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…She had a special sort of insanity. Oh she had some of the standard traits, she lived in a delusional reality where she was the fourth generation of the Imperial family of America. Except that… she was. She was the great granddaughter of Emperor Joshua Norton the First. And Chela’s special insanity was like her great grandfather’s. She had the ability to convince people they would rather live in her delusional world than the normal one and so her delusions became real (I call it hyperstition). Her great grandfather had issued proclamations which the local newspapers carried, ate free wherever he went, issued his own currency and when he died the entire city came out to give him full honors. For truly, even if he wasn’t recognized outside of SF, he WAS the Emperor of America and Protector of Mexico.

I was standing outside of SF’s train station just enjoying the cool crisp air playing against my skin when a yellow taxi pulled up at a furious speed into an equally furious stop. The driver hopped out and opened the rear door with a flourishing bow. Carefully unfolding herself from the car came Empress Norton. There was an elegance to her movement like one used to state dinners with foreign dignitaries (which in the circles we travelled in I suppose I count as, I’m the network’s nomad diplomat, a kind of non-local operative). She was wearing a formal military jacket over an evening dress with gloves and combat boots. The combination should have looked mismatched and yet it managed to fit together perfectly. Her hair was neatly cut but long. There was a look of intelligence in her piercing blue eyes and a special kind of whimsy played with her mouth.

She held out her hand to me palm down her fingers curling lightly in. I could see on her wrist she was wearing a bracelet that looked like filigre’d diamonds (and might have been). I realized what this gesture indicated and I bowed and kissed her hand. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance uh…” I hesitated what does one call a person like her?

She understood my dilemma and said, “YOU,” with a little flick of her eyes in the vague direction of the cabbie to indicate not him, “may call me, Chela.” Her voice was rich with the potential for a warm laughter that didn’t escape its hiding place behind her enigmatic smile.

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance Chela.”

“Come,” she said and gracefully got back in the cab gesturing for me to follow.

The Cabby closed the door behind me and roared off like a race driver. I noticed that the till was not running.

We arrived at her place, her palace I suppose. It was just outside of the mission district across the street from a small park, must have been a bar originally and probably should have been condemned. It was freshly painted but the general condition of the building was deteriorated. As soon as we were both out of the cab, he jumped back in the front seat, the availability light blared on and he roared away.

As we walked up to doors they opened held by a strangely dressed young man. The inside of the former bar looked like a new media collective workspace (well WAS a new media collective workspace) Computers, cameras, lighting equipment, painting supplies, audio gear and a top of the line esspresso machine on the bar. The room never slept, though some of its occupants were napping on couches right now. There were nine people in the room, four sleeping, four working away and a curly haired woman behind the bar. As Empress Norton lead me towards the back room we paused in front of the bar.

“Can I get you anything?” the bartender said with a gesture at the espresso machine and the obviously well stocked bar.

“A mocha? with amaretto?”

“Sure, with whip?”

“No thanks.”

Her eyes flicked towards the tip cup.

I pulled out some money.

She made a look of distaste at my bills saying, “I guess we’ll have to get you set up with some Imperial Dollars”

Chela interrupted, “give yourself a VIP’s tip out of the till.

“Thank you,” she smiled and pulled two large very colorful bills out of the till and into her tip cup. They looked official but foreign like the plastic money from Australia.

The bartender handed me a very large cup and I sipped it as Chela and I walked through the little hallway to the back section. They clearly spared no expense on the beverages here.

The back section was obviously Chela’s space. Cushions, coffee tables, wall hangings, couches, curtained separations. Rich fabrics, probably all salvaged. While I felt certain the room was full of technology it was all tastefully out of sight. The ambient music, very chillout, supported my supposition. She pointed out a very large, very overstuffed couch that would be my bed, indicated that blankets and pillows were in a curtained cubby at one end that could hold my belongings while I’m in town. This was a space well prepared to house a large number of people if necessary and yet keep everything tasteful and classy while it happens.

I sat on what would be my bed for the next two weeks and she sat opposite me on a nice easy chair. A white cat appeared from somewhere and curled up on her lap. And that’s when we began our talk.

