How to Handle an Egg:

How to Handle an Egg:
Also know as: How not to handle a Human.

Eggshells are fragile and delicate things, things I'm sure we've all dropped and stepped on before. Expressions like these exist because, sooner or later, everyone ends up with the insides all over our faces and frying them up under the intense heat of social confusions that follow. We've all been taught to handle eggs with great care, to check them in the carton, from under the chicken, and never, ever, drop one on the ground. They're fragile, precious, and should be handled with gloves. There are cases, none of which are few and far between, that this sort of training is actually useful -- and then there are the times where it's a downright hindrance to value of honest words and a taxing, dishonest, stain on otherwise useful endeavors. 

Humans are, in a lot of ways, like eggs. We're occasionally rotten and smelly, we've got tougher exteriors than interiors, we come in all kinds of shapes, spots, and colors, we all like to get laid -- nobody can deny that -- and we do break when dropped. One of the key differences though is that, unlike eggs, our fractures aren't permanent or wasteful -- given the proper motivation. Sure, we're easily broken by harsh words and the insincere actions of others, but our shells do regrow. They fortify in places they're weak, and stretch in places where, perhaps, they're too thick. However, it's only in testing these shells that anything about them can really be determined. It's for this reason that handling a human being like an egg is, in fact, quite detrimental to their growth process.

For example. When attempting to spare the feelings out of "kindness", and the word should be used quite loosely here, and offer a half truth, I caution you to think just how much good you're actually doing for that person. You're letting them continue on under a forged banner of insincere praise and carry on looking like a fool, and yet this is something we're taught is the 'right' way to behave? Another example would be "sparing" someone say, the pain of rejection, but disguising the truth of disinterest under a gentle banner of simple reasoning that provides no room for discussion? It's not like we're stupid people, it's not like we're not able to see through the lies and, eventually, when the truth hits the light, you've ended up sinking the Titanic all on your own but only putting half your ice above the water mark.

So why? Why disrespect those we claim to respect out of a twisted and whoreish sense of being kind and considerate? These actions and their ilk are not the hallmarks of kind people at all. This kind of back water thinking is just the type of behavior that is often entitled serpentine; honey coated notes coming forth from the Devil's violin, tempting the well meaning seeker into a hailstorm of confusion and loss. When you're pretty sure everyone around you is too afraid to tell you the truth, how can you ever really know where to turn? It's just these kind of questions that turn the nutrition of the yoke into a green, sulfurous, stench of rot and decay. All other options are exhausted and all validations are to be questioned; hang the bastards quickly and get out of town before anybody sees you -- because you just can't be sure how you're being seen.

So take everything you know about handling eggs and, quite literally, throw it out the window when you're dealing with people. It's why we're all so fucked and deluded on our own megalomania. We've been raised to believe that contradiction and reality checking people is rude and possibly damaging and, in all truth, it absolutely can be just that. At the same time? We have the ability to heal from such slanderous attacks, even more so if we have the good fortune of being pre-exposed to them. It's the people who aren't taught that this kind of thing is actually good for you to hear, that end up losing their free ride into heaven -- where ever the fuck that is these days.

Be honest, always, with everyone. Even if you come across as the most inconsiderate fuck in the room at least you can do it with your dignity and self respect in tact. If you don't like someone, say so, and tell them why. Don't make up cheap, watered down, excuses. Your words will taste too sweet and the experienced drinker will always be more offended at the lack of alcohol burn when they swallow. If you don't think someone looks good in something and they ask you? Consider yourself obligated to tell the truth, no matter how excited they may seem about it. You're being asked because your opinion is respected and trusted. Anyone who abuses this position deserves only the harshest of "interrogations", to borrow a term from American Media, until they're convinced their ways are both ill and bankrupt.

Also? Never think you got away with sparing the shell. Eggs are a lot smarter than you think.

The Taste of Shoe Leather

The Taste of Shoe Leather:

And all other forms of shit you step in

Last night, I managed to make a, well meaning, ass of myself. In an attempt to sort through a cycle of rumors that had been running rampant in certain circles I know and just generally get to the bottom of things, I managed to go about being generally very offensive and sticking my nose in a place it had no, real, business. It wasn't comical, or even at all intentionally, and it's one of the few times I've ever offered up a genuine apology for something I've said. Being a man of many words I rarely make mistakes in how I use them, but this strategy was absolutely dreadful, horrible in fact. It had all the grand wisdom of a German invasion of Russia and fighting a multi-fronted war mixed in with the creationist dogma of back berg Sunday school teachings, and just the right dash of ignorant zealousness that you'd come to expect from a family of inbred picketing soldiers funerals like they were some form of a parade.

It got me thinking though, after the fact, of just how often this kind of things happens. We're only humans after all, nobody's perfect, and we often blunder through situations with all the care and grace of an Elephant stoned on a mixture of sedatives and several troughs of cocktails. I can't think of a single person who's said something, be it true or otherwise, who could say they've never been in this situation. Miscommunications do happen, no matter how hard we try an avoid them, but what do we do about them? Do we simply apologize and hope that the catch phrase is taken as sincere, even if maybe we don't mean it that way? Do we try and explain, or reiterate out points with less offensive clarity? 

To the first point, I say this: Apologize, only if you feel what you said was inaccurate, misplaced, or taken out of context. Apologies are like expressions of love, they're not designed to be thrown around like devalued American currency. They're precious and should be treated as such; rare jewels of retraction to be given out only when the payment is deserving of it. If you said something that you is an honest opinion, why apologize? It's not like you really mean it anyway, you're just sorry that your standards have, in some measure, offended someone. They're your opinions though aren't they, so why should you be sorry for having them? They're part of what defines you and should be stated, ready to be defended, whenever you feel the need -- just be ready for people to disagree with you, and to extend them that same soapbox when you're finished with it. If you can't do that, you should probably keep your mouth shut.

The same principle applies to truths as well. A truth is something that, for better or worse, should never be censored or withheld. We all have actions in our pasts -- it's a safe guess I'm no saint -- that we would rather not have be drudged up into the public light. When it happens though, what can we do but stand up and take account of the things we've done? That's the whole point of this entire post. I did something, to which I am to be held accountable. Do I regret what I said? No. I've no time for regrets. Would I have handled the situation differently, knowing the fallout? Probably, yes, but only because the incident was a genuine accident of oversight and poor observation. Does that mean I'm not sorry? Absolutely not. I'm horribly, genuinely, apologetic for what happened, and I should be. I communicated, again quite poorly, something that shouldn't have been a big deal if I'd handled it properly.

Everyone is capable of making a mistake, overlooking a fact, or just plain dropping egg on the carpet. We all know what it's like to have that slop on your face and the awful taste of old leather and shit digging into the back of your throat. Owning up to it is all that can be done, really. Saying: "Yes, I did this" is the only humane route left at that point. If you meant what you said? Take some semblance of pride in it -- again, be ready to defend your position and try not to do it with a shovel -- and stand tall behind your statements. If you didn't mean what you said, however, don't be so caught up in pride that you can't lower your own head and attempt to make the best of the shit pile you dug for yourself.

To the second point? Trying to re-explain the situation is noble, but don't think of that as excusing yourself from the obligation of accountability. Even if you do -- and it's not small feat -- manage to backtrack your words to a point that your intended perspective is more clearly seen, the initial statement still demands that attention be paid to it. It's all well and good to try and clear the fog around your words but that doesn't change the fact that you still said them. This process, it should also be pointed out, should fall under the same principles and pretexts of apologies. Don't try and weasel your way into a hole just because something you said, and meant, was inflammatory. 

Not everything you say will be agreed to by everyone you say it to, that's simple probability, and it shouldn't be either. If everyone all thought and felt the same, by in large, this would would be pretty well fucked. Diversity of thought is what promotes the higher learning, and it's the taste of feet and soot that reminds us "Well fuck...we're not always right." I don't think these things are ever bad, and too often is the trend seeming to be that we fall into a pattern of flight and hollow, flat, apologies for things that, at the end of the day, we want to know about -- and should. It's the conviction of passion that drives humans to greater heights of knowledge, even if we have to pursue it to beat someone else over the head with it later (to which they might not even notice).

So if you feel the need to jam your foot in your mouth? Do it. Don't even be ashamed of it, but think about it before you suck down all the nasty grime you drag your feet through. Do you really feel bad about what you said, thought, or expressed? If you do, ask yourself why you do. Sit down and think about what your motivations, debate your own perceptions, and come to an understanding on your own first. If you're still finding yourself in the wrong then, by all means, chew on your canvas sneaker -- but only after you've first accepted what you did to all those involved. Ownership is what gives words value and sincere expression is the only way to keep the inflation within any kind of acceptable parameters.

