Month: October 2016

Life has seasons, good seasons and bad seasons. There are seasons we’re better than others. We’re not always up. And we can’t expect each other to be. And we shouldn’t pretend that life is always rosy and we have it all together and we’re always strong.

We end up denying support when we need it most.

I fuck up. I make decisions I regret. I hurt relationships.

But best friends don’t keep track of seasons. They look at life and the big picture. They don’t keep tabs. They don’t keep a record or points.

Companionship is all I hope for. To me, that’s enough to be grateful for, that my friends consider me a friend. That they give their attention and time to me.

Everything else is a bonus– a consequence of grace. I can’t expect the world. I can’t expect perfection. We’re all just one relationship to each other. Each of us have many relationships. All I can do is do my best to appreciate the time/ attention you all choose to spend with me, and try to never take that for granted.

Give and give and give. And be thankful. Never keep track of what you’re not getting, cause that leaves you in a state of poverty, and you can’t give if you think you don’t have. Always operate from a place of abundance. There’s a lot of love here, and in each of our lives. We always need to appreciate that.

Living in this vast world that is by turns kind and cruel, and gazing at the immense heavens above, people have always asked a multitude of questions: How can we understand the world in which we find ourselves? How does the universe behave? What is the nature of reality? Where did all this come from? Did the universe need a creator? Most of us do not spend most of our time worrying about these questions, but almost all of us worry about them some of the time.

Traditionally these are questions for philosophy, but philosophy is dead. Philosophy has not kept up with modern developments in science, particularly physics. Scientists have become the bearers of the torch of discovery in our quest for knowledge.

[Stephen Hawking, The Grand Design]

I don’t necessarily disagree, I just believe its a matter of semantics

Scientists are, in fact, modern philosophers, just specialized in a particular field. As we discussed before, these fields possess a paradigm that is difficult to out think.

We need these specialists to exhaust the bounds of these paradigms, to extract as much information and data from them as possible through experimentation and testing.

However, we need philosophically minded scientists to evolve paradigms, and to question these unquestioned assumptions comprising them that seem so obvious to those who possess them. 

Philosophers, as Socrates described them, are like a gadfly.

They are annoying and disruptive. But they push the bounds of understanding. Therefore, they are essential. And scientists NEED to possess this philosophical attitude to progress human understanding, and not just the paradigm they’re most comfortable operating within.

“I notice that you use plain, simple language, short words and brief sentences. That is the way to write English―it is the modern way and the best way. Stick to it; don’t let fluff and flowers and verbosity creep in. When you catch an adjective, kill it. No, I don’t mean utterly, but kill most of them―then the rest will be valuable. They weaken when they are close together. They give strength when they are wide apart. An adjective habit, or a wordy, diffuse, flowery habit, once fastened upon a person, is as hard to get rid of as any other vice.”― Mark Twain

When you understand something, you can speak simply, and clearly, because you are comfortable that what you are communicating can be understood.

I notice some self professed smart people who use language that is beyond comprehension, as if they believe thinkers they admire can’t seem to do the same when speaking to the public.

When you pick up a philosophy book, or any book specializing on a comprehensive subject, you must keep in mind the audience.

An intelligent mind should also recognize his audience. Then cater to it. Always err on the side of caution and speak simply. Always. Remove excess words. Avoid long sentences, unless it communicates a sentiment with precision. If you can be clearer, and write fewer words, do it. Your reader must work to read, and you don’t want them working any harder than they have to, otherwise they won’t be reading much longer. However, if you manage to get their attention, and you manage to reel it in specifically, so that their focus hangs on your every word without effort at all, then you may forget about adding or removing. The point of it all is being clear. Simplicity is often the best way to clarify.

There is power in precision.

Precision is pointed. It exists at the tip, and is strong and sharp. Aim for precision. Aim for power. Let your words slice deep.

 

I’m writing one thousand words. Right now.

I sift through my memories. Stories well up inside me. I can’t put my finger on one. While I walk throughout the day there are voices in my head, voices that recreate memories, that tell stories, that speak in poetic verse, that force their way through me, and beg to be captured, but as I sit here, there is only the reflection of these things.

I need. Nay. I want to apply to a few jobs today, even if they’re out of my capability. I really hate the idea…

My thoughts cease.

I hate the idea of revising my resume. Not sure why. It’s paralyzing.

I think of what I want. What DO you want? I’m not sure. Something deep a small voice says within me. Well, what the flying fuck does that mean. How do you acquire deep. I honestly don’t know. Read more, reflect more, do more, reflect more, hurt more, reflect more, practice more, and more, and more.

Repetition is what makes the world static, what gives things power, gravity, like a depression in space that draws us in, repetition creates an impression, like a trail in the mind, like a groove etched by a running river through granite. Repetition is power, is persistence, is what forms the world, what carves out creation. Repetition.

Repetition is how all things are mastered.

