It's a state of mind, really. I call it 'The Fold.' Every day I hope to find it. Most days I do not. Sometimes music works. Sometimes reading helps. But sometimes nothing. And those are horrible moments. Today I'm piping in music. A direct feed to my brain. Today it's Poe.

. . . see a perfect forest through so many splintered trees . . .

What is The Fold? you ask. Let's see. How to explain. Imagine a blanket enveloping you. Imagine complete focus. Imagine seeing beyond sight. Imagine hearing beyond sound. Imagine, for just a second, forgetting that the world exists at all, but still being part or particle of that world. Imagine forgetting about your body, but still being able to use it. Imagine concepts like 'cold,' 'hot,' 'happy,' 'sad,' as being just that: concepts. And not distractions. That is The Fold.

. . . come here, no I won't say please, one look at the ghost before I make it leave . . .

Can I tell you a secret? There are crazy people in my building. And I don't mean crazy like, "Aw that shit is crazy, fool." I don't mean crazy as in "crazy-cool." I mean ear-lying-on-the-floor-in-a-bloody-pulp, shotgun-hiding-in-the-watchtower, soiled-panties-on-the-head kind of crazy. Having those kind of folks disrupting my evenings and mornings with their insane blabber and drool makes me feel less like a 'condo association president' and more like a kindergarten teacher, or perhaps a psycho-ward guard. I'm telling you, Ken Kesey's got nothing on me, man.

. . . I'm haunted . . .

Yes, The Fold is alluding me. But it's more than the people in my building. Did I mention I'm an obsessive hypochondriac? Oh, yes. If it can happen to a body, it's happened to mine several times in my mind. Watching episodes of ER or Gray's Anatomy makes me break out in cold sweats. Forget about it. And the past week has been a hypochondriac's worst nightmare, an oncological bad trip. First, a good friend was diagnosed with colon cancer. Then, Peter Jennings died of lung cancer, and then Dana Reeve (Christopher Reeve's wife) was diagnosed with lung cancer, despite the fact that she didn't smoke. Of course, with the high-profile cases, the media has really latched on to the whole subject of lung cancer. Ironic since journalists keep a good portion of the tobacco industry in business.

. . . lost, and the shadows keep on changing . . .

And yes, I smoke. I mean, I have smoked. Off and on. Since college. But, currently - I mean this week - I am refraining. But it's not just that. Every day there is some new study talking about how so-and-so can increase your chances of such-and-such or decrease your chances of this-and-that. Do you think I've thought about anything else aside from my own mortality for the past week? Not a chance. In fact, there have been bouts of these sorts of thought patterns since 25. Since my hair started graying. Oh, and what is this tightness in my chest? This heavy beating in my heart? This mole looks funny! I've never felt that before. It's no way to live, I tell you: this anxiety creeping over me like a chill.

. . . dear world, I'm pleased to meet you . . .

I used to find The Fold when I swam. My arms and legs would keep propelling me through the water. The pain, the tightness in my muscles, the coldness of the water, all sensations external and internal - they'd all just drop away. No kidding. And all that would be left would be the current lap. Then the next. Then the next. It's so peaceful that sort of immediacy, that sort of 'here and now.' The rhythm of each stroke. The sound of each splash. Approach the wall. Turn. Do it again. Physical endurance and strength is only part of swimming. The rest is mental. The rest is finding The Fold.

. . . now I have taken control . . .

So I'm looking for it. I'm searching for cool oblivion. I'm longing for a state that brings me outside myself, but closer to my dreams. Drugs? you ask. Eh. Too easy. And when they're over you're hit hard by a consuming reality, which is depressing and makes you want to go back. And that just makes the whole thing cyclical and . . . boring, like the very thoughts you're trying to escape. Alcohol? you wonder. Same thing. And it leaves you listless. Meditation perhaps? Too west-coast touchy-feely, too neo-hippie. I might as well stop bathing and grow my beard out again. God! you exclaim. Hmmm . . . perhaps, but God tends to distance himself from the gritty, earthy thoughts I'm trying to get at. You've got to convince him it's for a good cause, and there's no reasoning with The Divine Power.

No this is going to take something else. This is going to take a wicked sort of curiosity, a relentless interrogation. This is going to take regression, a swim in the river Lethe, a forgetting of things I've known, a seeing of old things in new ways. This is going to take a trip back to the womb.

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