Words are precious, precious, things. They're the paint which you use to color your whole world, they're just how you show it off to those around you. Words are the currency of interaction, the key chemical component in all manners of love and relationships, the way we weave our soul into brightly colored tapestries of sound and song -- words are full of promise so, when you use them? Make sure you're not pissing all over yourself, your soul, and everything else in your world.

Spotlights

The Things Spotlights Show Us:

An how it's not always something we like

We're all actors on a stage these days whether we like it or not. From the every day actions we do without thinking; things like brushing our teeth, going to work, the coffees most of us drink and the morning rituals we all follow. Everyone has their schedule and it's what helps us all follow through the steps we need to get the energy to get through the day. The problem with being such a methodical actor is that we there's the matter of the spotlight to consider. It's that bright, vibrant, light that is often difficult to avoid; shining down on all the things about ourselves we'd rather hide -- and it always seems most present at the absolute worst of times.

The problem with seeing the worst of what you are is that you're forced to, then, become aware of it. It's a very common place event, but it can go all manner of ways. Some of handle the process remarkably well, braving the horror show of all our abilities with a sense of balanced understanding. There are those of us though who lose all sense of coordination in these moment, who get blinded by the bright light and then promptly bitter by the fangs of the beast we just couldn't see. Then, still, there's those who are content to remain staring into the light, using the stage for all it can be used for, but never really understanding just who they're acting for -- or why.

We're being who have the potential for limitless kindness to other while, at the same time, perpetrating unscrupulous evils onto our own hearts and minds. It's this latter kind of thinking to which we need to be mindful. It's the vicious and terrible thoughts that lurk in the passive and idle mind that stand the potential to do the most harm; the worth we hold to others, second guessing the good we do for the world, the matters of right and wrong, and the impossible pressure to stand up -- in the light -- and do the things that we want to do with a clear and level headed conscience.

The problem comes in over complicating these matters and letting them get bogged down in an endless sea of caution tape and procrastination due to a lack of validating facts. When standing in the spotlight, you will always be the most sound judge of all the unspeakable things you're capable of doing, but does that mean you should hold yourself accountable to them forever? In a sense. Knowing the wrongs we've done is the only real way to transition them into a right, but to hold onto them, to let them become an infectious wound to the soul, is when they're no longer a benefit. 

We're quite capable of countless impossibilities, and this isn't a bad thing. Yes, some of who and what we are comes with the capability for selfishness and greed, but is that bad? We all have things that we want from the world; hopes, dreams, aspirations, but is everyone who has them so willing to run out and trample mindlessly through the fields to have them? No. There's a level of restraint that, at least most of us, apply to it with a very real sense of moral obligation. This same sort of mentality can be applied to all the things we think in those dark moments, as well as the light.

It all becomes about keeping your balance when the light gets blinding and remembering your position on the stage. Your acting doesn't require your sight, just the dedication to the cause of honesty and general perseverance. The light may shine brightly, sometimes too much so, but what's the harm in exposing yourself to the world? If you're not welcomed for all the ways that you are, what's the need to be welcomed at all? Is this to advocate a sense of uncompromising arrogance? Absolutely not. Again, it all becomes about the balance. Understanding the full potential of your capabilities and accepting the positive quirks as well as the nasty demons is absolutely vital to ever going anywhere.

If you don't know what the car can handle, you'll always run the risk of getting stuck somewhere on your way up one of the hills, so why gamble on it? Understand what you can do, decide what you want to do, and make some real, honest, attempt, to do it. Try to go about it rightly, fairly, to those around you; but try for yourself too. Be honest with what you want and how you feel, understand it won't be for everyone -- but nothing ever is or will be either. Do your best to do right by your fellows and pursue the things you want with everything you have to give; be mindful of the toes you might step on, and the dreams of others who might come along with you. You might not always want the same things, but you all have the same rights to chase them wild into the night.

The only sound piece of advice when the light gets blinding is as follows can be summed up in a much wiser man than I. "No reason to get excited, the thief, he kindly spoke. There are many here among us who feel that life is but a joke." So, no matter how anxious and nervous you may find yourself when staring into the bright lights on the stage just breathe and relax. Everything will find a way to work itself into something if you just give yourself the time to see it through -- and leaping wildly into the clawed arms of a large, rabid, jungle cat just makes no sense at all. Let your eyes adjust first to what's in front of you, see it, in the light, for what it is, and decide then how to act.

Happy Birthday, by the way -- thanks for all the moments.

Why are we still here

Why are we still here?:

 And other, post-rapture, questions

So, this weekend was, supposedly, the rapture. It came, it went and, aside from Randy Savage (rest his soul), we're all still here. This has left thousands crying in outrage and confusion, evidently the world not ending is a bad thing, but the questions remains; Why? Why are we here? It's a question everyone seems to be asking with, ever increasing, frequency. What is the point of all this time we're spending, of the things we're doing? It goes on, but what disturbs me is that people seem content to just ask questions. Nobody ever seems content with the answers that, by most common accounts, are right there in front of them just waiting to be acknowledged. Why are we here?  

It seems to be the trend, at least among my generation, to not see being alive as a suitable enough reason to be elated. There needs to be something, some sense of accomplishment and finality, in order for it to all make sense; life is a game that is not to be played, but won. It is not a series of exciting moves or moment, but snapshots of obstacles that, in order to achieve, we must overcome. It's this pattern that seems to set in motion the endless cycle of disappointments because the obstacles never end. As time wears on, there seem to be more and more who just want to turn down the difficulty, get to the end of the game, and see those fated words scroll up as they close their eyes. Game. Over.

That seems to be drastically missing the point and yet still, over twenty four hours later, I can still hear the heartbroken cries that the world keeps on spinning. I can understand, and agree, there are those who got the message wrong. It was never asked that we live for the words of God, or Jesus, but rather that we live by their teachings. This kind of confusion and second guessing ones own life can be traumatic, I can understand those howls. It's the angry, furious, screeching that I can't make sense. The hand of God may not have come down from the sky this weekend, but the finger of judgement is being pointed and starting wildfire everywhere and, punctuating the savage cries in the night, is the sound of sins being thrown like stones through the walls of glass houses everywhere.

So, why are we here? Most people would say "To live. To learn. To love." What's missing from these answers that seems to make no one happy with them as they are? The whole damn world, or at least a big portion of it, seemed to go absolutely mad with this coming doomsday, an I couldn't make hide nor hair of the whole damn mess. The only rational conclusion seemed to be that I'd have to find some way to weather this madness. At first, the whole thing seemed like it would be complicated, but soon? It all lined up. I'd shut the doors, keep the lights just right, bring in the best of company and find the most interesting things in the world to indulge in. It was there I'd find those answers, to pull them in beyond any measure of indulgence, and -- with just enough luck -- lead by example.


It all seems to have worked too. I'm still standing, and I've answered the important question with the action of answers. Why are we here? To experience, never to know, but to keep going in the face of all those lacking answers. It's not about the destination, or the even the truth, but about making the absolute most of the moments. The Rapture could have come and gone, honestly, and I don't think there would have been much different -- save maybe less coughing. It has never, ever, been about finding the light at the end of that tunnel, and really, never should be either; it's just about knowing it's there, giving you that notion that it -- that final moment -- is out there somewhere...waiting.


It is too, for everyone. There will, unavoidably, come that moment when the sands run out for all of us; when the tanks run dry and the music gets so quiet you just can't here it anymore. It's then, and only then, that the pale horse and its dark rider will catch up to you on the tail end of the proud highway. The more important question, armed with this kind of knowledge, the important question to ask yourself: "Why am I wasting time asking questions?" The time in the world we all have is limited and to waste it with seemingly pointless questioning? That just doesn't make a whole lot of sense. All this, pre and post, Rapture questioning just seems like time wasting.


So to all this questioning? I feel the need to quote General Anthony McAuliffe: "NUTS!" It's just that kind of white flag surrender that is going to fuck us all over in the end. The point of life? It's to live, not ask why. Find some model that works for you, even if it is Jesus, but don't be afraid to change lanes if it all doesn't seem to be working out for you. Getting angry because the path you were on doesn't pan out like you thought it should, especially when it's about the End of the World, it doesn't make any sense. You're still here, you get to keep going, to do better. If you were waiting in line for a ship that set sail without you? Why the hell are you standing on the shore, cursing and swearing like some rabid barbarian, at the ship that's already well out of reach?

Where we're going is something that should, by its right of existence, have the ability to change. Trains, planes, automobiles, and all other types of forward motion, have the ability to switch where they're going. Why should we be any different? Why should we be locked into some fucking twisted flight plan; are we all some autonomous collection of parts, rolling through the muck on some kind of freaked out autopilot? When the gears get clogged with that kind of thing, system error -- possibly shutdown -- is practically unavoidable. It's all about being adaptable to what's in front of you, being able to follow those strange winds and the sound of music they carry on them. It's, really, the only kind of cause I can see following with the fervent conviction I see applied all around me.