…What country I was in. Then I realized I couldn’t remember what continent I was on. Then came the largest shock. I couldn’t remember who I was. Obviously figuring out where I was would be easier than who I was so I started on that. I was on a train. The body knew that before Eye even awoke. The motion the feeling of a moving train shimying and gently turning on its rails across the surface of the earth was unmistakable. So… I’m not on a maglev train or even a bullet train like in Japan. I opened my eyes. This wasn’t a we can’t insure you if you insist on travelling by that vehicle train in India. Furnishings looked modern but slightly worn. Other passengers were mostly white fairly well dressed and they obviously hadn’t been sleeping on the train. So… This was either england, eastern europe or north america. Signs were in english. England or America. Canadian signs would have had english and french. Slowly this scene became more familiar to me. This was an Amtrak train. Business class. All the signs were there. I figured out how to open the curtain and looked out at the country side sliding by. West Coast. Oregon or California. I was taking a day run off of one of the west coast hubs to a specific city. I’d just travelled across the continent by train. That explained how I felt and why no one else needed to sleep. Means that wherever I’m stopping here is likely the destination of travel not another time to make another connection.

Now came the stickier problem. Who am I? How will I know where I’m supposed to get off. I did my best impression of a bleary eyed traveller and scanned the other travellers for someone who would make eye contact. Someone did and I asked, “uh, where is this train heading?” as I rubbed my eyes.

He gave me one of those dirty you should already know looks before answering, “San Fran.”

Ah, SF the city of the future. Powerful node. Must be either important business I’m embarked on or important fun.

“Thanks,” I replied simulating sheepish embarassment at my confusion. Location-locked people have such a solid and certain experience of reality and they never really appreciate the fundamental nearly schizophrenic confusion of the nomads. You see people are defined by their habits. The sedentary wake up in the same place, in the same way, get up eat the same foods in the same places in the same way, go to work where their time is defined by others doing tasks defined by others. Go home in the same way talk to the same people fuck the same people in the same way. Go to the same bed. Sleep in the same way and wak up in the same place. The loading stabilization of a “normal” life is so solid that people actually think they have a stable self. and worse they think that everyone has a stable self. and that anyone who doesn’t is crazy.

They have no idea how much work they are unwittingly doing to maintain the illusion of a proper self. Anyone who isn’t living the way they are… is immediatly at a disadvantage to holding onto their self. Not that I think losing your self is a disadvantage. Just that its very easy to do as a nomad. In general all nomads are insane by sedentary standards. Everyday I wake up in a different place, eat in different foods, see different people, hear different languages, smell different atmospheres, live by different clocks, define my tasks in relation to new stimulus. The stability of the sedentary self is defined by the stability of their stimulus. The instability of the nomad self system is defined by the instability of our stimulus. We have a minimal framework of similarity of practice and tools that we carry with us. Anything that we can’t carry with us must be acquired as needed in whatever space we find ourselves. That minimal stability leads to a much smaller stable structure of selfness. Its ultimately not a whole self but a structure for organizing different modes of self, modes of awareness that arise in relation to our environment and our needs.

The sedentary are defined by habits. Nomads have to define themselves by ritual. The main self-modes I seem to have are Travelling, Staying, Finding, Exploring, Allying, Warring, Enjoying, Escaping, Maintaining, Centering, Visioning, Negotiating, Investing, Divesting, Toiling and Loving. However it would be a mistake to think I am a multiple personality with sixteen personalities. These are attitudes that I can approach the environment with depending on what I need or want to do. In moving out like this I face different spaces every time and so an unique indentity is expressed in each collision between my experience and attitude and the environment that presents itself to me. These aren’t selves this is a framework for generating a new self in every moment.

So waking up on a train and being unsure where and who I am isn’t new to me. It’s how I wake up on a train. It’s how I wake up anywhere. Centering begins as I look for cues from my environment and my memory to explain where I am and what I am doing. To be honest telling you that I wasn’t sure of who I was was a bit of a trick, an excuse to explain this to you. I’m not overly concerned with who I am. I’m much more interested in what I am doing. and What my intention for this doing is.

I know where I am now. So what am I doing? Why am I on a train going to SF?

The body feels healthy. I’m fully dressed practical comfortable clothes, shoes under the seat in front of me along with a little man-purse. Pocket stuff is in the seat pouch in front of me. Clearly I had decided to catch a nap.