Emotion gives it roots, and expands the tentacles to connect to other impressions. But repetition is what plants it deeper and deeper, is what allows these roots to take hold very deeply, and take hold of other ideas, other sensations impressed upon the mind, very distantly, which provides the abstractions produced by intuition, which is none other than the general synthesis of these associated impressions.

Repetition.

Repeat, repeat, repeat.

But not just any repetition.Excellent is not an act, but a habit. Always aim for perfection. Do not be lazy. You will perform as well as you practice. You cannot outperform bad practice. You are always on a stage.

So doing is never enough. You must emphasize proficiency all the time. Every moment, every thought, should be accurate, should hit the bulls eye. Continue reading “Compulsion”

Writing is like giving birth.

There is a seed of experience that wedges its way into the cracks of consciousness.

Preoccupations till this seeded soil, reflection germinates until it begins growing larger and larger

Taking form, kicking, pushing, squirming inside

Until the contractions begin

Nausea is apart of the process, and the constant urge to vomit these ideas and feelings stimulate the gag reflex

But it’s only until the cramping contractions begin does the full enormity take shape of what’s inside

The body relents, and the mind surrenders

You place your pen to the paper, or you document it digitally by tapping the tops of the crannied keys, and  words give rise to a life of ideas

For minutes or hours, until the mass of it is outside you, and the contractions cease

And what was birthed and born before you is either an ugly offspring, or a beautiful babe.

Either way it is yours.

It’s been hard, emotionally speaking. Uncomfortable.

Here I am, drinking a frothy concoction, named the Allusive Lucidity, made of gin and aria gin and slow gin, lemon, lavender, egg whites and peach bitters, while sitting at the middle bar at the Pinewood social. I wanted to pound the drink. I’m thirsty, and it’s light and refreshing, and alcoholic, just what I wanted. But expensive, so binge drinking, which is my other aim, has been thwarted, so long as I’m being conscientious of my budget.

I don’t have a job, ya know. And this whole unemployment thing isn’t so bad, I suppose. It’s a blessing in disguise, I keep repeating to myself, hoping the blessing will rear itself sooner than later, but I’m still waiting.

I finish the cocktail with another two gulps.

So much for being budget conscious.

I reflect on the time spent with my therapist. Is it simply indulging my ego? Or it is allowing true healing, by peeling back the layers of my suppressed passed, these repressed memories he validates, and emphasizes subtly, that need air, that need addressing, else they contaminate my present, like they have for years, the root of my anxiety and chronic depression that swings like a pendulum throughout my experience.

My therapist charges one hundred and seventy five dollars, twice a week, four times a month. Anyone can do the math: that is a lot of money. Specifically that is one thousand four hundred dollars a month. Seeing as how I will get paid, if I’m lucky, like I was told, I should at best be receiving three more paychecks of thirteen thousand, seven hundred and fifty dollars on November 15th, December 15th, and January 15th. I also must save approximately thirty thousand dollars for taxes, of which I have six thousand. Not in an excellent condition.

I have made two thousand, seven hundred and seventy seven dollars this month in AirBnb, at no minor expense to my emotional well being, seeing as how I’ve staying with Cindy, whom I care for deeply, and who makes herself all too available for me and my needs, yet simultaneously holds it against me when it is not reciprocated, as if I’m the one damning her. It does take a toll, I tell you.

A new drink arrives: gin and tonic, with some mint bitters, and a lime wedge. I take two large sips and the glass is already half empty.

I have been earning one hundred seventy five thousand dollars a year as an industrial sales engineer, selling solutions to some of the largest fortune five hundred manufacturing companies the world has ever seen. I have no engineering background. Simply a philosophy and economics and finance major from Vanderbilt. And I recall the days of being a drug addicted high school drop out. It’s all the more poignant as I peer out the massive windows in my vintage industrial loft, located in the heart of Nashville, overlooking the brimming waters of the Cumberland river. Classical statues and tasteful art and custom hardwood designer and antique furniture adorn the apartment where I live.

Writing used to be an every day occurrence for me. In 2012, that fall, I made the decision to write less, and do more.  Since then I’ve indulged in a variety of insane experiences, ranging from swinging with a milieu of couples, to escorting females young and old, to traveling the USA for fitness photoshoots, appearing in magazines, and magazine covers, competing to become an international professional fitness model, to discovering online black markets pushing LSD and an infinite other illegal contraband, to dating women all over the country… and now I am here. With my nine thousand dollar Breitling Navitimer on my wrist, and a solid gold Vanderbilt ring on my right ring finger, typing away on my fifteen inch Macbook pro, sitting at a trendy bar just south of the bustle of Broadway, Nashville’s most popular strip; and I’m alone, half drunk, with my forearms pressed against the cold copper bar top, my fingers dissociating with my mind, strung only to my heart, as my mind begins losing focus as the alcohol worms its way into my thoughts, softening the periphery of feeling, leaving the first hue of euphoria in a long, long time.

And maybe it just feels long. Maybe it’s been three days. But the abyss is black, and deep, and you lose sense of time and place while you’re here. You forget what you look like, in the dark, what it’s like to be human, but when you rise again, you can hardly remember that time and what it took from you, the toll it exacted, at all.

