Friday, September 28, 2012


To preface:
I read a lot of blogs.  Friends.  Acquaintances.  People I've never heard of.  Political, religious.  So many topics, so many people, so many words.  One of my favorites in the world belongs to a friend of mine.  Its interesting to me, in the digital age, how that word has changed our perception.  When I was a kid, a friend was someone you played with.  They lived across the street, or shared a class.  Someone you actually saw face to face with some regular frequency.
The internet has changed all of that.  I have more than a few "friends" whom I've never actually met.  People from all over the world that I have come to care for quite deeply.  Based on words alone, I have learned about people I would have otherwise never even known existed.  These people have made me laugh.  Made bad days good.  I have shared their joys, triumphs, failures, jokes, stories, and even recipes.
It seems that people cross cyber paths more frequently now, than real paths.  The case can be made, (and has often been) that this is kind of sad.  Personally, I don't think so.  Although true that I would absolutely LOVE to meet every single person I know from FB or other sources IRL, the fact is, with a lot of them, this just may not be possible.
I don't know when Deena Marie and I first started talking online.  I'll never forget the first time I ever saw her.  It was the first play I went to when I moved to SLC.  She was one of the actresses, and sort of blew my mind.  Her performance was staggering.
We did not meet that night.
I have no memory of how we became friends on Facebook.  I typically don't add new people, but in this case I must have, simply because I knew who she was from the show, but she would of course had no clue who I was.  I just don't remember doing it.  I have no recollection of when.  I just know that for a few years now she has been on my friends list, and I've followed her life in the same way I follow everyone's life who happens to show up daily in my feed.
Over time either one of us would occasionally comment on the others post.  Make jokes, remarks, whatever.  It's how I do.  I think though what sparked friendship beyond casual comments however, was our blogs.  We've each remarked to the other how much we enjoy each others written work.
And I do.  In all honesty, I can't get enough.  I have her blog address bookmarked on my home computer, and in my phone for easy access.  She has moved me deeply by what she has written.  She has no shortage of talent, and if you don't know her, or have never read her blog...I recommend you give it a shot.  You'll not likely be sorry.
The reason I bring this up now is this.  We though that it might be fun, interesting, I'll go ahead and say neat (a word I don't use lightly), to attempt a little writers experiment.  It was suggested that we both write on the same topic.  Each coming at it from our own perspective.  Without consulting one another, or discussing beforehand what would actually be written, just take the topic and run.  See what happens.
The initial problem was the topic itself.  What the hell should we write about.  So it was put to the public.  Our topic was assigned, and agreed upon...and now here we are.  If you're reading this because you follow Deena's blog, and she linked you here...thank you.  Its likely you have no idea who the hell I even am.  I know your time is valuable, and I appreciate you spending a bit of it with me.  If you are reading this because you follow my blog, and are now curious as to the other side of the same topic, please go to

The agreed upon topic of the post is

The Nature of Beauty.

and so to begin.

Once upon a few years ago, my not yet ex wife handed me a book titled 'The Beauty Myth'. I did as I do with all books that are given to me.  I read the blurb on the back, and became a bit excited to read it.  I gathered that it was going to address topics that I've always been interested in.  As the title suggests it seemed as though it would discuss how the idea of beauty has evolved over time, and not for the better.  How popular media and corporations have abused the idea of beauty to a dangerous degree.  I was fascinated and started reading almost immediately.  I didn't make it past the introduction.  One of the very few times in my life I stopped reading a book that was gifted to me.
The problem was that it was an immediate attack on me.  Personally.  Sure the author didn't use my name, but never before in all my life, have I felt so much the criminal for no reason beyond having a penis attached to my body.  The author made it quite clear that for no reason other than the fact that my extra x chromosome grew a little tail and became a y, I had inherited the birthright of villain, before even taking my first breath outside the uterus.
I had opened the book, already prepared to agree with whatever she had to say on the actual topic.  Instead I never even got to it.  Apparently, all that is wrong with the world.  All the horrible images.  All the bulemia, all the anorexia, all the self loathing that is forced upon women through print, and digital all my fault.  Guess I'm sort of a douche that way.

