Listen: I was surfing high on an astronomical wave of mania the other day. That helplessly happy bubbling that comes writhing up from my bowels and spills out in a wide, disgracefully stupid grin. And laughing out loud, of course, as is custom.

And so I encounter an acquaintance and go on blathering about my state of affairs, pinned into reckless conversationalism by this throbbing, glittering wellbeing that's pushing itself out boisterously from every pore. She's standing there smiling and nodding, cornered and perhaps a hair confused, paralyzed by my clownish, sparkling energy and nodding fervently in a series of resigned go on's.

That's when this guy appears out of nowhere on my flank, waiting his turn to talk to this cornered woman. He is a total stranger to me; and so I extend my hand, saying my name. To which he cringes, a little, drawing away from me in something I'll later recognize as a sort of shocked disgust -- because we are strangers, you see, and he's certainly not here to talk to me. But I'm bearing down relentless and he's out of options. So he takes my hand and mutters his name unhappily. I'm suddenly embarrassed, poignantly aware of how gratingly forward I'm being. Perhaps we'll never see each other again. I'm certain it wouldn't disappoint him measurably.

And here's the strangeness: The next day I come onshore again, tying up my small, green plastic kayak and climbing up onto the dry wooden dock. There's Tony with a little 5 horsepower two-stroke disassembled on the pier, and next to him some fat, smiling stranger sitting cross-legged with short cropped black hair. Tony's busy dicking with the motor and he barely grunts his comprehension of my arrival. It's a strange noise, too, like a Heya that's quieted and twisted by a southern twang and aimed efficiently at my ears alone so it's barely heard abroad. And I'm walking on past, yards away, hurried sort of, and far from stopping to chat.

But the dumb companion, who I've damn well never seen in my life, is sitting there grinning ear to ear, cross-legged and heavy on the pier. His smile is simple and bright, a drunkard's or a retard's, and I realize with a weird pang of shame that his hand is extended towards me and he's stating his name. Although I've already walked him by, and have no reason at all to become familiar with him. And I'm embarrassed all over again, almost sick to my stomach, reliving this awkward introduction mess from the other side of the equation.

And that's the karma express. Those extra-real juxtapositions that convince me something fishy's afoot. There's no real need for living other peoples' lives when I can simply be pressed into their shoes through totally out of place, uncanny turns of events. Colors turn bland, you know, physical forms lose their natural air of convincingness, and for a moment I wonder if I'm actually dreaming. But then I brush it off, playing that reliable mental game wherein I realize I know just how I got here and therein prove that this is no dream.

But then recently I've accomplished that philosopher's stone of dreams, Uniting the Bodies, wherein the chronology of my existences suffuse and my dream self gains access to all of my waking memories.

And well, to be honest, that kind of throws a wrench into the works of the how I got here method. So that that sinking, slippery feeling of doubt, that momentary conviction that this reality is somehow disingenuous, put on intentionally to deceive me -- that feeling isn't quite as easy to shrug away. It haunts me, kind of, and it's actually terrifying to the core in a sort of thrilling way.

But in the end, I guess that's what I'm going for. I guess this is progress.