To those afflicted with those, awful, post rapture blues? I strongly suggest getting up off your feet and dusting yourself off. Your truth, which will be different from nearly every other truth, will be out there for you. To really "survive the Rapture" you've got to decide what it is that you can hold onto to pull you through the storm. Whatever you find you had better make sure is solid too, and don't be afraid to leap blindly to find it. Whatever is out there, you've got to be ready for it. It could be faith, or it could be a stretch of twenty four hours filled with all the affection and good movies you can handle. It could be a good drink, an even better smoke, a long conversation, or even the placid calm of serene silence in the company of one of your best friends.

Your savior from "The Rapture" is whatever you want to make of it. It's all about keeping going. Heaven is supposed to be full of all the things we need to be happy and content for the rest of our days, right? Well, fuck contentment. Everything anyone really needs to be blissfully, stupidly, happy is already right here in front of all of us. Why then do we need to die to find it? Why do we need to be reduced to simple souls and carted off to some bleach white, cloudy, landscape where some old father sits on High giving us everything we want? Why can't we simply have it all now? It's right there in front of us, all the time, and waiting for something you feel might be better to come along? Well, if you're angry about that, or even confused, you really have no one to blame but yourself.

So, fuck your rapture. Don't sit about waiting -- and to hell with actual hoping -- for it to happen. The world's not so bad, and the last thing we need is some new doomsday waiting to leap out of us from the shadows. There are plenty of, fire eyed, demons out there in the world; each one with their own unique brand of temptation, each with their own snarling set of fangs and hideous, brimstone, stench. They disguise themselves in ever kind of twisted bummer and letdown -- but they never linger long. Stop hanging on to the idea that life will end; everyone knows it will. The real trick is to hang onto that dream, ride it through this blistering, terrible, nightmare moments, and race on toward that tiny little light at the end of your own, personal, tunnel.

It's out there, that's a promise. It's that moment, at the very end of the road, where we finally come face to face with the terrors of all we are and ever have been. Maybe it's a matter of personal preference -- and should thus be promptly ignored -- but which is worse? Would you rather run into the end of your road and see yourself as some green eyed hustler; someone who cheated themselves out of living with a lifetime of worries and stress that the ride would, eventually be over? Would you rather, instead, be someone who comes to the end of the road to find a character of excess, so worked up and freaked out on an indulgence of life that it stands fifty feet tall, like some kind of trumped out comic book character?

I'd much rather find the end of the road with a full mirror; something I can use to look back down the path I've taken and find some real piece of workable art. What I create, with the fires of my own thoughts and the music of my own feet, I want to be something I can reflect on with a winning smile. Just remember, what you see when you turn around at the end of the road, is the only real measure of "success" in life. So go, live, set the world on fire and swim through the ocean. Drive fast cars, drink good whiskey, keep your loved ones close, never pass up a moment to tell those closest to you you appreciate them, and cling tightly to the great beauty you can only find in lovingly cooked food and a heart to share it with.

With that kind of motivation you're pretty much unstoppable; even Death's best horse would have hard time catching you, so what's to lose?

That thing everyone is doing..

That Thing Everyone is Doing

But nobody ever wants to talk about

That's right, this is going to be an article about Sex. It's that thing we all do and yet it's still something a lot of consider some shameful taboo. It's something most of us have done by time we hid the crossroads of adolescence, and nearly all of us by time we're adults. Yet it's become an ever present trend, at least in America, that we must demonize sex and turn into this vicious, dirty, primitive and unscrupulous act. It's something people only do one way, in the dark, with the lights off, and covered by six blankets. It's done only in the sanctity of heterosexual marriage. Anything else? Well, for the love of all things holy, righteous, and wholesome, you can never ever talk about it. It's the kind of thing that will ruin appetites and get you branded some kind of degenerate before you even realize what you might have said that's so dirty and wrong.

This is a real problem and not just because it somehow mystifies sex to the general public either. Sex has, since well before most of us were born, been a blasphemous topic. Churches outlawed styles and positions, and even the very real discussion of sex was something that could carry harsh punishments in the wrong crowds. Time, it seems, hasn't changed much of this mentality and it's still something only suited for hushed whispers. If it were only a matter of avoiding some people's awkward thoughts on the matter, or embarrassment due to language and terms? That wouldn't be so bad, but that's just not the case. We're teaching about abstinence, like somehow not talking about the forest will somehow save you from anything in it with sharp and nasty teeth. That is the problem.

It's because sex has been shoved into this, generally speaking, shameful light that nobody wants to talk about it; and this fact alone is why we have such a growing epidemic of undiagnosed sexual ramifications. It's because nobody has oral sex; never mind gives a blowjob or eats someone out, because nobody has anal sex, or sticks anything in someone's ass -- at least not in pleasant conversation -- that the problems are as bad as they are these days. Embarrassing as is to say "I caught STD X from having unprotected sex" when is the last time you ever heard anyone say "My partner gave me herpes by going down on me"? You never hear it, at least not in "polite" company, because nobody wants to talk about the fact that these things do happen. The question is though, why? Why is it such a shameful thing to put your mouth on someone else's body, no matter where it is?

Guess what? Sucking dick? Going down on someone? Sticking it in someone's ass? Some people like these things and, more importantly, there is absolutely nothing wrong with that. There's also nothing wrong with being gay, a transvestite, a transsexual, being into S&M, or even wearing a fur suit and making barnyard sounds. Are these kinks for everyone? Absolutely not, but there's no reason to make them some kind of awkward taboo -- least of all in conversation. Not everyone is going to like these things, but that's no reason to make them criminal in the bright light. It's just that kind of thinking that gives any credence to the notion that these things are, in any way, dangerous. Frankly, with proper education, there's absolutely nothing dangerous about these things.

It's 2011, we've had the sexual revolutions of the past, homosexuals are coming out in the light with an ever growing frequency, we've brought AIDS and all the other S.T.Ds into at least some kind of public understanding, so isn't it high time we drop the scare tactics about all the other things we all know are going on anyway? Why should we have to take oral sex lessons in dark rooms, hunched over a laptop screen? Why not teach kids about these things in schools? It's not like they're not going to do them anyway, and education is the only we can ever really hope to make them safer. Could any adult, really, in this day and age, say they've never gone down on anyone and be telling the truth, or how about just done it "doggy style"? So why make it so awkward for everyone?

Sex is something everyone has eventually, and in a variety of ways in positions. It's not always going to be safe, but it shouldn't always be terrifying or uncomfortable either. Sex, nudity, sexuality, and all the things that come with it are things we should be being taught, much sooner than we are, to be comfortable with. The sooner we take these things out of the shrouded fog of taboo, the sooner we stop turning them into monstrous acts, and things worthy of damnation, the sooner we can actually worry less about the sexual boogeymen that go bump in the night. So talk, talk about sex, talk about fucking, talk about blowjobs and handjobs, talk about anal sex, and talk about preventative measure you can take to keep these things safe and fun -- because come on, if you try and tell anyone that sex is not fun? Everyone's going to know you're full of shit.

Finally? If anyone you know; kids, friends, family members, complete strangers who just need someone to tell, come out of the closet to you? Don't fucking shun them like some ignorant Neanderthal. There's nothing wrong with being into the same sex, period. If they you're kids and you're not gay? So what? You have the internet, and it's your goddamned job to educate your kids. Google it. Look up how gay couples have sex, encourage your kids to grow and explore who they are -- but to do it safely. If we keep trying to squash sex into this tiny box of shame, everyone loses. We all know better, after all, and if we aren't given the proper lessons on how the game is played? Well, pun not intended but withstanding, fuck it -- we're going to play anyway.

Weaponized Words

The Responsibility of Owning a Weapon:

And other dangers of having a voice

As children, we're all taught the same, relative, things; strangers are scary, there's no such thing as the boogeyman, Santa won't bring you presents if you're naughty, and words are harmless They teach us to be weary of sticks, stones, guns, and fire, but words? We're taught that words, language, is insignificant to emotion, that nothing we hear can ever hurt us, that we're immune from the harsh barbs that can swing in like razors. It's just that kind of dishonest training that gets people thinking they can say whatever they want with no repercussions and the reason why certain, precious, phrases; things such as 'I love you' and 'I'm sorry' have lost most of their emotional value -- at least to most people. They've become things we simply say because the obligation to say them is there. Over an over again is the fact that language is meaningless reinforced and it's high time such a lie is addressed.

