Sugar Mountain

Mission 1. Hook up with someone as old as my mom (54) and as young as my sister (20) in a month.
Mission 2. Live a completely gay lifestyle (without the gay sex) for a month.
Mission Three: Live without an apartment for a month.

I awoke in a rain cloud, wearing the mist of daybreak. Slowly, through the fog, my mind and body reacted and came together as being. It was a feeling of detachment and euphoria. It was fucking bliss.

The dreams kept me company throughout the night. I was subtly aware of where I was, yet conscious of being a stranger in the Santa Monica Mountains. The dreams were fertile and radiant, and they centered around one single subject, sex. I had to laugh at myself. As much as I try to bring depth to my understanding, biology is always the guiding factor in my life. In all men’s lives. Everything we do is for the fuck. Every word I type, every motion I make is to ultimately get me laid. And that goes for every man in the world. Sure, there is a lot of ground to cover in between, but those niceties only provide form. The essence of male existence is the fuck. It is the reason our heart beats.It is almost biblical in nature: good grades beget a good school. The good school begets a good job. The good job begets a nice car, nice clothes and a nice house. The nice car and nice house begets a hot piece of ass. A nice little Asian one if you’re lucky.

The morning was masked in the physical mundane. It was just like camping after the brain fog lifted. What do you do in the morning when you camp? There really isn’t much to do. So that’s exactly what I did, not much. And again, it was fucking bliss.

I had traveled light for three nights alone. First of all, I forgot water. I knew there was a creek there, so I didn’t want to be weighed down with bottles of Evian. It seemed superfluous. So instead, I bent down and drank from the creek. It tasted and smelled fine, and I didn’t have much of a choice. If I was to die from drinking this water, then fate was playing a big joke on me. I brought food, but not a toothbrush. Light, but not toilet paper. I made choices and lived with them.

The sun would soon set on the sweet-smelling eucalyptus trees that provided shade and backdrop to the day. Mustard plants and Burdock provided the color. Living here was difficult and simple, and I had yet to really get a taste of things. Familiarity began to set in. I developed patterns in my new surroundings. I needed a change.

So, I gathered up my belongings and with the last few hours of sunlight went deeper into the mountains to find my uncertainty. The confidence of daylight let me go to a place where I felt unconfident. Where I had to work again to complete that cycle. I wanted to see if I could do it again.

I began to make my own path, not counting my steps, not wasting time in the literal. This moment was to be pure and understandable. I knew I would never do this again. I was a salmon coming back to my spawning grounds, knowing every forward movement would be my last. But, I was in the figurative; their wet return was much more final.

I noticed a rundown structure. The door was gone as was the wall that held it. I cast the light in with a flick of my wrist. My eyes followed the light, looking for answers. Obviously, not all the houses met the fate of the wrecking ball. This remained.

I was afraid of these walls. It is a strange phobia I have had for years. I don’t like seeing objects where they do not belong. If I am in the desert and see a lone house or in a lake and encounter the brush of a buried tree against my leg, it arouses this fear. I was fine till this point. Now my mind was pacing backwards to the dirt road, the bike, to home.

Of course, living in the abstract this fear never manifested itself with anything but a nod to my own neuroses. But with the aid of heightened senses and a feeling of isolation, these fears began to take a hold on my mind, on my sweat. I breathed and walked inside with pure hesitation.

By now the darkness had eclipsed all but my beam of light. I put my fate in the hands of Duracell. Inside, there was a strange sweet smell of grass and mildew. Once inside, I realized this was not a house, but a childhood. It was mine.

In Pennsylvania, my parents lived near the woods. I was always going, exploring, playing. There was a man-made lake by my house. In the summer, we would swim in it, in the winter, skate it. But beyond the fires, hot chocolate, s’mores and sunburns lived a boy scout cabin. It was built on the side of a hill and remained only as disintegrated walls and other people's memories. A large stone fireplace was the only thing that was relatively intact, and it became the keystone for this neuroses. It was out of place. It didn’t belong in the woods. And so it began.

But the Topanga structure seemed a much more dysfunctionally developmental place. On the ground were a few rusted children’s toys, a few porno magazines and a small flask of old granddad, that was still half full for me, but for whoever drank it, it was half empty.

The floor was gone in places and was replaced by weeds. I sat on a joist and began to look around the room. It seemed in better days, this was a large storage shed rather than a house. It was an escape from an area that was already an escape. It was solitude from solitude.

On the walls were paintings. But rather than provide form, they were to provide color. This was a retreat. I imagined kids growing up here, meeting as their clubhouse, shooting bottle rockets. Their cars remain as the only reminder of that time. As they grew and their tastes changed from matchbox to alcohol and blue mags, their past remained untouched on the floor. I imagined them seeing these cars, but never removing them. They belonged as much as the bottle or porno mags. They represented a lifestage that the people weren’t ready to abandon quite yet. They were a retreat to the past that still provided context to the present.

So, I sat there for a bit, looking around, smiling. I picked up the bottle of granddad and took a whiff. Still smelled of alcohol. I put my tongue to the rim of the bottle. It was not piss. I leaned back with all my might and pulled a swig just as if I had paid $10 for it in a Hollywood bar. Besides, I needed a drink.

I took the bottle as a memory, and continued to drink it as I took a final look around the structure. On the back was a sign that read, “Sugar Mountain.” I guess that was the name of their clubhouse. I guess they still come back here. I guess it was time for me to leave. This time, I was the object that didn't belong.

So, I got my flashlight and said goodbye. I was not afraid anymore, not of this structure at least. I found what I came for only after I realized that I came for nothing.