I pull my seat into a more upright position. Put my cardcase/wallet and a set of keys in my front right hand pants pocket where they join some bills and loose change american currency. Pens, cell phone (at&t network pay as you go sony ericson, I hate sony ericsons how come I keep buying them?), comb, cheap bic lighter go in my front lefthand pants pocket. Cigarettes (hmm I wonder how much I smoke these days, I take a breath in and out, doesn’t feel like my lungs are in too bad of shape, I must be a light puffer of late) and gum go in my front lower jacket pockets, left and right respectively. Three by Five black moleskine notebook (looks in rough shape bookmark ribbon two thirds into the book) and pocket edition of O Sensei’s Art of Peace go into my left and right inside jacket pockets respectively. Shoes get slipped on. Open the man-purse, couple of sharpies, condoms, powercords, in one pocket, micro-laptop and The Portable Dante in another, passport and tickets in another, and in the last one is bare essential toiletries.

A proper mini bag with lots of pockets that can store a large amount in a relatively small space is essential. This bag was a sundog which had the added advantages of being durable and cheap. To some people your animals are your familiars, to others their technology are their familiars. For a nomad its their luggage. Your luggage is the most important factor in how much you can carry and how organized you can be about it. Acquire the absolutely best you can manage, name them and treat them well. You want them to be light weight, high durability, easy to carry a variety of different ways, carry a ridiculous amount of stuff in a very compact way and have lots of different compartments so that you can organize them. The sundog can be carried as a fanny pack, a shoulder bag or as a back pack (if you don’t mind some strange looks for wearing it diagonally).

Quick look through the passport and ticket information revealed that my name was Alexander Gunn (I’m going to go by Lex for now), that I’d been in Upstate New York and travelled across country amtrak coach (explains why I was so tired and fuzzy headed, forced polyphasic sleep will do that to you), My destination was SF, no hotel reservation so I was staying with someone, no information on where was handy, I was in SF for two weeks before I’d be flying to Amsterdam, where I’d be going from there I had no idea but usually I’d use amsterdam as a hub (although it was possible that I was ACTUALLY staying in amsterdam, I’m sure I’ll figure that out long before I need to). Zipped up my bag again. and prepared to get up.

Caught the other traveller’s eyes again, “Bout how long before we get to SF?”

He was happier to answer this question, this was more normal, “About an Hour.”

“Thanks,” I smiled.

Found my way to the water closet (that is actually what they call them on amtrak, I’m not being pretentious) for a little maintainance. Went to the bathroom. Rinced my hands. Got out my Dr. Bonner’s 18 in 1 miracle soap. Hung up my coat and shirt. Wet a papertowel and added a little bit and used it to wash my face, neck, chest and underarms, in that order. Wet another papertowel to rince and used a dry one to dry. Looked in the mirror and discovered that what I thought was stubble was actually… a fairly decent beard. I like the look so I just shaved my neck area. Brushed my teeth and then put everything away.

“So my name is Lex Gunn, I’m going to be in SF for two weeks before I go to Europe. I’m still not sure why I’m in town or where I’m staying,” I say to my reflection. Then I leave the WC.

Finding the Bistro car easily I get in the short line up and decide that I’m not that hungry. I order a coffee and a pack of peanuts and pour myself one of some free water. I set myself with a corner seat gives me a good view of the anyone in the bistro car and out one of the windows. Its a nice looking day. Sun poking through the grey clouds. It has rained rather than it’s going to rain. Pull out the moleskine first. Taking off the band I flip from the back until I find the most recent contact information. Sure enough there are two for SF. One has name, address, and phone number and the note, “Emperor Norton’s Heir.” The other is just a name and a number. Most likely I planned to stay with The first one. I program both numbers into my phone. Flip to the ribbon bookmark and the content section of the notebook. The notes are about the latest interation of a global artists network that I’m organizing and recruiting for. Its half notes on practicality half phrases for selling the concept. Now I know why I’m going to town. Or at least one of the reasons. It never does to have too few reasons.

I dialled. “Hi, Chela… It’s Lexx uh Lexx Gunn. Yeah, that guy. Yeah. Oh about an hour. So um dumb question maybe but am I staying with you? Yeah, okay, yeah. Two weeks. good. Alright, see you in about an hour then. Right. Ciao for Now.”