Funny thing...I think beauty really IS a myth.  At least as far as what's being sold to us as beauty.  All the creams.  All the clothes.  All the toxins we can eat, swallow, or rub into our skin to make us more beautiful.  All the gym memberships, the anti-age creams, the weight loss pills, the posters, the billboards, the tanning salons, the hair salons, the nail salons,  the advertisements, the guarantees, the surgeries, the workshops, classes, all the fucking things. They are all of them there, so someone can feed your insecurity about how you look, and whether or not someone will fuck you, and take your money.  They toss around the word beauty.  They throw it in your face, as though its something you don't already have, but for a nominal fee, and a pinch here, a pluck there, and 200 dollars too can be yours.

Drink Coke  - Bill Hicks.

The perfectly symmetrical face to sell eye liner.  The unbelievably chiseled naked bodies, to sell clothes.  The gorgeous sunset to sell erectile dysfunction drugs.  The bikini clad girls to sell beer.  All the pretty to sell all the ugly.

Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels. - Kate Moss.

I guess in this disturbingly cynical opener, the nature of beauty is to destroy and impoverish.

Once upon a decade or so ago, I went with a group of friends to the new movie 'American Beauty'.  I enjoyed the film quite a bit.  I was quite taken by it, and went along for that ride all the way...until...
Until I was forced to sit through watching a piece of trash caught in a crosswind and was told it was the most beautiful thing ever seen.  I laughed out loud.  Really?
It's a fucking plastic bag...blowing in the wind.  That's it?  That's the pinnacle of beauty?  I wracked my brain.  Maybe I was missing something.  Maybe there was symbolism or something I wasn't picking up on.  I dedicated FAR too much thought to the idea.
It seems like now...pretty much anything can be beautiful.  All that has to happen, is that someone has to label it as such.  A stock picture with an inspirational quote.  A simple, basic, line drawn facsimile of a rose.  A well placed witticism.  I'm told all these things are...or have been...beautiful.

I suppose in this also cynical thought, the nature of beauty is simply to lower its own standard.  If everything is can anything be?

Once upon about four months ago, my girlfriend of over four years told me that she thought it was time for us to part ways, and explore our lives separately.  It was a devastatingly heartbreaking moment.  I for a couple moments couldn't breathe.  I was in pain.
For days.
Maybe still to some degree.

At first was the anger of course.  Not directed at her...or really AT anybody.  Just sitting.  Existing.  Taking up space inside of me.  The anger that accompanies pain, and insecurity.  The ideas of waste.  Wasted time. Wasted effort.  Wasted years of my life.

Then of course, once I put my head back on, I understood that none of it was a waste.  That the time I had spent with her was wonderful.  All of it.  Even the bad parts.  The joy I had with her was something pretty special to me.  It really was...beautiful.
Our life together.
Our conversations.
All the things we shared.
Was born out of beauty.

I was not able to move on, move forward, until I allowed myself that moment of clarity.  I needed to beauty, to overcome the pain.  I needed the joy, to let go of the sorrow.

I think in this particular situation the nature of beauty is to build.  To allow progression.  To inspire epiphany.

See ultimately that's the thing.  Beauty can build or destroy.  It can inspire love, and jealousy.  It can steal your breath, or drive you insane.  It can create.  It can motivate.  It can paralyze.  It can do oh so many things...but has no nature...
It is as wild as all the things in nature really are.
It can also not be defined, confined, controlled, or put into action or words.  There are as many definitions of beauty, as there are people on the planet to define it.
All the things you find beautiful, I may...or may not.  I will say this though, I love that you do.
I love that you have the capacity to recognize it.
I love that you have the desire to find it.
I hope...
I truly hope...
In my hope of hopes...
that we can share it.
I'd like that.

I think it would be beautiful.

Saturday, September 22, 2012

Lets talk about sex

The views and opinions expressed in this blog are solely that of its creator, and do not reflect the views of greater society.
For my more tender readers, this one may cross your line of comfort.  Please know up front that I'm not going to apologize for that, but also know that it is not my intention to offend.  If you ARE offended...that's your choice.