Language is a weapon, an it should be considered such. It's not some rubber thing that stings at worst, it's a destructive force the likes of which are completely unparalleled. Shoot or stab someone? They'll heal and, though they may never forget, they will move on. Wound someone with your words? There's a very real chance they may never recover. It's this fact that, it seems, a lot of people are forgetting. It's what's pushing teens across the country to kill themselves or their classmates, it's the plague that's turning our hearts into empty, shells, and our eyes into dry, lifeless, deserts. Language and words carry with them a limitless potential and, because of this, language has always been my favorite tool. 

Yes, it absolutely capable of being a weapon of mass destruction -- there's nothing more destructive than honesty -- but it's also capable of so much more.  Language should never, ever, intentionally be wielded with the intent to harm or maim anyone. If that happens as a result of what is said? Consider your words, consider what you said, and ask yourself if it's really what you believe, and was it worth the cost to say it? Is it worth the knowledge that you may have damaged, if not destroyed, something beautiful? Can you choose to apologize for it, if you feel that the wounding was unjust? If you can't, you should be very careful of how you use the weapons you were born with.

Is it worth it to call someone fat, for example, simply because they're overweight, or short because they're lacking in stature? These are obvious statements to some of us, but what purpose does the poison of malice serve? It's irresponsible serpents like that, who leap about biting babes, that have no business being allowed to keep their fangs. They have no concept of the venom they carry and passing laws to tape their mouths shut isn't something that I imagine would be considered immoral. Speech, like guns, require a certain measure of responsibility when using them. If you go discharging them without this teaching? You're just as likely to kill yourself without ever even realizing it -- and then you're just some toxic zombie, and the world will, eventually, put you down.

It should not go unspoken though that is an inherent danger in using kind words without consideration too. Words of affection, apologies, or even simple statements of praise an admiration? These things are no less dangerous and should be given just as much, if not more, consideration that those weaponized words we could use. Falsehoods, even if coated in honey, are the same noxious kind of poison that can cut the legs out from under anyone. They're the nagging, necrotic, infection that builds up like an invisible parasite, turning our insides to warm mush. It's only when it's too late when we realize that the sweet words we've been told have eaten us away and the solid land we thought we were standing on is a transparent cloud. 

Words are anything but harmless. They're the most harmful and helpful tools we have, they can turn a sky gray with storms, or chase them away and bring out the sun. The power of words is immeasurable. Think about every song, every speech, you've ever heard. In some way, shape, or form, they alter how you feel in those moments; be it violent disagreement, passionate agreement, or everything in between. Every word you speak can make or break entire universes and, what's more, it often will. We have laws in the world that govern the use of firearms and other such weapons.We have penalties for when they're discharged without consideration, but language? It's up to us to establish a method for measuring how we use our words, up to us to be mindful of the damage they can do.

None of us are invulnerable, none of us are immune, and stick and stones may break bones, but words, and only words, have the ability to break spirits. Be responsible with your words, and be aware that the can be wielded against you just as quickly. Shore yourself up for the times when they're slung harshly, but be ready to welcome them when they soothe a savage wound.

Untitled.

[About: Blank]

I think that's as close to a title as this needs now. It's not some speech about the world, or some aggressive pursuit of happy moments and all the best fruits in life. I've written about that over and over again. It seems to be my default topic even, not that I think that's bad. People are scared, they're afraid of what's out in the world, of all the things that can burn them, bite them, scar them, or, even worse, break their hearts. I've climbed some very tall mountains to speak some very loud words on these matters. I've spoken harsh critiques of fear, of how moments in life are all to brief to sit back and drool on yourself well they pass you by, but there's always been more to the story than that. It's never been just about encouraging those of you out there who read and care to listen to what I have to say -- that's small time. The words I scrawl out here, shout out loudly in public, and stomp out under my feet? They're hope, and not just for you, but for me too.

I've lived in that blank, faceless, existence, for a very long time. I've been bludgeoned stupid by the fear of action and fucked -- rather unpleasantly -- by many of the rabid and unscrupulous beasts that roam around the jungles. I've loved and lost, laughed, cried, screamed, shouted, pounded my fists on the walls in rage, howled at indecencies I felt powerless to change, and taken great pride in the little things I've been able to do for the world that seemed, even for just a few minutes, to make it all better -- maybe not for everyone, but at least for someone besides myself. I know, too well, how easy it is to find yourself chased into the darkest corners of your own mind and how closing your heart down to the world can seem like the finest idea you've ever been sold. I know why people can, and would, make those decisions;  but there's never even the rare case where I'd advocate it.

I'm not in the business of lying to anyone. It's a waste of my time, their time, and life in general -- but it hasn't always been that way for me either. I have lived, at various points in my life, a meticulously crafted lie. There have been points where it was stretched thin enough to be transparent, and there were lessons to be learned about just how one paints a picture of a life they want others to see. It was the mystique of illusion that drew people in and, as long as I could keep it up, seemed to fascinate them. Why am I making this, seemingly imprudent, disclosure? I'm making it because it's important. I used to lie, an I used to do it very, very, well. I had to, simply because I couldn't accept what I was being told about the world and what I should expect from it.

It took me a very long time to realize that experience was the best teacher, but you had to really, really, look at the lessons it was teaching you too. Bad things happened, and they happened often. I would lie about them when they did, and make them seem like nothing. It was the expectation I had been taught, through various means and methods. I would never be as good as anyone else, an I should be satisfied with whatever scraps of life I was handed -- and, for a time, I was too. I lied about the bad things, but, what's worse, I lied about the good things too. I had come to believe I was undeserving of good fortunes in life, and I would lie about them whenever I saw them. I would sit back, let them pass me by -- sometimes violently destroying them -- and then claim they'd never come my way at all.

Neither I, nor any part of me, was ready to handle what life actually was, because I hadn't been given the proper tools to appreciate it. I didn't know how to smile, I didn't know how to laugh, an I couldn't let go of that fear of the world. I knew there were things about it that were no good, but I was worse than all of it. Every time I would dare to brave the world beyond the confines of the cage I'd built, I'd retreat. The sun was too bright, the heat was too intense, and the loud noise made my ears want to bleed and my eyes want to explode. So, I stepped back into that dark corner, sat down on the floor, and stayed there. I wandered through life like this for a good number of years, pumping myself full of anything and everything I could find to turn down the brightness of the world, to keep the noise at bay, and to shield myself from the sun.

I offered nothing because I was not in a position to give anything. I had not learned just what it was that I could be or that anything about who I was carried any real value to it at all. I was a broken, useless, insecure, sniveling, cast off of a wretch; unwanted by everyone -- including myself. I couldn't stand who I was, even the facade I had intentionally crafted around me had grown fetid, and everything I saw in the mirror made me ill. This patten went on for longer than I can remember. I burned out my eyes, shut down my brain, fried my nose, and stuck all manner of sharp things under my skin; trying desperately to carve away the filth and slime I saw.

One day, as I sat staring into the abyss I had built for myself, it occurred to me that I was tired. I had exhausted myself battling against myself and now I had nothing left at all. I was weak and starving, ill nourished on my own fruits, gasping for air and retching up the contents of myself all over the floor. I was empty, hollow, and staring down the black rabbit as it rode in on a pale horse. It was in that moment that I decided to pull myself, kicking and screaming, into the sun. Sure, it hurt like hell, but what did I have to lose anyway? I was blank, faceless, without hope, and could feel the thunder of Death's horse rolling in -- I was a child who'd lost nothing, but wasted everything. I'd been surrounded by fear and the walls had been closing in tighter all the time.

It burned like a million suns. The wind whipped across my skin in an unrelenting fury, my ears shrunk down against my head, trying to get into some kind of shelter. My heart felt like it was going to explode, my blood was on fire, and my brain? Well that thing turned to mush and leaked out my head. I remember screaming and crying about it all, about how bad it hurt, about how the pain was like nothing I'd ever imagined. I remember dragging myself along the floor of my prison, pulling myself further and further away from the comfort of everything I knew, leaving behind a trail of ashes in my wake. The next thing I knew I was unconscious and absolutely blind. 

When the color finally came back to my eyes? I was gasping for air. Somehow, I'd survived the ordeal and all the sounds of horse hooves were gone. My heart my was screaming, my ears were ringing, but the strangest thing? It was my skin. The feeling of sensations against my skin was all new and absolutely bizarre. Hot & cold sensations swam over me in a whole new way. I felt wet, sticky, almost sick with everything that was rushing into me. I remember, vividly, coughing and sputtering into my eyes shooting open and a whole new set of colors. No longer was I a blank template, but rather a vessel waiting to be filled with what life had to offer.

The point of this story? No matter how painful and frightening the difference feels like it is, living is always better than being blank faced and closed off in an ever shrinking box. Shutting yourself off from the world is a surefire recipe for stunting yourself and making yourself sick from a poisoning of your own design. It's always better to be yourself than to be blank, it's always better to breathe than to suffocate, it's always better to live than to continue on a path that is little more than a prolonged trip down a trail of chills and death. Trying to continue on with this lie, no matter how good you are at it, is a formula for misery.