Six hundred and forty five, the word count reads.

I need ten thousand, damnit. I need to be able to breath this shit outta me, without hesitation, without the grip of anxiety pushing my voice back down down down. It’s suppose to flow.

A woman at the bar fingers the top of a champagne bottle, pulling and ripping the metal foil away, twisting the wire before gripping the cork and releasing a *POP*.

Her eyes scanned the room haphazardly as she did this, her long combed black hair rested just above the bottom of her breast. She was round up top, her rear was just as large, matching her bulbous breasts and swollen cheeks. She could pass as an Italian, I think. Momm Mia.

What the fuck to do with my life.

I listened to a voicemail left by my father last Friday. I played it in therapy on Monday, half as a way to insulate myself from an impulsive reaction, half to… well… I’m not sure. Because of fear, possibly entirely a fear of an impulsive reaction to empathize, or not empathize enough. I left therapy Monday with no clearer idea on how to handle the situation. How disappointing.

The family and I are scheduled to go on a three week southeast asian cruise, and my mother refuses to accept the falling out between my father and I.

Do I believe he wants to reconcile? yes. Am I sure exactly on why? I mean, I believe he doesn’t want to have bad blood with his son, but I wonder how much is generated due to my mother, or his own conscience. He’s not a bad man, per say. I wouldn’t say very many people are. Its a gradient of selfishness that makes men bad.

The bartender sits another drink in front of me. I take another several deep sips though the straw, and the glass is again half way empty.

Living with Cindy has been hard. Not having a job has been hard. Trying to figure out next steps has been hard. Breaking up with my ex, and confronting these alien feelings of… alienation, which really shouldn’t be that alien at all, has been hard. Breaking up with girls and feeling guilty about it has been hard. Feeling lost and aimless has been hard. Confronting my childhood has been hard. Trying to sort through this sordid past with my father and mother and my upbringing… has been hard.

And living with Cindy, has been hard. Do I care for her? Absolutely. Do I think highly of her? I do. Do I also recognize that her emotional disposition conflicts with my own? I believe so. Is she willing to work through this? I do. Am I? I don’t think so. Am I? yes, which has been hard. And why? Because, as much as I care for her, she’s just not the one I want to spend my life with.

I don’t want these women with perpetual father issues, and that’s all I seem to attract, or be attracted to.

I still think of my ex, and I can’t say it’s good feeling. Mostly just recollection, and not any regret. Just, bittersweet. Do I wish things were different? I’m not sure. She is who she is, and I’m not sure we woulda made it that far if she wasn’t as dysfunctional as she was. Who knows though.

Cindy. Living with her has made me vulnerable. I feel comfortable with her, yet I don’t want to “be” with her. I’d rather, not. I “wish” she’d be different, but then again, that’s no who she is, and so I don’t wish to be with her, and yet she says we need to work together, instead of independently. She recalls the past, as if when she met me she knew me, and things were better. And I insist that she didn’t know me, and the longer we know each other the better we know each other, not the opposite. The arguments are the best thing for the relationship, because it’s not compartmentalizing the pain and hurt and confusion. And so, living with Cindy has been hard. It’s forced me to confront things, to say things, to vocalize feelings that I’d much rather avoid, and I believe it’s done the same for her.

I’m hungry now. The time is 2:20pm.

I’ve been meaning to go to Asheville, NC all week, beginning on Monday, but excuse after excuse has prevented me from doing so. And the thought of the drive, a mere four and a half hours. Nothing too overwhelming, but its more of the thought of loneliness that scares me. More than any drive. At this point in my life, when all I want is freedom and independence, it becomes too much to bear, and what I want more is the comfort and affection that a loving relationship provides. Ironic.

All I have to Do is Dream by the Everly Brothers plays in the background, emanating from the speakers overhead.

Feeling has never been a problem for me. Its linear feeling. Its cogent, coherent, pointed feeling, towards something. That seems to be the problem, which I, and most everyone working with me, would attribute to ADHD.

One thousand five hundred words.

Hooray.

So being a writer, and producing something that is linear, like a story, like a narrative with an actual plot, and not some psychotic expungement of word and feel vomit, seems a monumental task, like building a home on quicksand, an analogy that transports me to my you

My computer died and I relocated to a community table where there is a power outlet.

Allow me to resume…

an analogy that transports me to my youth, during a summer camp across my from my home where a pastor of a christian science church and his family lived, and they told a story on their lawn about building your life on a strong foundation. And they read us a bible story from Matthew 7:24-27.

Anyway. I’m several drinks in now, maybe three. Feels like four. But it’s probably three.

I’m going to start a new post.

“Larissa” she said despondently, trying to get her attention, but her eyes stared ahead, out the paned window where trees and flowers gently swayed in the sunshine. She was flush, and still shaken. The bags under her eyes were darker than usual.

“Larissa!” she said again.

Larissa turned to her friend and stared blankly into her eyes.