Before I really get started on this one, please be aware that I'm not bitching.  This is not a complaint blog, although I'm sure at times it may sound like it.  I'm the type of guy who, even in the midst of my own frustration, can step outside of myself and point and laugh at me.  I do love the humor, and as anyone can tell you, all the best humor is born out of the worst pain.

The problem with being an emotionally unavailable man who's still interested in the more base and physical joys of life, is that we are in far too great supply, and there is pretty much no demand.  I'm a dime a dozen.  And by dime I mean penny.  And by dozen I mean millions.  There's an incredibly valid reason why there is a stigma attached to even the idea of "single man".  I've been told that there actually ARE women out there ready for the throw down, you just gotta put yourself out there, or go to the right places, or something something...I don't know.  I stopped paying attention at some point, because my interest was completely lost.

Therein lies my other problem.  I hate...I mean really HATE, meaningless sex.  I've done the one night stand thing.  The forget about names, lets get down to business thing.  It really wasn't for me.  Oh sure, there was some initial excitement.  There was the raw aggression of it.  Ultimately the was just so...meh.

I don't ever want my sex to be meh.  I can handle bad.  I can handle embarrassing.  I can even handle regrettable (mostly cause I don't regret anything).  I just can't handle meh.  I'm quite certain I've BEEN meh.  I don't much care for that either.  I make no claim to be the worlds greatest lover...I'm certainly not exceptional in any way I'm sure...but I'd like to think I've at least been enjoyable once or twice.

Sex is never so important as it is to the person who's not getting it.

When questions of my personal sexual orientation come up I like to reply that I'm mostly straight.  This usually gets a few laughs.  Raises a couple eyebrows.  Adds more questions to the original question.  I like that.  It's also mostly true.  I kinda wish I was bi.  I wish I could go that way.  This is how I've become absolutely convinced that sexual orientation is absolutely NOT a choice, because I would choose bi.  I honestly would.  Its seriously the best of all worlds.

Its not necessarily that I'm attracted to guys, although recognizing beauty, physical or otherwise, in people of either sex is incredibly easy for me.  I just have this weird thing.  I see some poor confused young guy who's obviously gay, but because of religious, social, or family reasons hides it from everyone...or even worse...hides it from himself, I just have this overwhelming urge to grab him by the dick and lead him straight out of the closet into a glorious new world.  I want to just...I dunno...fucking destroy them.  I think because through the destruction, they may be able to build something beautiful in the aftermath.  As I've thought about this more and more I realize that its, for me, not even about sex.  It's about honesty.  I hate the idea that anybody...anywhere...ever...has to live, or rather, waste this one fucking life they get, sheltered inside a painful lie.  Break the rules.  Break the boundaries.  Break the mold and breathe the reality.

So although I have no philosophical or intellectual problem, no moral dilemma, I still have one problem with that little bold fantasy.  I just don't have the physical capacity for it.  It wouldn't work, because well...I wouldn't work.  Things wouldn't happen, because some very necessary things wouldn't happen.  So thus it follows, I'm mostly straight.

And boy am I.  You see...

I love...
I love...

I fucking LOVE...women.  In fact if it was really my desire to be bi, then I love women to a fault.  I've never been secretive about my joy of all things boobs.  All the best things are made out of boobs.  Or so I've been known to say.  Once or twice.  But since I'm here now, and since I'm writing all this shit in my brain out onto the screen in front of me, I may as well go all the way.  There is...oh very much more.  I love all the things about women.  I love the higher register of their voices.  I love how their skin is softer and smoother.  I love that, their eyes are always...always...more beautiful than any guys.  I love that they are so much more connected to their emotions.  Faces, eyes, hair, neck, stomach, tits, ass, legs, and of course...the holy grail of it all...the thing we're not supposed to talk about because it makes us uncomfortable...the holy grail...the promised land...the ever so wonderful vagina.

And why is that I wonder?  Why can I talk so openly and brazenly about breasts, and people laugh, and get behind me, and its all in fun, but if I were to talk the same way about the pussy as I do about tits...people all of a sudden get uncomfortable?  Why is it offensive?  Why is this part given more gravity than another?  I have my theories...but I honestly don't know.  Why is it when I write the word cock, no one thinks twice, and continues reading, without the slightest thought or hesitation, but when I write the word pussy...for some...I have crossed a line?  Thoughts to think about. End train derailment.