Be full, not empty. Be whole, not broken. Keep your eyes open, not closed. Live instead of slowly dying.

The Actuality of the Animals in the Zoo

The Actuality of the Animals in the Zoo
And the present of the present

We all go through life at various speeds and volumes. Everyone has something that 'works' for them; some kind of mentality that gets them through the day. For some, it's a blind optimism to the world, for others it's the cast iron bars, a cage of misfortune and a series of bad events that dictate their entire lot in life. Others still are bound by an endless series of constant self measurement, consistently raising the bar of their own expectations until the possibility of failure is absolute. I've seen, and executed, a lot of these mentalities at various stages of my life, but lately I've noticed a very troubling trend in the pessimism of the present. A lot more people seem all the more content to build boxes around themselves, to lock out the world, and have nothing to do with the music at all. I've asked several of these people: "Why would you do this? To what end does it serve?" They've all come back with the same thing. "There's just no point if all I'm going to do is get bitten."

Everyone seems so ready to quit, to give up, to walk away from all the hustling and bustle of life, but for what? What does it really accomplish to have all the animals decide they want no more part in the Zoo? Sure, we're all born with the inherent, and important, knowledge that we can check out any time we desire but why would we? What is it that's become so bad in the world that it's no longer worth being a part of anymore? Is there anything, anything in life that could be bad enough to actually make a lifetime of self imposed darkness and silence seem better? 

I've long believed that people and life are capable of anything, for better or worse. Every day, it's true, unspeakable horrors come screaming down from the sky at us. They leave us howling in a blind panic, looking for whatever shelter and refuse we can build up to protect ourselves from them. It's natural instinct to want to be safe after all, but what happens when we take it too far? What do we do when we just sit, endlessly, in the shade of safety and security? How long can we really sustain? We're not designed to live in Faraday cages after all, and the longer we sit in them, the weaker we become. So, again, I ask the question of 'Why?' What is it we really gain from this safety of starvation, this masochistic indulgence of always seeing what we want and never giving ourselves enough room to reach out for it?

Fear and Loathing are difficult beasts to master, nobody can argue that, but they're not the only things that run rampant in the wild jungles of life -- it's important to remember that too. Sure, sometimes it storms. Sometimes it rains, sometimes it drops hail from the clouds, sometimes the wind stings and the skies burn. Sometimes the roof leaks, sometimes the power goes out. The only tragedy of this comes on the heels of inaction though, of remaining stationary just because you might get wet or struck by a lightening event. You could argue that it's easier to hate the sky for it's sharp strikes and deafening thunder, but what about the other side of the coin?

What about the moments when the clouds break and the sun comes rolling out? What about the days when the calm seas roll onto the shores of midnight? What about how relaxing the sound of rain can be, or the sharp kick that lightening can deliver when it strikes the heart? What about those moments when, standing ankle deep in the rain, we're reminded of what we are? We're all animals. We're all bound by the same, primitive, thinking. It's hardwired into our DNA that we should preserve ourselves from all the things that mean us harm...but how much of what we're afraid of is just some boogeyman in the night? Is that why we're covering ourselves in steal and turning our most precious of organs into stone?

We've built walls around our zoos, keeping those, precious, animals close to us and safe. We've stunted our own growth by willingly stepping in cages, happy to live on handouts and passerby moments that, if we're lucky, make us smile. We've neglected the gift of the present to be ready for the sun to go down, for the storm to roll in, for the moon to mock us from on high. I'm not saying preparation and precaution are bad -- I've already gone over that -- but what I'm seeing is simple physics being neglected. Yes, the moon will almost always cast foreboding shadows on the most harmless of things and the sun will always chase those monsters away. If the sun were constant and warm, how would we be able to appreciate the stars that us of all the wonderful things that are out there?

The present, remember, is a gift. It's an immediate moment with absolutely limitless possibilities. It could go anywhere and it often goes everywhere, at any given time. It doesn't give warnings, it doesn't hold to the courtesy of informing you of anything and it never will. It's a beautiful thing though. The present is, without a doubt, the greatest present you'll ever be given. There's a catch to it though. In order to really accept it, to have it, you have to turn yourself over to it entirely. You've got to let the strange wind blow you where it will, let the music spill into your feet and carry you forward, you've got to really let yourself go to the moment and understand that yes, it might drop you, but it also might help you fly.

You've got no way of knowing where it will carry you, so why worry about it? If the skies grow dark and the wind picks up? Weather that storm but embrace it for the moment it is too. Let the wind howl, let the rain cry, let the skies roar and the lightening crash, spread your arms out and stare into its eye. If you can't know, then why worry? Slip the bars of your cage and go screaming into the night, find your ship, whatever it is, climb on board, and ride the waves. It's this path that will lead you down the rabbit hole of limitless possibilities. It'll drop you under the Earth and shake off the stones you've swallowed to harden yourself. It's the only way to take the gift.

Gods give nothing without the request of sacrifice. Offer yourself to a moment an it'll take you anywhere -- and being anywhere is better than going nowhere.

The Dangers heart shaped boxes

The Dangers of Heart Shaped Boxes:
And the tragedy of leaving them empty

There are a lot of dangerous things in the world these days; nobody can really argue that point anymore. We've got everything from cancer and diseases that come in mosquito bites, bad food, famine, war, poverty, death -- the works. We've got terrorism and ignorance aplenty, backroom politics that leave as all starving, we've got harsh weather, and, of course, the end of the world to look forward to now too. We've got over sized television, an excess of drunk drivers, even sex is a dangerous thing these days; it can rot your heart, your tongue, and your soul if you're really unlucky -- or at least that's what they'd tell you in abstinence training. There's one thing though that I consider the most dangerous of all the afflictions in the world. It's not hate, it's not dishonesty, it's not ignorance, and it's not even apathy. What I consider to be the most dangerous affliction of the modern era is that of those who have heart shaped boxes, sitting empty, in their chest.

It's these people, the ones who have no passion or, worse still, compassion to really feel something in the depths of who they are, that I think are in the most dire of our social care. What's the point of meandering through an existence without a genuine passion for what you're doing? It's not about a person, or even a hobby, but it's about having a passion for living. A life lived without a love of living just seems so empty and, more and more, I see an army of Tin people; they're all wandering down the streets with wishful hope buried deep behind their eyes, hoping to find a Wizard who can give them that one thing they felt like they lost somewhere along the way. Has it really been lost, or is it more that it's just been forgotten? In the world that we live in, where a general sense of apathy, if not selfishness and an outright demand for instant gratification, it seems to make more sense that people are just starting to drop it somewhere along the path. 

Hearts, and the emotion that comes with them, require a substantial sense of long term investment. To develop a sense of genuine feeling for what's going on around you, you have to be willing to really engross yourself in life. Even the sideline sense of it isn't good enough really; it's just that kind of 'empty box' thinking that leaves stains everything you do with the stink of an empty, rotting, carcass. A carrion heart is no good at all. It doesn't pump blood at the same, fervent, rhythm and it, sure as hell, can't bring a sense of real satisfaction to anything it touches.

Empty hearts lead to empty live because it’s what we fill them with, the moments that define who we are and what we feel, that really bring a sense of fulfillment to a moment. It’s the first wind of summer blowing through a field of flowers that gives up hope, the same as it a genuine sense of heartfelt loss for the old man who has seen his beloved home fall to the ruin of violence and apathy. We have to fill our hearts with feeling to really understand these moments and if we don’t, then what are we really doing? Are we really okay with becoming so disconnected from the plight and smiles of those who surround us on all sides?

It seems, to me, that a better way to live would be to indulge in these things, to fill our boxes with all manner of sours and sweets, and really embrace the variety of emotions that are present in the world around us. It’s through happiness we are able to measure worth, for sure, but it’s the sadness of our world, and the worth of others, that can often provide us with perspective. It seems, to me, to be better to brandish a heart on your sleeve, than lock it up inside an impenetrable box. After all, what are we but the sum of our experiences, and what do our experiences really mean if we were to take the feelings out of them?

What makes a moment memorable? Is it the temperature of the water, or the way it felt  on your felt the first time you stepped in the ocean. Do you remember what you ate on your best birthday, or the way you felt with the people around you? Why then does it seem so sensible to walk through life with an empty, heart, shaped, box? Why walk through the world so empty hearted and apathetic to those around you? Why only feel when the news tells you should, or only donate to the starving children of a third world country? Every day, I can promise you, you walk by dozens of people who are in just as much dire need for your compassion.