“You need to go to them. You can’t go on like this. They will help you”, she said nodding. “You need to trust that they’ll protect you.”

Larissa turned her head away slowly, and continued staring out the window.

She waited for a response and finally dropped her face into her hands and released a deep sigh of emotion.

“Okay.” she said finally. Her voice was meek and relenting. Her friend looked up triumphantly, with hope.

Larissa walked into the the police station and approached the counter. There was a buzz of activity all around.

“I need to file a report.” she said to the woman at the front desk. She spoke without emotion.

“What kind of report?”

“A domestic violence report.”

A few heads turned to see who this woman was, and a tall gentlemen with a pressed white shirt and a round belly and kind eyes came to the counter.

“So what’s the problem ma’am.”

Larissa looked at her feet. “My boyfriend… he’s so disrespectful… he’s… abusive. He does things to me… things I don’t want. He’s a monster.”

“I’m so sorry to hear that miss. You tell me what he did so we can get this restraining order in place and this monster won’t go anywhere near you without hearing from us!”

“He…. he… he touches me.”

More police men and women gathered around with curious concern.

“Go on miss. We’re here for you.”

She continued, “He takes his hands, his fingers… and he puts them places… places I don’t want him to go.”

Their eyes squinted and their brows furrowed as she spoke, trying to recreate the story in their own mind while giving the full look of attention.

“Miss, I know this must be so hard for you, but you really need to be more descriptive and tell us more.”

“I know officer. I’m sorry… it’s just hard.” she said apologetically. You could sense the emotion building in her voice.

“You see… we’ll be laying there… in bed… and he’ll get this crazy look in his eyes… and I know I’m not safe. He knows exactly what he’s doing. He knows I’m helpless. He enjoys it. He even smiles.”

Their eyes widened.

“My god miss. He sounds like a monster.”

“He is. He knows he’s a monster. He even calls himself a monster.”

“Unconscionable”, the officers mumble to themselves. “Go on miss.”

“You see… he gets that crazy look, and he’ll just stare with his beady eyes until he knows that I know what he’s gonna do next… and then he smiles… he smiles wide with his big teeth and those crazy eyes…. and then… and then…” her voice trailed and she broke into a trance.”

“Go on miss…”

Moments past that felt like minutes. A thick tension hung in the air.

Silence broke: “And then he grabs my wrist with one hand… and…and he takes his fingers with the other…. and then he yells loudly….”

The officers reel back with anticipation and disgust.

“He yells…”HERE COMES THE TICKLE MONSTER!!!!”

The crowd maintained their look of disgust, as if frozen, still processing with a veil of confusion.

“and he starts tickling me all over… and I get so mad I start crying with laughter but I feel so violated. And he doesn’t stop until I pee myself and he just keeps on tickling and he won’t stop no matter how much I fight, no matter how much I cry.”

The officers stare forward in disbelief, then roll their eyes and walk away.

THE END.

I never cared for the pretty lights,
how they sparkle and shine
I want a roar that burns burns burns
and licks the sky and warms.

I think I am the same with everyone, for the most part. I’m very adaptable, which I attribute to all the transitions growing up. I’m typically a unifier, and bring different people together on common ground. My parents said I was a chameleon growing up, and I kinda resented that description in a way, cause I felt like it had a negative connotation, but I really had to be. Didn’t matter who a person was, I never judged, and I found common ground, and we got along. Typically out of necessity.

I like to think I’m very self aware of the impression I leave on others, and so I cater to the sensitivities of others. I prefer harmony. I like when everyone gets along, and is comfortable, and there are no egos. I try to bring down walls, not put them up.  

And so, I really don’t pretend to be anyone I’m not. My goal is to live unapologetically. If there’s any shame, don’t do it. And if I’m misunderstood, so be it. As Emerson said “To be great is to be misunderstood.” And while I may not be great, that’s my aim, to be principled and convicted, and comfortable with myself, without the need to apologize for my convictions, which I believe to be tried and tested and true. 

Something that always stuck with me, and as a result I’ve made myself even more aware of the importance of adaptability, is a quote from a Professor Megginson who commented on Darwin’s ideas, which read “It is not the most intellectual of the species that survives; it is not the strongest that survives; but the species that survives is the one that is able to adapt to and to adjust best to the changing environment in which it finds itself.”

And so you could say that yes, I value the ability to adapt. 

Relationships are very important to me. I’m very selective with my friends…. I look for particular qualities, and I never settle (I’ve done that… life’s too short). I surround myself with people who inspire me in one capacity or another. I like to think that the three qualities I’m attracted to most in others is passion, curiosity, and a work ethic. I love my friends, and I love my family. I mentioned my father and I don’t have a good relationship, or much of a relationship at all. That’s a story for another time. But it’s not because I don’t want one. I just want healthy relationships. Love and support and acceptance and encouragement and kindness and inspiration, etc. I’m very loyal to my relationships. Despite moving fifteen times, and accumulating friends all over the country, I manage to remain very close with the close/ best friends I picked up along the way, making an effort to visit them all as often as possible. Relationships are like garden flowers. You need to give them attention if you want them to grow, and stick around.