 I love how women think.  It's so much different...and yet so much the same as me.  I could wax on all night about all the things I love and never even begin to scratch the surface of all the things I love.  So I won't.  Suffice it to my universe, my perspective, my orientation, my whatever the fuck it is that seems to matter so much to so many people...women trump men.  So that mostly straight part of me that is slightly bent...well...damn it all, its not bent quite enough.

Another one of my problems, as I've mentioned once or a million times before is, I'm stuck in my own head. I analyze and over analyze.   I am not enough viscerally connected.  I'm not driven my my instinctive passion.  Oh its there.  Its inside me to be sure.  But its so easily bypassed with thought.  Both of my longtime exes, probably much to their disappointment can attest to that.  The flip side of that though, is that through all the physical shit I am usually so ready to talk about...nothing turns me on more than a woman who can stimulate my mind.  My cock is easy.  Nearly anyone on the planet can do least to some degree...but if you arouse my brain...well're something pretty fucking special.

I don't really have any fetishes.  In fact I'm actually, probably pretty vanilla.  On the other hand though I'll try anything three times.  I think three allows for fair assessment.  Once isn't enough, because the first time you do ANYTHING...sexual or're going to probably suck at it.  At least I am.  I have to figure shit out.  I have to learn.  I have to be allowed to fumble around, and make mistakes, and find out what and how works.  The second time is for comparison.  How did I do this time as compared to last?  Now I can figure out if this is something I enjoy.  If its something my partner enjoys.  If I'm doing it right...or at least better.  The third time is for analysis.  Now I've done this, and done it again.  How does it feel?  What does it accomplish?  What sort of reaction or response does it elicit.  Do I...does she...truly enjoy it?

So why am I writing this?  Now?  Why have I gone the easy way, and delved into the baser nature of things?  Simple really.  It's all I can fucking think about.  All the time.  I thought I had grown out of this stage of lower mental function...but alas, it appears that I was mistaken.
See you get an itch, and you try to scratch it yourself, and it sort of works for a while.  Takes your mind off of things, and you move on.  Soon the itch appears again, and as scratch it.  Each time you scratch, it feels good.  Relieves some of the frustration if the itch...but each time, the itch comes back stronger than before, and pretty soon you realize that scratching that itch all by yourself is an exercise in futility.  After a while you can't concentrate on anything BUT that itch.  It becomes the only thing you can think about.  And all the little distractions in the world, that are typically pretty easy to notice, and file away, and pay no attention to...become all of a sudden consuming.  It's really quite annoying.  So in the hopes of getting some of this shit out of my head, I'm writing it down.  Hoping beyond hope that I'll be able to focus on all the other stuff I like to think about once it's out of my system.  I'm guessing it will be an unsuccessful attempt, but by god I gotta try something.

I'm guessing that I'll actually have this particular itch for a while, because as previously mentioned, not just anybody on the planet can scratch this itch...but its a delicate balance for me.  Its gotta be a person who I know, like, and care for a great deal, but on the other hand understands that simply because we share some naked mutual enjoyment, does not necessarily mean that I want to spend the rest of my life devoted to them on an emotional level that quite frankly, I'm just not willing to give.  Some would postulate that such a person does not exist.  I however know from experience that they do.  So I'll hold out for that.  Unless it comes to a point that I simply have no choice but to find the first available wet spot.  Thank god I'm nowhere near that point yet.

I have a whole lot more to say about current contemporary sexual attitudes.  I have an entire blog in my mind about slut shaming.  Guilt attachment.  The false sacred attachment to the act.  Polyamory.  Cheating.  Outdated social codes.  Monogomy.  And in all honesty...a whole lot of other things related to sexual attitudes in 21st century America.  I'm not going to go into any of it now though.  Right now...

I got an itch to scratch.

Sunday, September 16, 2012

A quick thought inside a short hello.