So have your moments, and have them daily, but give them too and share them just as often. Stop and consider the feelings of those around you. If you see someone suffering, don’t hesitate to do what you can to alleviate their suffering. If you see someone smiling, stop to at least consider what it is that’s brought them such joy. If you see someone crying, ask them what you can do. If you see someone laughing, join them. If you see a moment that stirs you, embrace it. It doesn’t matter what it is, why it moves you, or even how; have no shame in what it is you feel – and never let anyone take it away from you.

No matter what life throws at you, and it will throw a lot, take it. Take every rainy day, and every bit of sun. Take every nasty storm, every cut, scrape, bruise, and bang on your heart, and never, once, get mad about it. Listen to the sound those things make as they bounce off you, and, if it’s not hollow, it’s okay to smile. Even if it hurts, even if it makes you sad, it's part of being alive, and what’s not to love about that? Learning to love the things that are inside your own heart is the first step to loving the world you’re in, and, no matter what anyone says, the world’s worth feeling – every minute, of every damn day.

“In these bodies we will live, in these bodies we will die. Where you invest your love, you invest your life.”  -- Mumford & Sons ‘Awake my Soul’ from the album ‘Sigh no more.’

A Measure of the Value of 'Life':

A Measure of the Value of 'Life':
and a personal understanding of how it's defined.

I would like to start off by saying that this will not be a "traditional" post that a lot of my readers (which seems to have grown exponentially in this last week - thank you) might have come to expect. I know a lot of you expect some prose akin to beatnik poets and philosophies on life that carry a bouquet of Kentucky Whiskey, but this isn't going to be one of those posts. Nowhere in here will you find cynicism of the world, or vulgarities of human behavior that inspire words of outcry. This is entirely different. This is a bit of a personal revelation, something I've come to understand about myself and the world I live in, that I would like to share. These moments don't happen often, but when they do, I know better than to ignore them.

I've always considered myself to be a very rich man, despite being a person of limited means. I've come to this conclusion based largely on the caliber of people I've been so fortunate to surround myself with, the quality of living to which I aspire -- and achieve -- but also, in arguably the most important way, by the measure and level of happiness that surrounds me. It seemed, at first, like such a small thing to be aware of, this ability to be happy, but I've noticed a disturbing trend as of late. I see less and less people in the world who are actually able to make such a claim and even fewer who seem to be telling the truth.

I couldn't help but wonder; Why? Is happiness such a difficult thing to find? Is it something that really requires such constant maintenance, like a lot of people would have you believe? I've never thought so. So what is it about happiness, which seems, to me, to be the real measure of value in life, that is so hard for everyone these days? Is it because it's attached to things? I didn't think so. I don't know many people who really attach happiness to material possessions, barring those of the sentimental nature of course. It was just that kind of thinking, those questions, and the sudden impact of sharing something with a particular (and very special) person, that prompted me to go outside, sit down in the rain, and cry for a minute.

I didn't cry because I was sad for all the people who weren't happy, or because it seemed so needlessly complicated to people. I didn't cry because I was sad, or frustrated. I cried because I understood something about myself that, really, I'd always known but never truly acknowledged: I'm a happy person. I'm not happy because of what happens to me in life, or because the world is turning. I'm not happy because of the death of a terrorist leader, or because of a person, place, or thing. Happiness is a choice and it's possible to make that choice without even thinking about it. Why? Because nobody needs to think about it.

What's to think about? We live in a beautiful world, we really do. Sure it's populated with; and this isn't meant to sound cynical so, please, bear with me for a moment, all manner of things that can inspire rage and sadness. Bad things do happen. They always will. People will come into your life, they will leave, & they will die. Catastrophes will happen, every day, all over the world. There's nothing we can do about these things. Nothing. Sure, they will stir sad feelings in us, they will incite anger, they will provoke feelings of a need for justice, for balance, and for karma, but does that make the whole world bad?

What about all the other things in the world? What about sunrises, laughter over steak dinners, the taste of a good beer on a warm evening in late Spring? What about the people you know, the family you've built? What about the sound of the ocean at night, gently lapping the shore, or that picturesque silence that comes with a heavy snow in winter? What about the feeling of wind on your face as you race down the freeway? What about the knowledge that, in every moment, you're alive to know you are? Why is it that these things, these moments, are so easily taken for granted?

Up until tonight, I always thought I'd given them their proper measure of respect. I lived in them, danced in them, reveled in all the things in life that, to me, made it great. Sure, I see a lot of things wrong in the world, but that doesn't make the sum total of it all bad. When I realized, all the sudden, that it was these moments and the people I'd shared them with that had made me, not only rich, but happy? I understood that I'd never really sat back to look at just how valuable they were to me. They are, and will always be, the lighthouse tended safely on the shore. I know, no matter how raw the seas get, how big the waves are, or how little energy I might feel like I have to keep swimming, that it will always be there -- silently encouraging me to keep going -- as if telling me that, if I can make it just a little bit further, life will be the best its ever been.

It will be better because we're alive to keep going -- and how bad can life, really be if that's the case? What of that first, morning, breath?  Isn't that a good enough reminder of how wonderful your day can be, no matter what happens? Whatever happened to you, before that very moment, you got through it. If you can be happy about that -- and why couldn't you be? -- then you've really figured out the difference between surviving life and living life. You've not only endured, but persevered. You've not only come and seen, but conquered everything that's come before. When you wake up in the morning, doesn't it seem you have a lot of reasons to be happy?

If you can start the day with that kind of thinking, there are some things I can promise you. Life will be brighter. Food will taste better. Air will be fresher. Everything you do will, somehow, be influenced by this decision to simply be. It was this understanding that really highlighted the real value of life. The ride isn't better because it's longer, it's not better because it's got more sights, or because it's faster. The ride is better because it's happy. Hold on to that, no matter where you go. Hold onto anything and anyone who can remind you of just what that feeling means, acknowledge and embrace those moments -- and, I promise you that you'll be rich beyond any measure.

Thank yourself for living. Thank those closest to you for sharing in it with you and never, ever, pass up a moment to experience all of those things in life.

Hic habitat felicitas - In vita; It's in every moment, waiting to be seen.

Old Home Movies..

Old Home Movies:
A dry mouthed symposium on optimism

Mother's day, 2011. I'd sat there, staring at the pages blankly for a large part of the morning, ever since the first rays of sun had tried, stubbornly, to push through the crowd of bleak clouds that hung over it like a latex mask. The sun came out, I grabbed a book, a couple cigarettes, and a bit of grapefruit. Nothing seemed terribly satisfactory and I was exhausted. Sleep had been eluding me for days and my head had been full of roving bands of barbaric thoughts all seeking to loot and plunder the recent treasures of my consciousness. I decided to try a glass of water, maybe even a Dr. Pepper, anything to give me some sense of real grounding in a world that, in every appearance, had gone and twisted itself absolutely sideways.

All this, still, seemed to no avail. My legions of active, positive, thinking did more to stave off the hordes. I'd always hated attrition conflicts too as there was no real, discernible, sense of victory. It was like a fifteen round fight that went to the judges. You still got to chalk it up as a win, but you didn't get that raw satisfaction of knowing you'd knocked your opponent out -- at least this time. I wasn't, entirely, sure what to do. I tried kicking off my socks, scattering the morning dew in bare feet, before kicking my legs up on patio chairs to smoke another cigarette. I decided to sit back, and simply see where the ride was headed; to get a grip on what exactly was going on. It was all about maintaining your focus and controlling this roller coaster high of intense heights and, seemingly, endless lows. It was the kind of feeling you might get from a heavy night of drinking, after spending six years in a dry spell. You could remember the old feelings well, but the deception of your tolerance, eventually, would leave you curled up over a bucket, trying to vomit out all the awful poison that somehow made its way into your body.

It was a lot like looking at an old home movie; the film, so dark and distorted, the camera jerking all over the place, and everything was all out of focus. The world had, somehow, slipped off its axis and left the rest of us listing to stay upright in our proper, evolutionary, position. At the same time? It was that same kind of thing that danced in through the trees like a lazy, summer wind. It was just warm enough to push a faint smile to the edges of your lips and really remind you that there were some things, even if it was only a few, that really were right in the world. I had the distinctive sense that, perhaps, I wasn't sorting out the vibrations right. Things had gotten all manner of intense, that was true, and nothing I did seemed to be getting things lined up. I'd been bitten by some kind of bug, an I just couldn't shake off its poison. Was that bad? It didn't feel entirely bad. It was some new, strange, kind of high. I'd handled a lot of highs in my time, so this should have been easy.

