1978. San Diego. I'd just come out the other side of a relationship that blew up...I was angry, and disillusioned, and ultimately self-destructive. I'd lost everything I believed in ...I was as utterly, completely alone as I've ever been. So I began going on walks. I started taking late-night walks around the San Diego suburb I was living in at the time. I'd start walking early evening, and come back close to midnight, sometimes later. Walking and thinking and chewing over what had gone wrong with my life. One night, at Fourth and E Streets, I got mugged and beaten by a street gang—sent me to the hospital with serious intimations of mortality. When the ER techs asked what my religion was, I refused to answer. I made my private peace with the universe, content with whatever was going to happen, live or die. Then something happened. I got angry. I got angry because I still had stories to tell. So I fought back. It took two months to fully recover. But two things came out of that incident. First, I have no fear of death. None whatsoever. Second, as soon as I was well enough, I started walking again, sometimes until 3 or 4 in the morning through parts of town that made even street people nervous. When people asked what I was doing out there, the only answer I could give was, "I'm looking for something." So I kept walking through some of the most dangerous parts of San Diego, before it got cleaned up, when it was still home to hookers and drunks and gangs. Finally, one ...