I've been looking for something I've always wanted but was never mine, but now I've seen that something, just out of reach glowing very holy grail. - Roxy Music "Mother of Pearl"

Sometimes song lyrics nail it right on the head.

Everything is temporary.
Everything has a timeline.
Everything has an expiration date.

That goddamn expiration date.

Some much closer than others.

The end of a work week.  The end of a show.  The end of a season.  The end of a job, a home, a relationship, a friendship, a life.

I'm a journey, not a destination kind of guy.  I like the scenic route.  I like taking my time.  I like to explore.  I like the adventure.  I'm very rarely worried about getting to wherever it is I'm going.  Waiting is.  In time.  Blah blah blah.

I also love the game for the sake of the game.  I will often play, even though I know the outcome before I even sit at the table.  I don't care so much about the scorecard at the end, as much as I do that I actually sat face to face with the opponent.  Looked them in the eye.  Smiled and threw down.

I know there will be pain.  Goddamn do I know it.  The thing is

"Life is Pain Highness.  Anyone who says differently is selling something." - The Princess Bride

I wonder about that sometimes though.  The pain thing.  I wonder if accepting it, or saying I accept it, and continuing along what will inevitably be a course resulting in exactly that, is in fact wise.  What is the best action?  Sit at the table, play the game, accept my losses gracefully and walk away with the experience. Learn the lesson, and continue with a little more wisdom that comes at a difficult cost?  Or not?  Avoid the pain altogether.  Its not as if I'll learn anything in a general sense that I don't already know.  Specifics of course yes.  Little things that may or may not shape future me into something...for better or worse.  Maybe.  Maybe not.  That's the gamble.  I could step away from the table, and ultimately not have lost or gained anything.  Or I can sit at the table, knowing already that its going to hurt when its over, but I MIGHT...maybe gain something that does indeed shape future me...for better or worse.

Or not.

I made a decision over a decade ago.  I decided that I would never again make a decision based solely on fear.  There comes a question though.

Is NOT jumping off a cliff, fear based?  Or simply common sense.

I guess it depends on how far down it is to the water, and how deep the water is.  Or if there is water there at all.

I've jumped off a lot of cliffs.

I've also NOT jumped off a lot of cliffs.

Sometimes though, I do have a hard time distinguishing between fear and stupidity.  Maybe THAT is the lesson that life has to teach me.

That's it for tonight.  There's more.  Oh so very much more.  But not tonight.  Tonight I just wanted to check in.  Say hi.  Say I love you.

I really
Love you

But I have better words for that too.

Thursday, September 6, 2012

Infinite Loop

Its one of those days.  I wake up, and wonder why I can't see.  It's been so long since I've not worn contact lenses, that I forget I have to actually put glasses on my face.  Although I haven't heard the song for years, 'Dust in the Wind' is stuck on repeat in the ipod in my brain.  I sit up in my bed.  Grab my glasses and slide them up my face.  I open my eyes slowly, accepting that they're going to have to be open for a long time now.

(I close my eyes...)


Oh no.  Not again.  This has been happening to me a lot recently.  Very recently in fact.  Just the past couple weeks.  I think the first time was after R&J closed.  It doesn't hurt.  It hasn't proven to be dangerous at all.  It's just...

So goddamned distracting.

Much like Billy Pilgrim, I have noticed, I'm becoming less and less "stuck" in time.  I'm walking up and down my own personal time track.

(Only for a moment, and the moment's gone...)

Nothing I can do really.  Get out of bed, and head into the shower.  I like to get into it before it actually heats up.  I mean really I hate it...but it helps.  That cold blast that jerks me awake, and eases me into something warmer.

(All my dreams, pass before my eyes in curiosity)

God that song is annoying.

I push the "next" button on my brain ipod, but 'Dust in the Wind' simply starts over.


I'm 17 years old, standing alone on the third highest mountain in the State of Utah.  Gilbert's Peak. At over 13000 feet I can see a million miles in every direction.  The Sierra Club, an Environmental organization has placed on the highest mountains in the US, a glass jar with a small notebook and pencil placed inside, buried under a small pillar of rocks.  The purpose of course is that once you reach the summit you can write your name in the book.  I open the bottle and pull out the notebook and pencil.  I open it up to the first available space...I only had to turn one page.  Three names above mine, and dated twenty years earlier, I see my dad's name.  I realize as I look out at the vast emptiness in every direction that I am among an exclusive group of people who have ever occupied this space.  I wish I could stay here til night, so I can see the stars from here, but climbing down this mountain in the dark is not only stupid, but perilously so.