I just had to get a grip. Whatever was happening, whatever had happened, there was no stopping it now, so what was the point of all this senseless panic? I took a taste of history from my own lips with a languid sweep of the tongue and leaned back even further into my chair. I was determined to ride out this feeling, even if it turned my stomach upside down and filled my insides with all manner of fluttering and flapping creatures. What was it, exactly? What had happened? Was it simple fatigue? Exhaustion? Had I simply over-estimated what was going on? Could I even properly perceive events? Hell, I couldn't even sort it out. The whole thing had gotten lost in some thick, swampy, fog and I hadn't had the foresight to bring any kind of torch. All I had was a handful of questions and a small can of bug repellant.

Still, I couldn't argue that strange, surreal, sense of comfort that came rolling in like a faded jazz tune on a crisp, tropic, night. No matter what was going on, somewhere, tangled up all inside it, there was something good. I could almost hear it, that strange music, that seemed to come out of nowhere. It was distant at first, but present nevertheless; the kind of old horn that felt almost haunting when it first slid across your ears. It was the kind of sound that just seemed to get more comfortable though, the closer you got to it. The ragged rhythms petered out into slow melodies, the off-key notes became the gentle bass lines that stirred toes into a back and forth sway, it came floating in on a warm wind of jasmine and hope.

I could feel the violent surge in my stomach drop back to a dull whisper, and my mouth suddenly felt dry. My eyelids were heavy and my muscles groaned at the very notion of movement. I felt like some iron giant; that perhaps, in my tenure here in this chair, I had rusted solid and would never be able to move again. That, all things considered, didn't sound too bad -- as long as the music was still playing. I could survive on music, I was pretty sure; I'd always been a consumer of it anyway. Then it came again, that warm breeze. It was, oddly, out of place for this time of year, at that hour at the morning. It was warm and came rolling in from the south -- also abnormal for this time of year in Maine -- and, finding myself able to move again, I sat forward and lapped at it.

There have always been few things I considered "better" in the world than a warm, Southern, Summer's, breeze. It's the kind of thing the crawls inside your head like an old, home, movie, -- the good kind -- and gives you that very real sense of comfort; a knowledge that, no matter how raw the weather gets, everything will be all right in the end. I pushed myself out of the chair to follow it, my weary body groaning with a sudden command for sleep. I had the strange sense that it would be there; in that space between the worlds, where strange music and loud noise are often the same, where those distorted, home, movies find some sense of focus, that I'd find the cipher for this confusing fog -- and maybe a handful of torches to guide me home too.

It's these songs, these winds, that can be found anywhere. They can come in any shape, size, smile, laugh, or bit of affection. They can come in glasses, eyes, hands to hold, and words on a page. No matter how many layers they might, from time to time, be hidden in, they're there -- you've just got to close your eyes, stop looking so hard with your brain, and just listen to that slow, brass, sound. It'll guide you just about anywhere, as long as you've got the conviction to follow it, the dedication to ride out those strange and bizarre moments, and the ability to be satisfied with where ever it is you end up on the other side -- no matter what. Just remember, every once and awhile, you will have to sleep.


So, scatter morning dew from time to time, but don't neglect the art of dreaming either. It's there you can find all the things you might have never known you wanted.

Observations of the Mattel generation:

Observations of the Mattel Generation:  
And their, disingenuous, expectations.

May the 7th is a real, red letter, day in American History. It is the day the Germans finally surrendered to allied forces and, the less known fact, that it was the day we hung our nations first, recognized, serial killer. H.H. Holmes was a real monster of a man with all manner of perversions and intricate tricks for covering up his tracks. It seems almost excessive, looking back on it, that he went through such measures to cover up the things he'd done. Back then such atrocities were almost unthinkable on the American shores.

It was a time that was such a far cry from where we are now; a generation of youths raised on plastic models of perfection with the general idealism that we should all look the same on the outside, be the same depth, the same shape. We're all set to come in perfect little boxes, pre-accessorized with all manner of flexible trinkets and gadgets; our cars all pastel pink and never shedding so much as a drop of pollution. Our homes, now, are all the same rough shape, filled with the same, general things; big screen televisions, an orphan cousin form out of town, a medium sized, slightly shaggy dog, couches, chairs, and food that always looks perfect. It wouldn't be so bad if it all stopped there, but it's that kind of silicone thinking that's got the whole world warped and twisted around all manner of ideas.

Now, we're no longer taught to be content with the way we look or what we wear. It's a high priced auction with everyone selling off their unwanted parts in exchange for all manner of Barbie doll transformations. We've got to avoid the direct sun so we don't melt, so we duck inside tanning beds, giving ourselves a dose of artificial life in the vain hope that we can spring some life into the plastic under our skin. I've often watched this pattern go on and never quite understood where the infatuation with being so different from how we are, was so important.

It's always been, relatively, understood that the bar is set by common trends and television shows. Magazine advertisements become the benchmark for beauty and deodorant commercials show us the way all men should look an act. We should all ride white horses and motorcycles on the beach and all women should be lacquered in layer upon layer of paint in order to mean much of anything. There's nothing wrong with the people who choose to want these things, because they find them enjoyable. They're the same kind of people who want to dye their hair, get tattoos, piercings, and wear all manner of eclectic clothing -- even if the rest of the world tends not to look at them that way.

It's the people who feel like that's the way they have to be, that seem to be a problem. If there's a way you think you look better to yourself? By all means, look that way. The clothes on your back should matter no more to your station in the world than the color of your hair, the number of holes or pieces of art you put on your body, and so on. When you feel like your hair has to be a pristine shade of blonde, that you have to wear a certain shade of depending on the season, change your shoes with the same frequency, or that it's just not good enough if it's not 'all the rage'. That becomes the problem.

It's like all adults treat these bits like the way we did on Christmas toys from yesterdays. Everyone wants the new Tickle Me Elmo, or the new doll that everyone just has to have. If it's not new, or cutting edge, if it's not popular and unseen, it's suddenly not good enough. No one seems to be immune to this kind of conditioning either. Even the most sub of the subcultures carry the mentality with it. "Goths" across the country will stone you if they don't think you make the grade. Punks, skins, hip-hoppers, big boppers, beatniks, poets, and country fans are all the same. We all have preconceived standards that all all newcomers must be held to, and those who don't make the grade? They're cast out to the sea, into the pit, and left to fight for the leftover scraps they opt to cast down.

These notions aren't to be confused with opinions either. Everyone is entitled to what they like and what they don't. Some will like Industrial music, some won't. Others will like slender women with perfect blonde hair and a  high class sense of fashion. This, in principle, is absolutely fine. Not every ear is so suited to all the music of the world, not every palette will take to all the paint and colors, not every tongue will enjoy all the food there is to sample. Taste, though, should not be confused with these preconceptions about how one should be, all of it based on the teaching methods we have to offer.

We're not designed to be held to boxed standards of "decency" and when we keep on with that kind of, collagen faced, acting it's only natural that it becomes that much easier to lie. To live like that is to breed an environment that encourages dishonesty because, if you're not walking that fine line, you're going to be tossed off the bridge of the world and left forgotten if you do anything to the contrary. It's why we're so quick to look down on those of "unfortunate circumstance", the junkies of the world who were never taught any better; but just as quickly pick up rocks and stone the life out of anyone who makes the choice to do these things consciously. We can accept ignorance as an excuse for breaking the, Ken doll, customs -- but God help you if you don't have a reason not to know better.

It's why that brand of commercialized idealism is so insidious too. Everyone can look the same, but they all have to have your voice. No matter how you twist in, or in what funny little ways you give it an accent, you always recognize it as your own. It helps you identify with this way you're supposed to look, the things you're supposed to have, and the things you're supposed to do. All your vacations should be taken to beach houses or in expensive campers; all life should be rich in possession and, relatively, poor in people. What difference do people really make if you have things to replace them, after all? Slowly, but surely, this kind of thing has worn away at social values since its inception.

So, upon reflection of these behaviors of the "Mattel Generation" I have this to say: Be weary of what values you apply to everyone around you. That magnifying glass of perception we use on those around us can just as easily melt the plastic as it can shed light on the darkest of corners. Be aware of the standards you hold, and question them constantly. Be sure that they're yours and not those of whatever circle it is you choose to inhabit, and always be aware that looks fade in time but personalities are, generally, consistent. Even the most venomous of serpents can hide behind the most sculpted of features and so too can perfection be found in the most unlikely of places.

Surviving the Storm

Surviving the Storm:

And why that's just not good enough

The headlines these days are getting vicious. For a few months now, I've been sitting back to follow the story of the Sweat Lodge issue for a few months now, not really sure what I think of it. The hell bent pursuit of a better life, taken at the hands of a, well meaning, snake in the grass. Knowledge should never be forbidden, but always taken with a grain of responsibility. What is known can not be unknown, and the damage done can only be undone if it's not permanent. Creature comforts, after all, won't stave off the rabid gnawing of painful knowledge and will absolutely do nothing to stave off the pale horse Death tends to ride upon. Sitting down to think about it all, there was only one rational question: Why are we desperate to only survive the storm, that we push ourselves so far beyond the limits of what we can handle???