The serious business done, I leaned back and enjoyed the rest of the journey to SF.

You think you’ve lived life? You think you’ve seen life?

You don’t know shit.

This is hell.

You’re just a bunch of little boys playing house. Playing doctor. You wouldn’t know life if it climbed in your bedroom window and murdered your whole family. and it will. Life is waiting outside your window right now, with a big knife. Its waiting to climb inside the window to your mind and use your limbs to kill your children and rape your wife to death. Then it will leave you holding the bloody knives to stand trial. It will be waiting there for you in prison to rape you for the rest of your life screaming and crying over what you have done.

Its a monster growing in all of us. Our own inhumanity denied as we play the games of adulthood never actually stepping out from behind our mother’s apron strings or our father’s wallet. Its that part of us that knows, not thinks KNOWS, that all of our friends hate us. That your wife hates you, has always hated you, will always hate you. Hates all of us. Hates all of the little boys pretending to be men.

She hates us for the same reason all the little girls hate all us little boys. She was abused, she was raped, shit upon, but some little boy pretending to be a man. Maybe it was her last husband, maybe it was her father but… if you dare just look her in the eye, You’ll see it. The hate, the RAGE pressed down and denied compressed from fire into cold burning waiting coal. Rage’s coal building up until nothing can stop it. She hates you. They all hate you. Every time she denies it, denies that part of her it gets worse.

Look into your best friend’s eyes. there in the pupil, the blackest part, you’ll see it. The rage. He hates you. Has hated you your whole life. He’d like nothing better than to rape your wife, and kill you. spit on your corpse. as he’s been spit on his entire life. His mother didn’t love him, his dad beat him and his wife cheated on him, he thinks it was you or if it wasn’t it was some other asshole just like you. She cheated on him because she hates him as she hates all the little boys pretending to be men. Because he raped her or beat her or maybe it was someone else. maybe it was her dad.

So you hide.

You crawl behind your mother’s apron strings. or your dad’s wallet. But whatever you do don’t look them in the eyes. Don’t whatever you do look your mother in your eyes. You can see it. You can hear it. She hates you. because in all likelihood you were born of abuse and rape. Your father that great man that has protected and loved you your whole life raped and abused her. and you were born of it. and you can see it there deep in her pupils. maybe it wasn’t even him, maybe it was her last lover, or her dad, or just some other little boy that neither of you will know. The hates you like she hates him.

Then you’ll look in your father’s eyes. and you’ll see it there too. He hates you, just as he hates her. the rage burning cold tamped down compressed until its the blackest pit of hate that can be. You ruined his life. before you he was a young man in love. He had a woman. He had other women. Maybe he didn’t treat them the best but he was living. or so he thought. Then you came to prove him wrong. and he was trapped with her. Only to discover he hated her. she was a harpy, and you did nothing but cry. cry and eat and waste his money and ruin his happiness as fleeting as it was.

So you walk around with your head down. You don’t dare look in anyone’s eyes not even your own children’s. Cause you know you’ll see it there too, you see it everywhere. But you can only go so long hiding from sight.

And one day maybe your shaving, maybe your washing your face with cold water trying to make the fear, the bile go away, you make the ultimate mistake. You look in your own eyes.

Now you truly can’t escape it.

Its there.

You hate. You are filled with the rage, the bile. You hate yourself. You always have. That’s why you’ve ruined everything that has ever made you happy. and you realize that you hate your wife. That’s why you do what you do. You hate your children. You hate your parents. You hate everyone who has ever done anything mean or nice for you in your entire life. You hate them all with that cold cold burning that old burning rage that will one day rise up and destroy everything you’ve ever loved. consume your whole life and kill you in the process. You see the monster for the first time.

That monster that has pursued you your entire life. you see him behind your eyes. you see how your face is nothing but a mask you use to hide him from the world. Now you understand why no one can look you in the eye. They can all see it. If they dare look they’ll see what you really are and they all know. THEY ALL KNOW that deep down where it really counts you hate them. Have always hated them. Will always hate them. and they hate you for it. They can’t forgive the monster you carry within you. How could they? How can you?

And you might hate this message. And you might hate me for it. You might even try to kill me for it.

Go ahead. I welcome it.

Just don’t look me in the motherfucking eyes.