I turn off the water and step out of the shower.  I reach for a towel that isn't there, decide to just stand and drip for a moment.  I really should be taking this day with more urgency.  In order to get to work on time, I only have about 7 more minutes before I have to be walking out the door.  Fuck it.

(Same old song...)

I practically walk into my clothes.  I doesn't matter what I wear.  I send out my silent thanks to all the gods and goddesses that its not khakis and a red tshirt.


I'm putting my name in the notebook on top of Red Castle.


I'm putting my name in the notebook on top of Mt. Tokewana.


I'm on TRAX checking my FB at 7 in the morning.  As if any of my friends were actually up and active that early.  I tend to socialize most with those who share a fondness of the things that happen when the sun goes down.

(Just a drop of water in an endless sea)


I'm 8 years old, laying on the ground.  My arm doesn't hurt, it simply feels funny.  I've fallen on it.  When I get up and take a look is when the fear strikes.  I don't remember the pain, but I will never forget the fear.  It was twisted at a horrible angle.  From wrist to elbow, shattered in three places.  Horribly disfigured, my immediate thought was, that I was doomed to live out the rest of my life like this.  I lost it.  My father picked me up off the ground and carried me to the car.  Taking me straight to the (very) small town doctor, who informed us, there was nothing he could do, but give me a shot for the pain.  I was going to have to go to Evanston to have it fixed.  Once there, we were told we would actually have to go all the way to SLC.  Arm broken at 4 p.m.  No one to really take a look at it or set things right til 11 p.m.   I watch my mom go pale, and have to sit down when they snap it back in place.  After that, I would have to wear a cast well past the start of the new school year.  Which I did.


I'm walking toward work from the train and think I hear something behind me.  I turn, but there is nothing but my shadow striding behind me.

(I will show you fear in a handful of dust)

Hey...all RIGHT.  Nothing like a little bit of classic poetry to maybe break a song rut.

(All we do, crumbles to the ground though we refuse to see)



I'm 10 years old, in the backseat of the car, travelling to SLC again.  All along the way my mom is asking me to read the street signs as soon as I can see them.  I do.  She's talking quietly to my dad, but I can still hear easy enough.
"I think he needs glasses" she says.
My dad only kind of mumbles.  I try to convince myself that I don't need glasses.  I can see just fine.  I am not convinced by my own lie.  Three weeks later, I audibly gasp when I look at the board my teacher is writing on, and I can see everything she put there.  Its amazing how you don't realize you're blind, until you're not anymore.


I'm clocking in at work.  Staring around the warehouse at the hundreds of boxes piled high against every wall, and across the floor.  So much counting.  This is what I do now.  I count things.  New product.  Old product.  Every day for eight hours.  I'm thrilled to do it, because they let me go home before the night really gets started.  I grab today's paperwork and open the first box.

(Don't hang on.  Nothing lasts forever but the earth and sky)


I'm 18 years old.  First day of class.  First day of college.  I'm in an advanced government class, because of the AP classes I took in High School.  I'm looking around the room.  I'm desperately trying to convince myself that I'm genuinely interested in the topic.  I'm a Gov. major working toward a law degree.  I have a knack for public speaking, and not once in four years of competitive speech did I lose a debate.  I have an incredible future in front of me.  Halfway through the lecture, of my first first day...I get up and walk out.  I go to the admin building and change my major to Theatre.  I have just made a decision that will change my future.  I have traded security, and the very real possibility to be an influence in peoples lives, for selfish passion.  This has been one of the best decisions I've ever made.


(It slips away, and all your money won't another minute buy.)

I have two too many pinks, and three too few blues.  The greens are missing altogether.  "Who knows where greens are?"  This is what I traded a law degree for.  Baby pajamas in various colors that go unaccounted for.  I smile.