 

It's the people who look at it as a way of life that often get lost; too freaked out on altered states, high on the adrenaline fumes of stress and long hours. It's that kind of mental state that can lead to blind desperation, spinning the wheel absently and praying there's a shore out there somewhere. I can respect the principle of that kind of perseverance, but the application? It's that kind of thing that makes bare knuckle boxing with a rabid kangaroo seem almost sensible. It's looking for the illumination outside the walls, outside of who we are, of trying to fill self made holes with dirt from a foreign land. It's surviving the storm in pieces, and calling survival good enough.

A lot of people these days have deserted themselves on islands of their own making. They've built high and impenetrable walls, starved themselves of meat and swilling enough coconut milk to liquify their insides in a constant stream of filth and madness. They've become desperate, savage, raving fools -- bloodthirsty for meat and the sense of touch, unable to decide which it is they want more. They're shipwreck victims, the storm has passed them over, but the trauma of living in it has become too much. If you listen, real close, on a quiet night, you can hear them howling across the sea in a mad chorus of senseless babble. It's the kind of sound that sends shivers up your spine and puts a real fear of the sea into you.

It's these people who snap when the do find sand under their feet. Once well meaning, upstanding, member of society, these PTA board members now look like hunched over cannibals, rabid and frothing at the mouth. They've grown so out of touch with their fellows, so complacent to survive in the storm, that they've been weathered, degraded, and just plain rotten. The fruits of their labor have all spoiled and they've gotten drunk on fermented berries. They're wild, they're dangerous, they're unpredictable and, even if all these things make them exciting, they should be regarded with an air of caution and given some semblance of berth. 

 

It's good, from time to time, to chase that edge of existence, to find the high and narrow places that are out there, to know just how far you're willing to go. It's good to live to live, to hold nothing back for adventure, and to give your last at a chance for everything you've ever wanted. What makes no sense to me is that this attitude seems to be, as of late, all about simply surviving the firestorm of teeth and claws.  It no longer seems to be about moving through the hardships and wet roads. It seems to simply be about staying in them. This kind of fortitude training has it's place -- it's good to know just how hard and real it can get before you have to back out -- but it becomes a simple matter of attrition. No one can survive the waves forever, there's too many brutal things in the sea.

It's not good enough to simply survive the storm, not now, not ever. It takes too much gas, and there are too many things to go and do. When the storm hits and the seas rise to life like some old, vengeful, god, I find it's often best to put the throttle all the way forward, and rush headlong. Sailing straight through, cursing and swearing at anyone or anything that will try and stop you, waving your flag high and brandishing your sword were the same kind of ferocity -- it's the most efficient means of seeing the following dawn. The storm is a trial, it's not a way of life.

The sun will always rise on a tomorrow, and the storm will always pass -- as long as you don't follow it. There's nothing wrong with treading water, or seeking shelter on a deserted island if it gets to raw for you. The harm only comes in staying there, in trying to survive, rather than push through it. The rains will fall, the wind will make it sting, thunder will roar, lightening will crash. You can't avoid these things, Mother Nature won't let you. Trying to avoid them? Senseless. Trying to outrun them? Senseless. They'll find you, someday. You can count on it. Nothing, an I mean nothing, makes as little sense as sitting there, following the storm where ever it goes though.

Pick a direction, pick it randomly, and simply go. Take someone by the hand if you're lucky; grab yourself by the boot laces if you're not. Put your foot, your hand, whatever, on the gas and move. Kick your feet, swim like you've got a shark chasing you, but keep moving. To where or what end? To live, to life, to the pursuit of all things warm -- to better days filled with smiles, laughter. To hot meat, to strong drink, to sitting around the fire telling tales like the Vikings. To celebrate all the things you've seen, all the things you've done, and to do all the things you want to do.

Surviving is good, but it should never, ever, be good enough.

The problem with always being prepared
Because when you're looking for anything, you miss everything

Always be prepared they tell you, always. "You never know what might happen.." The adage goes. So be ready for anything, always be prepared, know your entrances and exits in case of fire and, for the love of god, if something does go wrong, you trample every godless heathen who would dare to stand between you and your life. I've never trusted anyone who has ever said these vicious and awful things. Why? That's simple; they haven't really lived. They've wasted countless hours turning over channel after channel of life, reverting to the primitive of cave man hunting - turning over every rock, in the hopes that dumb luck has seen to provide you with some kind of sustenance. Taking advice from these sloths makes about as much sense as using your own skull as an astray.

What does that even mean anyway, this 'be ready for everything'? How does that even work? It's a disadvantage of our evolution - we're not built like ants or to carry tons more than our weight. Piling everything you'd need to be ready for everything would break your legs, never mind snapping your sanity like a stick of celery. That's just foolish. Even if you do manage to pack it all on your back like some inverted Mongolian Horseman, you're not going to get very far, and you probably won't be able to see anything but what's down at your feet? What's the point of that? What's the point of only seeing the dirt, and the things you trample? You'd miss everything until you'd already steamrolled it and by then, well, it's just too late to stop.

It's why I've never done it, at least not the latter parts. Anything can happen, that's a given, and that's really the only knowledge we need, isn't it? Why be ready for every little thing that might happen? Even the best things ends up broken and dirty if you don't see it until you've stomped it into the dirt. So why?  Why live like there's something awful around every corner, only to end up in a blind panic of sobbing tears? What's the point? Could you really argue there is one? So, say anything can happen - good, it can. The world's full of all kinds of good things that can happen - if you let yourself see that. 

There's so much of it too, it's around nearly every damn corner. It comes in all shapes and sizes too. Huge, fat, surprises dropped in your lap, and you never know where they might come from. Sometimes they might come on the tail end of the worst storm cloud you've ever seen hanging over your road too. Sometimes, even, you've got to brave the hellish storm full bore, get struck by lightening, and come limping out the other side, just to dust yourself and see that there's something you want on the other side. It's not just people either. It could be anything - hence the point. It could be a candy bar, a perfectly mixed drink, a warm fire to sit beside, a new friend, a new sight, a new place, new words..anything.

It's the people who get too overloaded that miss all these things. None of us are immune to it from time to time, and there's nothing wrong with falling into those trudging steps through  the muck. The only tragedy comes when the decision is never made to leave. It's then we sink in a bog of hopelessness, our vision so clouded that we've, finally, lost sight of the lighthouse on the shore. It's a terrible, terrible, tragedy, the kind of thing you'd read about in small, boxed, headlines, somewhere in the middle of your newspaper. It's here in these shortened effigies of who we were is spelled out in pictures and tiny paragraphs; all our woes set out on the table in clever little dishes shaped like unknown objects.

I used to be one of these people. I know just what it's like to see all your passions go to waste and get rotted by indolence into some bitter vinegar. I know, all too well, about living a life filled with fantasies about people you never talked to, and the countless late night hours spent seeing their faces buried deep in your dreams. I lived this way for a long time. The only break in the pattern ever seemed to come when I'd push myself all the way to the edge -- only to cut my own ropes and sabotage the whole expedition into adventure. The only thing that finally broke it, once and for all, was the conscious decision that I had nothing to worry about at all. I never had. If I was light enough on my feet, I could avoid what I needed to avoid, and I wasn't so cramped with strain that all I could do was rest on the heels of exhaustion.

I used to worry about people would think of the strange behavior that rolled around inside my head like a toddler who was drunk on the feeling of sticking pennies in a light socket. I used to worry about the way my clothes looked to everyone. I used to worry about standing on ceremony for every stranger I ever saw. I still don't think there's anything wrong with evolving these characteristics into a mentality of sometimes using them. Worrying about everyone though, all the time though, is senseless. What's the point of walking through life, choking on a mask of your own dirty socks? It was just that kind of questioning that made me understand it just wasn't worth it. I could walk through my life, being me for the sake of being me - come sun or storm - or I could be damn sure I was too blind to properly appreciate the good things in front of me.

So, worry. It's sensible to worry about somethings. When you can see the storm ahead of time it would be irresponsible not to at least consider what you might need to bring to survive. You can't possibly be ready for anything all the time though. It's impractical. Stare forward, not down, enjoy the drive, the road, the scenery, take in the whole trip. Get the smell of wild, desert, wind in your hair. Enjoy the faint smells of Jasmine and the lingering warmth of warm winds; the kind that haunt your steps like an old, southern, melody drifting through the trees on a cloudless summer night. After all, there's just as much of life to see as there is to miss, and you only get one pass at it. There's no second trips, and the photo albums will only be filled with the pictures you have the ability to take.