Relationships are what give life meaning. I believe this. This is one reason I place such an importance on them, and why I cherish family, and why I desire to have a family of my own one day. 

My mother tells a story of me when I was a child. 

For the sake of time, I’ll just paste the story rather than rewrite it. This was written on November 22, 2010:

1989.

Tall like trees. Bodies danced at the margins of my world, filling the jungle with movement and life.

My mother strolled ahead. I was two at the time. We were in Saint Luis Obisbo California. My father was in the middle of a six month naval cruise somewhere in the middle of the Indian Ocean. Operation Desert Storm was underway.  Patty, my mothers best childhood friend, was visiting our new family from the east coast. They wandered through the public promenade and admired the Californian city scape while they caught up on life’s new details. My sister Jaclyn was strapped tightly to a toddler rook, hanging like a swollen sack from my mothers back. Her little arms protruded out to the sides and her tiny fingers grasped at the passing air. My mother latched onto my hand like a leash and led the way through the thicket of legs and knees that shuffled along the sidewalk. I stared at my shoes. My laces lashed back and forth as I toddled to keep pace. Gum smeared the cement. I looked up: the world was tall.

Suddenly there was a pause. I watched their lips move in parley as their eyes surveyed the storefronts for a potential lunch spot. I jerked my hand away: I wanted freedom. I stared at my flopping laces and continued walking without thought to where I was going.

“Michael!” My mother called me; her voice was piqued with concern. “Get back here Michael. You need to stand near me. There are strangers here.”

I looked up and found her eyes peering at me. Bodies bustled about. Conversations echoed near and far. On nearby benches sat individuals, some propped and alert, others slumped and sluggish, all with a distant look in their eyes; their minds absorbed in contemplation.

“There are no strangers here. There are only people.” I looked at her curiously, blinking. A smile warmed her face.

This is just one illustration of how I never seemed to see differences in people, even from a young age. My mother says I never knew a stranger, and I have no fear. I’d walk up to anyone and strike up a conversation, even as a toddler, up until present day. 

The thing is, my mother is very much like this. From my earliest memories, I would watch her just start talking to anyone, like she knew them. I never knew how much I appreciated the influence I had on me until I was older and reflected back. She’d just start talking to someone, as if they were resuming a conversation, and the person would just seem to talk right back. In the grocery store line. In the store. On the street. She’d ask them a question, say about a product she was looking at, or directions, or even a question about something that she just assumed maybe they could help her out with, or compliment them, like their hair or shoes or clothing or makeup, or share something she thought was funny. The amazing part was how people responded. She’s an attractive woman, and she’s very disarming. She smiles, and she possess a genuine interest and curiosity in people. She has a way of making you feel very special. 

My mother owns a high end boutique salon, and she does hair, and every single one of her clients tell me how special she is to them. She tells me, “Michael, people don’t come to me to do their hair. They come to me to feel better about themselves. My job is to make people feel better about themselves. When you look better, you feel better. But it is much more than that.”

I have to give her credit, she’s an excellent cosmetologist, and has really good taste, and an eye for detail, but her ability to give people her full attention is what makes people really feel good, and come and see her way more often than necessary, and pay her way more than she charges.

There was a story that I read once about British Prime Minister Benjamin Disraeli that illustrated what an impression you can make on someone if you’re interested in others: A young lady was taken to dinner one evening by Gladstone and the following evening by Disraeli. Asked what impressions these two celebrated men had made upon her, she replied, “When I left the dining room after sitting next to Mr. Gladstone, I thought he was the cleverest man in England. But after sitting next to Mr. Disraeli, I thought I was the cleverest woman in England.”

I always thought my mother had a knack for doing just this. 

I like to believe that she rubbed off on me, in a small way. 

I write a lot. Not in the conventional sense, whatever that means. I mean, I don’t like sit down and write because I want to be a writer, because I want to say “hey, I write. Look at me and my thoughts and ideas and all that” and beg to be read or for the identify of being a writer. 

No, I write out of compulsion. When I was thirteen I began writing in a journal. I was very precocious as a young child, and always had a notebook of drawings wherever I went, and I was obsessed with the library, and I grew fascinated by great minds, specifically inventors and artists. One of which is da Vinci. Others were Nikola Tesla and Benjamin Franklin and Newton and others just fascinated me, and there was one feature that struck me most about them all… or any great thinker or mind: they all journaled. They all wrote their ideas out. 

And so, when I was around thirteen years of age, I picked up a journal and never really stopped.

I read a quote by EM Forster in my first creative writing class during my first year of college when I was 20, and it captured the heart of exactly why I write: “How do I know what I think until I see what I say?”

When I read this, I thought “Ah. THIS is why I write.” Because my internal thoughts and feelings were often a restless tangle of energy. Writing was a compulsion, a therapeutic release. I never followed the rules with writing. It was always my voice, typically a stream of consciousness. And I would write about my problems or current experiences, past memories, poetic verses that suddenly flowed through me, ideas I wanted to get clear on… or explore new topics of thought. It was literally a way to clarify my thoughts. 

