
Metanoia (Latin): to change (meta, change) one’s mind (noein, mind) or purpose (noein, thought)
Momentum Metanoia
(April 2019 - January 25th, 2020)
It is challenging to know where to begin, but I know where it ends so I will start there. I’ll do my best for now to keep this short and straight to the point.
On January 31st 2020, everything was set and arranged for me to begin a new life at Green Gulch, a monastery in the Zen Tradition that also prides itself with having a respectable production-garden that explores permaculture/sustainable agriculture designs.
Although this was a beautiful secondary benefit, my primary intention was to focus inward and understand my own traumas, the pains surrounding my family, and the deep-rooted sense of rejection that I experienced.
I outline to a greater extent my living situation in the longer-form story below; to keep it brief, I was living primarily in a small Honda hatchback and also with my (casual) girlfriend and in a friend’s greenhouse-turned-clay-studio. I genuinely only had $45 to my name at that time, enough money to get from where I was to where I thought I was going.
On January 24th, 2020 there was an Aquarius New Moon; a friend and I had plans to share the evening together and explore some different divination practices. This was in good spirits and good fun; I had some ominous symbolism which I did not consider fully at that time, considering that everything was apparently going well in my life.
Around 5:45 am I had left her home on Saturday January 25th to meet with two friends and go for a run together on the beach prior to the sunrise. When I was leaving my friend’s home, it was still very dark and there was a dense fog, customary to Santa Cruz.
I went down to the bottom of her street; there was a stop sign. I looked both ways, but the fog was very heavy and the morning was still very dark. I did not see any lights in the fog, and simply followed what seemed like good judgment.
The next moment I awoke in a hospital bed, could not feel anything from my hips down, had a tube down my throat; I turned and looked to see my friend sitting in the seat by the window sill, tears in her eyes and smiling as our eyes connected- behind her the sun was setting.
That was as simple as I could tell it, as promised. To follow is a more in-depth narrative regarding the situation, the buildup to the breakdown, and how things transitioned into the Shattered Series.
First I will share a gallery of the works from this period of time. Although I have some of the digital files, I do not have the physical copies of any except for “Momentum Metanoia;” thankfully, it was hanging in the meeting room of a place called the Mushroom Farm, located on the coast just south of San Francisco.

Here is the more in-depth story.
I was living in Santa Cruz, CA at that time; specifically, inside of a greenhouse which was converted into a community clay studio by a ceramist (Travis) for some days, with my casual girlfriend (a Piscean surfer) who I had met through a friend some days, and for most days I was living in a small hatchback Honda (early 90s model) that I had been able to buy for $1200 in Southern Oregon in October 2019.
On January 31st, 2020 I was to begin an open-ended work-study period at Green Gulch, a modern monastery of the Zen Tradition just a bit north of San Francisco. Earlier that year, starting in May, I had been practicing meditation with the Santa Cruz Zen Community in the mornings prior to sunrise; I then began to volunteer with them at the “Homeless Garden Project,” which then led me to become involved with “Food Not Bombs” [worth noting that the founder of that organization lives and works out of Santa Cruz, Keith McHenry; he and I did not get along very well, but I became very close with the manager of their day-to-day, Tom. He introduced me to the Piscean surfer girl].
On the Summer Solstice 2020, I began to create “Momentum Metanoia,” with the specific intent to make it my first official artwork- before this, I consider all of the drawings practice except for “Formless Frame,” which will come into this story later.
Around the 4th of July, the Zen Community offered me a practice stay at Tassajara Mountain Center for my birthday. Tassajara, for those who do not know, claims to be a monastery and is situated on hot springs; it is only accessible by dirt road- about an hour drive from where you park with an all-wheel-drive shuttle. It basically functions as a resort for the wealthy and affluent who wish to circumvent their moral impoverishment by positive affirmations and encouragement from people who are certified in such undertakings.