Two weeks before I head off to college.  My dad asks if I want to go visit my Grandfather at the nursing home.  The whole family is going over, and if I want to join, we have to leave now.  I'm on the back of a horse, holding the reins.  Wrapped around me are the arms of a girl I'd been trying for three months to get the attention of.  I can feel her body pressed against my back.  I tell my dad I'll go visit grandpa tomorrow.  The following morning I go with my dad to the funeral home instead of the nursing home.  I have been to that funeral home too many times since.  My grandfather died alone, in his sleep.  Two days after being moved to a nursing home from the hospital, where we had been told he would receive more attention and better care.  This man was born at the turn of the 20th century.  He was witness to the Titanic disaster.He lived through the nations Great Depression, and greatest agricultural famine.  He was alive when Orville and Wilber left the ground.  He watched Germany twice invade foreign lands in hopes of world conquest.  He knew the greatest atrocity ever visited on mankind...performed by his own country.  This man who told the most amazing stories of lassoing fish when he was a kid, never knew what an email was.  He died when the internet was a party trick being tried out by CERN nerds.


(Dust in the wind...all we are is)
"How in the name of all thats holy do we have so many greens that are unaccounted for?

I'm kissing her in the rain

I'm kissing another her in the street.

I'm kissing another her in front of the Mormon Temple in Seattle.

I'm kissing another her in her doorw...

wait...wha...what was...what was her name?
Goddammit, I've become THAT guy.  I fucking HATE that guy.

(Dust in the wind)

I'm in Las Vegas at the hookah bar.  The hose gets to me, and I pass.  I don't smoke.

One year later.  Same hookah bar.  Same friends.  I have the hose in one hand, and a cigarette in the other.

The Las Vegas interstate going home.  I've been having a crisis of faith.  Mostly in that I don't have any, and I'm sick of trying to pretend otherwise.  Then it really hits me.  Its all pretend.  All of it.  Everything I've thought I believed...I don't think I ever really did.  And instead of discovering pain, or loss, or sadness, or fear...I burst out laughing.  This is not the laugh of someone experiencing true freedom for the first time.  This is not the laugh of someone having a ground breaking spiritual, or psychological breakthrough.  This is the laugh of someone who has heard the worlds funniest joke for nearly thirty years of his life...and just now....just this very second...gets it.  And holy fuck is it funny.


(All we are is Dust in the wind)

Home again.  Trying to make sense of this day.  Why that last flash?  That was simply a week ago.  For that matter though...why any of them.  Why is this happening?  Why now?

My 31st birthday.  I am at the peak of my first psilocybin trip.  I ask one of my friends why he never told me about this before.  He simply responds that he tried.  I sink back into music of Kansas.  I watch the smoke swirl off the tip of my cigarette, and as it rises, it becomes the smoke of the incense burning before me right now.  31 year old tripping me is seeing 38 year old not tripping me.  And I see him.

(Dust in the wind)

I didn't know then what future me was smiling about.  Now me doesn't know why past me has ever stopped.  Past, present, and future me congregate in this little nexus, and we don't talk, we don't exchange pleasantries.  We simply exist, under the same stars.

 Stars that themselves, are already past, present, and future.

Sunday, September 2, 2012

In the Middle of Everywhere.

Sometimes I just need the lights off.  I fit better in the dark.  I like the room illuminated by nothing but the harsh glow of my computer screen in front of me.  I like seeing the wisps of smoke from my stick of incense occasionally wafting in front of my eyes.

Many years ago at a party I was introduced to scotch with water.  All of my drinking buddies and alcoholic friends tell me unanimously that this is the "pussy way" to drink it.  They're probably right.  I don't really drink much at all anyways so it doesn't matter to me in the long run. It felt nice, made me warm, and didn't burn going down.  Some would say the burn is the point.  Maybe it is. I don't like the burn, so fuck it.  I'll take it smooth.

Except I have no scotch with me, so its all a moot point.  I'm just thinking in this moment that I'd kinda like that.

That's just it though.  In this moment there are a few things I can think of that I'd like, that I don't have.  None of these things are material.  None of them are possessions.  None of them are tangible.  None of them are here.  So I think about that scotch with water, and keep dreaming.

