Stories from a man who fails to meet media expectations of what it means to be gay:
white, frivolous, over sexed yet sexless, shrill, single, stylish, a clown, unimportant, et al.

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The first few years of college were spent commuting to school, not too uncommon in Southern California, but it was obvious that it was getting to me when I started dreaming that instead of driving, that I ran my commute to school.

In these dreams it was not unusual for people to run on freeways along side cars. Regardless if by vehicle, or by foot, we all seemed to be traveling at the same speed, though I never did quite �get� if the cars were going slowly, or if the people were running very fast.

Like an earlier recurring serialized set of dreams I had when the stresses of high school started getting to me, I never quite reached my goal of getting to school in these commuting dreams. Instead, I would dream the same bits over and over again, slowly getting further along my journey as new sections of dream, of freeway would open up for me, but never quite enough to actually finish.

I remember the feel of running, of the repetition, of the feel of feet pounding on cement, of the twisting paths we runners had to take. Twisting paths, because at times we runners would be segregated from the cars, and we would all have to dash from our various lanes to take a people only exit that would turn to stairs that would twist around and under the freeways.

In these dreams, below grade freeways were rare, as they were nearly all raised up above street level, with the space below filled with warehouses, offices, parking lots, and tunnels packed with commuters running along on foot, following their preset routes waiting to reach that set of stairs that would take them back above to race along cars and trucks in the sun, and hopefully, finally, their destination.

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� 2000-2007