It is also famous for a vegetarian recipe book; consequently, it has a high reputation for its cuisine and its kitchen. Paired with the fact that it sources most of its vegetables from its permaculture monastery, Green Gulch, and grows a modest yet respectable amount right there among the hills in the valley, Tassajara represents many societal ideals while at the same time magnifies societal shortcomings. I worked in their kitchens, because I love to cook and I am genuinely interested in understanding more about nutrition.
Although I was initially invited to stay a week, I was asked if I would like to stay for an extended and open-ended period. I became friends with some of the monks and resident practitioners there, but the offer was not taken seriously on my end. In my eyes, I would never argue against the fact that there are many genuine and heart-centered people who make it their own sense of community. The issue I found was with the leadership and what seemed to be a subversive, misaligned agenda that was (in my opinion) diminishing the potential effect of such a place. There seemed to be an agenda to cater to the wealthy and affluent by offering premiums, such as bottles of wine with meals or particularly privileged accommodations. This is an entirely separate monologue regarding the diminishing effects of money, and why it would appear that some institutions should function according to “socialist” metrics and why others should not. Otherwise all structures in society devolve to the least-common denominator of morality in order to survive:
“nothing personal, just business.”
Before all of this happened at Tassajara, my (casual) girlfriend had invited me to explore Santo Daime together. I wasn’t familiar with them or what they represent, but I am always curious to explore traditions that branch from indigenous customs; not for the sake of fully subscribing to them, but to participate fully and then to reflect upon the experience and the connections. They offer their own brew of ayahuasca, create their own ceremony, and hold their own rules for the experience.
From the sounds of it, they were limited with what space they had available and chose to hold the ceremony inside of some warehouse type of structure within an industrial park outside of Santa Cruz. I didn’t know this beforehand, but I did make some delicious food with my (casual) girlfriend to bring for the potluck afterwards.
Men were on one side and women were on the other; there was a couple who stayed in the center and played music together, but it was not in very good rhythm or harmony. This, paired with the ever-present background hum that accompanies an industrial warehouse due to all of the systems required to regulate the environment, amplified by the regular vomiting sounds and splashes of a severely obese man who sat behind me, I buckled in for the “Cosmic Comedy,” accepting the fact that I was there to be witness.
Long story short, I met Steve- a man who was in his late 70s and still worked for the University of Berkeley, contributing to something associated with CERN. He also facilitated silent psilocybin retreats on a secluded beach in the Bay Area, primarily for people who were interested in trying it for the first time. Steve was involved with the Zendo Project of Burning Man, an extension of MAPS (Multidisciplinary Association for Psychedelic Studies). Every other week or so he would hold gatherings at Mission Delores Park in San Francisco for people who were getting ready to go to Burning Man.
I should note that less than 1 week after this whole Santa Daime experience, my (casual) girlfriend had a meltdown with me and told me to get out of her life. I think it was involved with her experience there versus my experience, and how I came out of it with the “Cosmic Comedy” mindset, as well as a few social connections. Long story short on that one too- when I eventually returned to Santa Cruz and began to become involved with Food Not Bombs again, she called Tom and Tom told me that she said hi and that I should totally call her again real soon.
Why did I tell you all of this? Well, let me tell you- following the whole Tassajara experience, becoming disillusioned within their container and what they were (seemingly) standing upon, I chose to transition up to San Francisco to meet Steve at the Mission Delores Park and see what he was all about.
Fortunately, my car made it right there; unfortunately (and I am not making this up for the aim of increased drama)- my driver’s side rear tire popped. Then the alternator went, and I could no longer start her up. Seeing as I had traded my first motorcycle which I bought while living in a mansion-sized children’s playhouse (complete with a composting toilet, sink, and a loft which had an overhang porch overlooking the Willamette River near Eugene, OR)- which was owned by a retired homosexual doctor from San Francisco who I had met at a men’s group I was invited to join while up there- I was satisfied that it was able to get me that far, all things considered. For clarity, this was a 90s-style Ford Sedan, not the Honda hatchback I mentioned before.
At that point in the story, I had less than $150 to my name, a car that was not in my name broken down right next to one of the most popular parks in San Francisco. I know what you’re thinking-
“how can a guy get so lucky?”
