Take the train to a new town or an old haunt. Just carrying what you can in a small backpack. Some extra underwear, a pocket knife, a wine key, a book and a notebook, maybe a camera. Write on the train ride and fantasize about taking the city by storm, making it a playground or a movie set for your fantasies and dreams. Get off at Union Station. Walk with the wind at your back. If you have to piss, find a dumpster to piss behind. If you have to shit, find a Starbucks and really stink up the place, but don't drink the coffee. Find somewhere to drink coffee other than Starbucks and people watch relentlessly. Check them out, and don't be shy or clandestine about it. Make eyes at the beautiful ones. Knowing glances at the kindred spirits. Glares at the suits. Shout “Bourgeois values!” in your loudest voice of disdain at golfers, people who use valet parking (with a wink and a nod to the valet workers), hedge fund managers and anyone who is shitty to the poor. Make them clutch at their pearls and then whistle a carefree tune as you imagine a dance party on their grave as the proletariat seizes the means of production. Waste money (which is really not a waste at all) on lavish dinners, cocktails, and wine, food and drink being the only reason to have money at all. Every meal, every shot of whiskey, every glass of beer, bottle of wine, and stirred or shaken bartender creation a celebration of life, a great and holy yes, to life. Imagine the bread and wine, not as the body and blood of Christ, but the body and blood of the earth sanctified by the very act of eating and drinking with a sense of awe, wonder, happiness and exultation. Find a cafe and sit and think, read and write. Enjoy seeing the studious and the indolent, the watchers and the watched, the beautiful, the ugly, the contented and the mournful. Make friends with servers, bartenders, artists, and the professionally lazy—especially them; they have learned how to live. Walk to the park, feed the ducks and geese. Jump in puddles if it is raining. Throw snowballs at trees if there is snow. Run through the grass until you're exhausted and roll around in it in the sunshine of summer. Piles of leaves if autumn has come. Find someone on Tinder or at the lonely end of the bar to let you spend the night and fuck you until you're dizzy and sore. Wake up and repeat until the money runs out making time for free art, dives into the lake, bike rides through new neighborhoods, meetings with old friends over too strong Manhattans, and indie rock shows at dirty dives. If possible, start fires, destroy police property, buy beggars a meal and a drink, and leave the town a better place than how you found it. Depart from the town on the earliest possible train or ferry, avoid buses and airports if at all possible. If you're on your way home, take a stone from the beach or river of the town as a token of the will to return.
Upon returning home realize that even criminals have to take precautions and organize your life around enough guiding principles that you are able to survive but not so many that lose track of them, become burdened by guilt and failure, or lose too much sleep. There are other things worth losing sleep over. Find at least one person to talk to deeply and often of things that make a difference. Play chess. Listen to records on repeat until they become a part of you. Choose meals according to taste, texture, smell, and feeling of power they give to the body—the order of magnitude by which they stimulate the will to abundant life—and not based on diet advice, health trends, Instagram foodie selfies, doctor's orders, or peer pressure. Neither too much meat nor too little. Pork fat, olive oil, and butter should be the only cooking fats. The vegan diet is holy but only for the holy. A balanced diet of greens, nuts, sauteed vegetables, and the occasional low fat fish protein might be good a yoga body, but not all of us are cut out for that, nor should we be. Make meals for two even if you are one, and then share or save for when you're too drunk to cook or too high to care.
31. Make a home, but also at the same time don't stay in one place for long. Be a hybrid of the beaver who industriously builds their house among strong, turbulent currents and the snail who moves circumspectly and carries their house on their back. Mail letters of indignation with illegible return addresses and colorful postage stamps to princes, statesmen, and CEO's. Letters to political dissidents, prison lifers, and musicians whose songs make you cry should be heartfelt and comforting. If no songs make you cry, I am very sorry, but you must find a few or else you have never begun to live.