I came to a dangerous, slick and wet road.

The landscape changed to a more Pacific Northwest forest, but I could also hear the ocean and sea birds chirping to welcome me.

I treaded carefully across the slick road where the white truck flew by.

No disaster, no accident, just a man crossing a road in the middle of a forest.

On the other side, there were little yellow, distressed, and wet food truck pods with pink neon lights; they were glowing in some imperceptible east asian language, that I can only recognize as Chinese.

Waiting there was a fisherman, in slick yellow fishing gear. He had a kind, but wise face. He was adorned with a thick, but well-groomed orange beard and hair. He had kind eyes, but also wisdom far beyond my own years and experience.

He shook my hand and led me further into the food truck pod, where it turned into a market of floating food stands, boat bars/casinos, and riddled with jovial and warm interiors to slink into.

I saw these vessels bouncing, moving, on top of the ocean water, but could not see the ocean beyond.

I could smell it and hear it though.

I noticed the back of a woman’s head.

‘I know this woman,’ I thought to myself.

(I do, in fact, know this woman in my normal life. She is an artist and somebody I haven’t seen in many years, but deeply respect and admire from afar).

The interior was loud and full of life. I could see her sharp pointed, raven black hair, pulled into a high ponytail I have seen her sport in the past.

I was scared and nervous, but I decided to gently step inside.

She was laughing and talking to someone with warmth in her voice. She may have been talking to the whole joint, but she was calm, grounded on this wobbly moving vessel, and her environment was warmer and all the better for it.

I knew this was the true beginning of my life.

I woke up just as she was about to turn around, but I could see a warm, jovial smile smeared, rather painted, across her face.

She was going to welcome me with warmth and radical honesty.

Then I woke up.