I was able to get a job pretty easily at a vegan tea house nearby (Beloved Cafe), and genuinely enjoyed that experience- until I didn’t. There was some undercurrent drama existing in the space prior to me getting there; the owners were absent most of the time and there was a Mexican-American man who was in his late 30s running the show. He judged me based off of my appearance and assumed that I love drugs and talking about drugs; that I love electronic music and talking about EDM festivals. Naturally, he was a DJ and knew a thing or two about ecstasy and ketamine based on how he would talk to me.
He also had a few friends that would come in almost every day that I worked there; seemed to be some “quid pro quo” action going on between everyone. It was cool though, he was the manager and basically the owner, and he could chop things very fast with his knife. But he didn’t know anything about nutrition, or about tea, or seemingly about connection with the patrons who were spending time there.
Anyway! There are many stories in, out, and around this short period of time I was there. You can look it up to get a sense of where I was living- on Dolores st., just south of the Mexico Liberty Bell which hangs at 19th St. and Dolores St. Every week (I forget the day) there would be scheduled street sweeping; anyone who knows about it knows that they take it very seriously- the streets are entirely bare of parked cars, and the street sweepers are led by a car who works for the city’s parking enforcement.
When life affords you the opportunity to play the clown, it is your duty to step into the role.
I had found myself a broom and, for the roughly 5 weeks that I lived there, I would sweep the street with my broom around my car as the parking enforcement officer came up to me. I would simply explain to them my situation with a smile, and beg for mercy.
Naturally, the homeless community became curious and would start to interact with me. One day, a very tall and lanky young black man- maybe 6’ 8” or something with a very young face and a gentle demeanor- initiated conversation. We talked for a little while as the conversation turned towards his traumas and his desire for clarity.
Generally speaking, I am not an idiot. I recognized the situation and what was building- one way or the other, “I’m fucked if I do, and I’m fucked if I don’t.” For many people, I have the appearance of the common Anglicized Jesus Christ, with long hair and facial hair as well as a kind yet firm demeanor. I also love to listen to people and interact with them, to look them in their eyes and to feel them for who they are beyond the conditional components imposed through a programmed notion of “civility” or “cordiality.”
This was the first time I was willing to engage actively; most times I would hold brief eye contact, nod my head up or down depending on the energy and the day, and move on with my life. He had a small group of others with him, and there’s always an interesting phenomenon that occurs in situations such as these: they were standing a reasonable distance away from him and me, and were talking among themselves in playful + bullshitting ways; at the same time, it was obvious that they were there to observe, listen, and assess what was going on and what I am all about.
Like I was saying, he was telling me about his trauma and his confusion; for anyone else to listen to him that subscribes to the convention of modern society, they would assess that he was an autistic man if they were considerate, and would assess that he was a delusional drug addict that did this to himself if they were so-called “realistic.”
In truth, there exists a language and state of mind within the human experience that is utterly denied and rejected if we consider “reality” through the lens of the Western Narrative. This language and state of mind cannot exist within a hyper-competitive and power-fixated (control of the unknown, really) structure. In my opinion, this is why homelessness + addiction + depression + etc. have become pandemics upon pandemics.
This language and state of mind exists entirely within the feeling, otherwise referred to as “empathy.” Not the thought of it or the study of it, but the practice of it and the embodiment of it. But I’m just writing about it, and for all that you know I am generating a grandiose fiction for the sake of self-righteous masturbation. Wouldn’t be the first time somebody has done this, and won’t be the last time- right?
Well, take my word for it. I listened to this young man, and realized that words were not what he was needing- instead, he needed a gesture. I typically have different types of tinctures with me for different reasons. Goldenseal is one such tincture, but I use it sparingly and on specific occasions. It is very potent; very bitter, very alkaline, and the taste lingers in ways which are unique compared to most others.
As he was spinning in his own memories, looking at his past while simultaneously looking at me, I interrupted him to say, “I have something for you- give me one moment.” I went into my car, grabbed the tincture of goldenseal, and first asked him,
“Do you trust me?”