When I was younger, my writing would often be jumbled, illogical, sporadic, grammatically incorrect. It wasn’t anything to be proud of, per say, but I didn’t care. It was like sketching with my thoughts. It just flowed. My journal was a place where I’d play with phrases. Words. Ideas. Feelings. Voices. Styles. Assumptions. etc. A place where I’d create, and upend convention, say what shouldn’t be said, just to try it on, be someone else, just to see how to feels. They say writers live life twice, and that writers are all actors. I tend to believe this, in a sense. 

And there’s always been a way that I’ve striven to write. Anton Chekhov, one of my favorite short story writers, said “Don’t tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass.” 

This struck me profoundly. Don’t tell it how it is. Show it how it is. 

Stories and narratives and anecdotes are essential to the human experience, and make us relatable to one another. We learn best when we do, when we relive. If you can communicate in a way that someone else can relate to, with as few as words as possible, so that reading or listening is as effortless as possible, I believe you will be an effective communicator, and touch a nerve. 

I have seven discreet tattoos, all very symbolic, all very thoughtful and meaningful, all a reminder of periods of my life and the insights I garnered. I’m not a fan of tattoos (ironic, I know). And none of my tattoos are for anyone but me. All reminders to myself.

 My first tattoo is a heart on my right wrist, which represents that I wear my heart on my sleeve. I’m a very open person, and I believe in the power of vulnerability, and I believe this is one of the qualities that allows others to see my humanity in an approachable way. Being authentic with myself has always been very important to me. It’s something I constantly strive for, to be a person of convictions, to walk the walk, to maintain integrity and possess a transparency of character. 

My second is a cross on my left wrist. It symbolizes faith, although a very different kind of faith nowadays. 

Third was a triquetra, which represents the trinity, and the eternal strength the interconnectedness of the mind and body and spirit provides when they are in balance. 

Fourth is located on my right inner bicep, which is the opening line taken from Ralph Waldo Emerson’s essey “Self-Reliance”: “ne te quaesiveris” or “do not seek your self outside your self” or “seek yourself within”. To me it means that all the answers and happiness I seek resides within me, not in the world. As the bible says in John 15:19 and John 17:14-16, we must be in the world, but not of the world. Happiness and joy and wisdom are revealed to us from within. You will never find it in anything outside ourselves.

Fifth was a rearing lion on my right ribcage, pierced by two arrows, representing struggle, with a banner across his eyes which reads “Be not afraid” which is an excerpt from Shakespeare’s play the Twelfth Night, in which Malvolio says “If this fall into thy hand, revolve. In my stars I am above thee, but be not afraid of greatness. Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and others have greatness thrust upon them. Thy Fates open their hands.” The Lion represents a lot of things, but for me it primarily represents Nietzsche’s blonde beast, or the lion mentioned The Three Metamorphoses illustrated in his book Thus Spoke Zarathustra. The lion is the second metamorphosis.  

Sixth is the viking rune Inguz, on my right inner forearm, which translates literally as “seed” or “the god”, or more specifically refers to the potential energy within things before growth occurs, which consequently represents the concept of “where there is a will, there is a way”, and translates to ideas like male fertility and creation and generation. 

The seventh and final is a line in latin, on my lower left hip, which says “OMNIA MVNDA MVNDIS” and translates to “everything is pure to the pure heart”, which was taken from Titus 1:15. The whole passage reads “Unto the pure all things are pure: but unto them that are defiled and unbelieving is nothing pure; but even their mind and conscience is defiled.” I chose this quote because it captures an idea I cherish very closely, namely: the quality of our thoughts determine the quality of our life, or as Solomon said in Proverbs 23:7 “For as he thinketh in his heart, so is he”. Despite my atheism, I do believe religious text can provide spiritual wisdom and insights. 

I see guys in the gym who fail to rack their weights. 

Ooooooh the irony, coming in, “working out” by avoiding work.

Sometimes I just take pleasure in knowing that by putting it away for him, I am stronger than him. Better and stronger and more disciplined and he’ll never compare cause my work ethic surpasses his every god damn day of his pathetic existence, and every opportunity people give me to work harder means I’m getting stronger and they’re getting weaker.

In the end, I always fucking dominate.

I relish in people’s laziness. It makes me feel superior.

Everyone wants the destination. No one wants the journey.

They don’t get it. They don’t fucking get it.

No pain, no gain.

I want muscles/nice physique. But I don’t wanna eat right, and I don’t wanna work out all the time. What supplements you take? Go fuck yourself.

I want a great job and make money, but I really don’t wanna work hard, or think much. What’s this get rich scheme? I want MLM cause I can do nothing am make money right?

Can you write my resume? Can you get me a job? I can’t find a job. I applied to five and now I’m discouraged.

Life is hard.