Sometimes it is more powerful to share all the information and the knowledge, the data points and the function. Other times, it is more powerful to remove this from the theater equation- just as with all of the moving pieces that are behind the scenes. What is most important, always- knowing the intention, knowing the purpose, and knowing the timing. Regardless of any other effects which may or may not come as consequence, I know that goldenseal would benefit him on a purely physiochemical basis.
And so, with that said, I took out the dropper filled with the tincture- it is almost fluorescent yellow in color, staining the glass itself- and waited for his response. He went down on his knees, closed his eyes, and opened his mouth; I emptied the dropper, he opened his eyes with tears beginning to swell.
There was some sense of joy within that whole dynamic; whether it be all of that attention with all of that silence as if time was concentrated in that tincture itself, or it be the sense of being heard and seen, or it be etc. and etc. He got up to his feet again and gave me a nice hug; we connected eyes one last time, and I put the tincture back in my car to move on with my life.
There was another tea house (The Center SF) that I would go to; it was exactly what you would expect in San Francisco in light of the New Age Movement. I liked it because it was a beautiful lounge space, and there would always be interesting conversation- whether that be interactive with me or simply surrounding me. I would go there to write or to work on “Momentum Metanoia.”
That night when I returned to my car, there were a few tents set up in close proximity. I didn’t draw any connections to the tincture experience; when it comes to living “on the streets,” things just come and go. For example, one night I was sitting in the park minding my own business, writing some reflections and soaking in that moment. A black man came up to me, seemingly very cultured and accomplished- he made that known to me. How he was a professor in finance at some university somewhere in the city, how he was also very fun and very playful. Naturally, as you would expect with a psychopath that teaches finance, he asked me if I would accept $400 if he simply pulled out his penis and masturbated next to me. Hey, nothing personal just business- right? Don’t they teach that or something?
Anyway, I looked him in the eyes and told him I’m not gay and that is literally an insane question, to which he told me that I am to blame because San Francisco is a gay city and I am a handsome man alone in a park- and that is enough to assume I am a sexwork professional. Anyway, blah blah blah, I told him to get away from me, he told me it’s a public park and he can sit there if he wants; I picked up my chair and my notebook and walked around the block to then return to my car after knowing for sure he wasn’t watching me or anything.
As you might be able to piece together, this story goes on and on surrounding the events in San Francisco.
Of helping Steve with his psilocybin silent retreats at a secluded beach
Of the continual build-up of an encampment surrounding my car (to the point that there were tents against the passenger side, which inhibited me from using those doors)
Of tents on the palm-tree-lined lane divider which adorn Dolores St., ultimately leading to a fateful morning when federal agents and park rangers surrounded everything. Like a fishnet, I was within it; unlike a fish, I had a bicycle and my rights as an American. When I returned after the day of work, nothing remained there except for my faithful car
Of the buildup of tension at the cafe with the Mexican-American guy, who leveraged the Mexican workforce against me + those who were more in the genuine standing of what the Beloved Cafe (in concept) represented regarding nutrition, connection, and the experience (versus hyper-efficiency and productivity). The owners began to show up after I and my closest ally (a very sweet and beautiful black girl who was a twin- not with with me but her actual sister; I forget her name but she was like a lil’ sis to me) sent them an email concerning the potential civil war building up
Long story short, they closed the cafe for a week to clean up and clean out; they then closed for an additional few days to reshape everything. The Mexican-American guy was fired after it was revealed he was giving food away for free in return for favors and etc. The rest of the Mexican workforce quit in solidarity, believing that the cafe wouldn’t be able to stand without them. None of them were vegans anyway! (I am no longer a Vegan, by the way).
This was the week before Burning Man was to begin, and I did not have a ticket but was supported by Steve to do things my own way.
I felt like that was where I was meant to be, although I wasn’t necessarily “passionate” about the idea. Regardless, I took a risk and it looked like this:
I talked with the Beloved Cafe owners and let them know that I was glad it all was shaping up, and that they had new leadership in development, but I could not continue to work there.
I went to The Center SF and let them know my situation; I asked if I could store my things with them for a brief period of time. I found an old city trashcan that was left in the street after the dump trucks did their thing; I cleaned it out with isopropyl alcohol, soap and water, and then used some pleasant-smelling natural deodorizer to spray in there. Let me tell ya, you could live in there!
I packed what I believed I needed for Burning Man in a backpack, and loaded the rest of my belongings into the trashcan. I wheeled that thing over to The Center SF, put it in their back lot where they keep the rest of their trashcans (but put a note on it, taped it up, and left it obviously distinct from the rest of them). It was covered in graffiti, and the rest of The Center SF’s trashcans were polished and nice, so it was clear.
I then put a note on my car which read, “the owner of this car has passed on.”
On the last night in San Francisco before leaving with Steve, I stayed with my friend Marek who worked for LinkedIn and lived about 2 blocks away from Delores Mission Park. I met him at a 10 day Vipassana Retreat in Northern California back in early April of that same year. While I was in San Francisco, he would invite me into LinkedIn and show me how things were done. We would have a big lunch in their endlessly-catered cafeteria, and we would talk about a lot of different things. He was extremely different than me, but we shared some essence of camaraderie and respect for each other.
Steve and I drove all the way out to Gerlach, NV, the town before you get into “Black Rock City,” aka Burning Man. People always talk about people being “blessed” with a ticket, and that’s what I thought would be the path for me. When we arrived to Gerlach, however, I realized that wasn’t the way I was going to go about it.
Anyway, long-story short: I left all of my things with Steve except a quart of water, and told him I’ll see him in there. He told me where he would be set up, and good luck. I then walked the 14 miles (?) across the open desert into Burning Man just as the Sun had set on the valley. I did have to take a siesta, and I did drink some of my own piss, but I already practiced urotherapy for years up to that point.
My primary intentions while being at Burning Man were:
To Speak with Alex Grey and to gift him this artwork, “Formless Frame.”
[For background context: in the autumn and winter of 2017 I would join my friend Nick and go up to Alex’s Chapel of Sacred Mirrors (CoSM) in New York. I was inspired very strongly by these experiences at that time in my life, ultimately beginning my own self-discovery process with creating art]
I had also “self-published” a small collection of poetry + reflections, “Formless Frame Malleable Mind.” I had met Paul Stamets a few times up to that point in my life; nothing substantial in which he would have remembered me. I wanted to thank him for his influence in my life, to then give him a copy the book.
I wanted to observe the inner-workings of Burning Man, to explore and experience what was being presented: what was connection to me and what energy was directed towards me. Why is it considered to be such culturally-relevant experience? Why was it so expensive, and simultaneously dependent upon people to invest their time and energy into making it something?
When I approached Paul after his lecture and presentation, he was open and receptive; he told me he was going to read the book that night, and he reminded me that he was going to be debuting the movie, “Fantastic Fungi” with the director, Louie Schwartzberg, the next night. When I went and watched the movie, there was a Q&A following; concluding this, they stayed to have some conversation. Paul ended up leaving early; Louie and I walked around a bit together with some other guy that I didn’t know, but I assume he was Louie’s guard.
When I approached Alex and his wife, Allyson, they were just about to go and do a whole thing for the debut of TOOL’s next album, which involved his artwork. So I went with them over there, and stayed in my place while they elevated into theirs- on some ridiculous machination, customary Burning Man.
Try as I might to acquire an appreciation for TOOL, I cannot; I stayed for three songs to then surrender this concept and move on. I then made “Formless Frame” an offering in “The Temple of Direction,” which was one of the structures prepared to be burned on the final day. I took the time to write my own intentions regarding this action, acknowledging the Universe and my place within it, offering a sacrifice which took my time, attention, and devotion in order to make real.
This is the first time that I am sharing this with anyone; I was intending to keep this as an intimate event within my life. However, like I mentioned previously with that whole tincture phenomenon, “knowing the intention, knowing the purpose, and knowing the timing.” I believe it is time to share this.