People’s biggest problem is that they think they shouldn’t have one.

Give me more problems. Solving problems make me stronger.

Pour on the resistance. Let me grind through that shit.

You may break my body, but you will never break my spirit.

A strong spirit always prevails.

Where there is a will there is a way.

I’m in a good mood I promise.

I’ve just been thinking about this theme a lot

And jeffs anecdote resonated

The more you give the more you get.

Life is cause and effect.

People just want the effect, but they don’t wanna work for it’s

Relationships, job, education, success, etc etc

The more you give the more you get.

You want more love in your life?

Love people more.

Etc

You want more muscles? spend more time eating right.

You wanna get stronger? Spend more time lifting hard/ heavy

You wanna get smarter? Spend more time reading and writing

You want healthier relationships? Spend more quality time with people

Everyone has the same 24 hours. Every god damn man who’s ever lived.

How we spend that time has nothing to do with fortune and intelligence.

It has everything to do with choice.

My dear, you’ve left a greater impression on me these past few exchanges than anyone has the past few years. I don’t know what that means, but if I were standing at the foot of a doorway cracked ever so slightly, and that doorway was your life, and my eyes managed to capture the beauty of what my imagination sees now, I would not hesitate to run through that door and never stop exploring.

When I was young there were a handful of things that really left an impression on me, things that deeply impressed me. 

One of which was a man with ideas. A man who spoke with such depth and insight, that every sentence seemed to posses a infinite worlds veiled behind his expression, worlds of ideas, worlds of experience, worlds of reflection

Knowing such things as the roots of words. The history of things big and small. Being familiar with distant cultures and far off places gathered from travels across the globe. Hearing someone speak like this, with such a well read mind, inspired me deeply. The poise and confidence it produced in these people was striking.

Another thing was a muscular and lean body.

A lean frame, with thick muscles and subtle veins, meat hanging off the bone of his frame, indicating power, indicating something to be respected, a history of athletic ability. 

A wide back. Thick forearms and biceps and triceps. Thick rippling calves. But no fat.

This impressed me.

I would stare at these people as a kid, stare at these god like men, wishing to aspire to be like them one day. 

I’ve delayed writing all day. Although its the only thing that’s been on my mind.

Other than the thought of existential annihilation.

What do I attribute this to?

Lack of sleep? An overactive mind? Hormones? The rupture in what relationship was left of my father? My inconsistent efforts to free myself of relationships and form a whole one with myself? My nagging regrets that I don’t quite regret, but just enough to rehash and burn myself with those feelings, as if I’m burning myself with the ember of a cigarette butt. What purpose other than self-abuse is there?

My chest cavity is bursting with confusion. Pain? Sometimes. Tightness? Definitely. Sadness? Waves. Its the subtle panic to escape it all the culls thoughts toward death, like this is preferable to the shame and humiliation that await me… but await me where? What is this… event?

My job? My efforts ebb and flow, some days bursting with inspiration and work ethic, others completely unfocused, performing the minimal to assuage whatever conscience remains.

My childhood buddy is encouraging me to get a federal job, and has been for years. You’re too smart for Nashville, he says. You need to get to DC. I tell him I appreciate his vote of confidence.

What am I doing with my life?

I feel lost, alone, spiraling in space.

Where the fuck to these feelings come from? Why the hell doesn’t everyone else have these from time to time? And if they do, how the hell do they get rid of them for good? How do they make it look so easy all the time?

She’s here…..the Turkish delight. More later.

 

What does an ocean of feeling sound like when it crashes against a wall of silence?

Despair envelops the beaming stars,

My beacon in the night;

The crescent looms in hues and haze,

Disappearing behind the waves.

Please deliver me to yours arms.

But the ocean is silent,

And I sink down,

And drown.

Dear R,

Sometimes I allow myself pause, and take stock of my senses, reflect on my memories, take a step back from my body, and a gradual alienation takes place, and I feel like I don’t belong to myself, that the steady relationships and hurried momentum is not mine, and may never have been mine.

In these moments I retreat to more familiar scenes of my past, and the people who populate it, as if these provide a refuge. 

It occurred to me that you are one of these people, despite the time, despite the distance, despite what we share in common, or don’t share, which is likely greater. 

Your presence in my thoughts, in my life, provides a thin, beaming thread I can hold onto when I experience this temporary free-fall of feeling, and all around alienation. 

I don’t know how or why we’ve managed to stay in touch the past decade. I don’t know how to make sense of the relationship, or connection, or gentle familiarity we share. 

I like to think that perhaps we provide each other with the same sense of refuge. A place we can go, and feel safe, but not stay.

Yours,

M

I’m not sure what to make of the weekend. I flew home to visit the family, something I’ve been making more of an effort to do.

I sleep on the couch in the living room when I come home nowadays, since my sister’s ex boyfriend is living in the spare room while he completes technical schooling. He’s a recovering drug addict, the kind addicted to opiates. My parents extended him some compassion when they saw the devotion my sister paid to him, and his inability to provide much of a future working as a day laborer with other rehab peers. Since he moved in in February my sister and him have broken up, and it’s come to light that he’s been using again. This has caused a host of problems. My parents have faith that god is working miracles in his life. I am not so optimistic or compassionate. Perhaps I should be. 

My father and I have never had the best relationship. The only way I can describe it is tense. There’s a hatred and a love the coexist so closely that it’s nearly impossible to tell one from the other.

The reason I would describe him as a narcissist is this single feature of our relationship: vulnerability will get you hurt.

You draw close, you feel safe, you believe you are protected and understood, and then he maligns your character, trashes your accomplishments, undermines any feeling of acceptance, and elevates himself to a place of superiority that reveals just how distant he is, and how dissimilar and “better” he thinks himself to be. You are beneath him. His self-righteousness insulates him from feeling the burden of any conflict that was done by his own hand. He is blameless, and so the only logical conclusion is that the fault lies in the world, be it in you, or some cosmic breakdown of communication existing outside of his control.

So, I was reading “Tuesday’s with Morrie” on the couch, and my father begins a political rant. He began with, “I hope you don’t get offended when I say this… But these liberal whack jobs etc…” He was essentially positioning himself on a pulpit to extol the genius of Trump’s ability to exploit the tax code for his benefit. The conversation devolved when I criticized pure capitalism as a totally self-interested enterprise which exploits humanity. I described it as in essence “evil”, and encouraged him to read “A People’s History of the United States” by Howard Zinn. He wanted nothing of it. The conversation turned towards my morals when he asked about my own taxes, which I explained I’d happily pay more taxes if I knew they would help society as a whole and be put to good use, and that I do get a check back in the mail, meaning I pay more taxes than necessary. Somehow, when I explained that we need a society based on love and support and community, he turned it around and asked “How’s that working out for you?” When I began defending myself from an economic position, that I have a successful business and friends and make plenty and what not, he reduced those accomplishments to nothing. As if doing a 180, extolling the economic virtues of Trump as the only relevant details of a politician, since he argued that Hillary and Bernie have never contributed, in economic terms, and I was arguing initially that not every contribution is economic and quantifiable. Then he turned to my lifestyle, as if to imply I had nothing to show for myself. He criticized me sleeping with 100’s of women. Acting as if I was a joke, and alone in the world, because I am single. I lost it. I could not believe he was attacking my character. I could not believe it. I just became enraged and began attacking him back, attacking his failings in life and business and as a father. He was unaffected, acting as if he was totally justified and I was being totally out of line. Acting like, oh wow you’re really acting loving and supporting and peaceful.

That being said. I was so floored by the situation, and there was definitely more I could write, that I vowed to never allow his presence in my life again. He is dead to me. I am done being hurt. I am done being attacked. Criticized. Judged. By this self righteous asshole.

Ugh.

I told my mother:

“I want to emphasize that I am not going to Asia. This is not something that is blowing over. This is a commitment by me to never allow his presence into my life ever again, no matter how inconvenient. I’m sorry, and I love you, but I am over him. I am over his self righteous, critical, judgmental, holier than thou, narcissistic, abusive, unapologetic behavior towards me. I am over it. Forever. He’s dead to me for as long as I live. He lost his son forever. This isn’t some passing feeling. This isn’t some temporary emotional episode. This is a lifetime of abuse. Of attacks. Of judgment. Of self righteous criticism. This is a decision I could never make as a child, and now that I’m an adult who wishes to be surrounded with love and acceptance and support and peace, I can make decisions that reinforce those things. He will never be apart of my life again. He will not be attending my wedding. He will not ever meet his grandchildren. He will never see my face again if I have anything to do with it. He will never have the opportunity to tear me down and attack my character and my life and my choices ever again. He’s dead to me. And there will never be a discussion for as long as I live about it any other way. I will not be attending his funeral. I will not be there in his sickness. He’s a stranger now. I don’t know him, I don’t want to know him, and I don’t want anything to do with him for the rest of my life.”

Harsh? I… really don’t care. His attitude is sickening. I cannot stand his “I didn’t do anything. Look at how composed I am. Look how he’s over reacting. It’s not a big deal.”

The whole time I was telling him I am over him, and he’s dead to me, he’s trying to convince me how unrealistic it is. He kept making “points”. “The point is…” and then follow up with how unreasonable I’m being. How impossible it’ll be to not include him in my life. And I just… laughed. I couldn’t believe my ears. He’s trying to reason with me. Marginalize his actions. Make it seem like something I just simply can’t do.

I had enough.

I got up and went to the other room where I changed my flight to Sunday evening, instead of Monday morning. My mother and sister Erin took me to the airport. We had drinks and a burger at Ocean’s 50 in Del Ray, and then they dropped me off.

My mother hugged me very firmly, for a long time. There was emotion in her voice, trembling in her arms, and she told me how much she loved me and how heart broken she is. And I told her I loved her in return. Emotions burned deep within me, but I choked them down, swallowing hard, and smiled and waved goodbye.