"To die.  To sleep.  To sleep perchance to dream.  For in that sleep of death what dreams may come when we have shuffled off this mortal coil, must give us pause."  (I think that's how it goes, but I'm too lazy to actually go look it up.)

I have never, not once, not a single time in my life had a dream that contained nudity.  For someone who makes so many naked jokes, and lives as much that way as convention will allow, this seems kind of strange.  I also can't fly in my dreams.  I cannot commit murder.  I've tried, but the people always remain alive.  I can't read in my dreams.  I can never remember my lines when I'm on stage in my dreams, and if someone is delivering a message to me, I will never, ever receive it.

I can however slam dunk a basketball, and breathe underwater.

Of all my little recurring themes I like that one the best.  It always starts out so terrifying.  I'm underwater, and drowning.  I feel the pressure.  The burn in my lungs.  I feel everything collapse.  I feel blackness wrap around me.  In the deepest moment of panic, I just tell myself...its okay.  Just breathe.  And then I do.  The pressure lifts, the light returns, and I can see everything.  I always feel so happy in that moment.  When the air comes back.  I'm beneath the surface of some raging sea, but inside I am calm.  I can move.  I can explore.  I can breathe...only because I told myself I could.

In my dreams, I can accomplish the impossible, simply by telling myself I can.

"We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little lives are rounded by a sleep."  (I think that's how it goes, but I' too lazy to actually go look it up.)

Sometimes I feel in waking life, like I am underwater.  I try to communicate, but the words come out muddled.  I have so many things to say, but if I open my mouth it is instantly filled with silence.  Everything looks just quite not right.  As though light refracted bends the reality to something grotesque.  Not quite the way it should be.

On ancient mariners maps, where seas were untraveled or undiscovered, the mapmakers simply drew pictures of large scaly sea-creatures and wrote the words, "Beware all who enter, for here there be monsters."

In the English translation of Dante's Inferno, the sign over the doorway to hell reads, "All hope abandon ye who enter here."

Jean Paul Sartre informs us that "Hell is other people."

I have spent a large part of my life trying to ignore the apparent and congruent truism of these statements.

I feel overwhelmed by the pressure of existence.  So much of it.  Everywhere.  And that's just my little speck of minutiae.  The world is a big place.  The solar system even bigger.  The galaxy unimaginable, and the universe...well...its just so much stuff.  And even more
and even more
and even more
nothing at all.

Here there be monsters.

In my entire life, I will encounter such a small percentage of the everything, that I may as well not encounter anything at all, and even that much seems sometimes like so much.  Like too much.

Unless I have my lines and blocking, I will virtually shut down in large groups of people.  And this large group of people is less than one percent of one percent of one percent of a fraction of a millionth of one percent of all the people there are or ever have been.

I am, in the grand scheme of nothings, so incredibly insignificant.  And me...I am the most significant thing there is.  My brain chases its own tail.  I am consumed.  I can't fathom the vastness.  I can't imagine all the imaginings.  All the stories.  All the passions, and drives.  I can't comprehend the lies, and truths, and cheating and plotting, and planning, and preparing, and ridiculousness of cleverness that is always happening right next to me at any given second.

Every single person next to me, any given instant, is in pain.  Is happy.  Is sad.  Is getting over a loss.  Is preparing for something new.  Is in love.  Is in hate.  Is thinking about something that is more important to them, than it is to anyone else, and they can't comprehend how it wouldn't be important to everyone else they meet.

Every single person next to me, any given instant, is hungry.  Is full.  Is celebrating a birthday, an anniversary, a job promotion, a wedding, or a divorce.  They are praying, or thinking that prayer is ridiculous.  They have to pee.  They have a funny taste in their mouth.  They are secretly worried about that cough that just won't go away.

Every single person next to me, any given instant, is missing somebody.  Is with somebody.  Is with an old friend, or making a new one.  Is thinking about what to say when they see someone.  Preparing the lie.  Preparing the seduction.  Preparing the apology.  Preparing the sales pitch.

And for some reason.  Some reason I can't understand...  I'm always aware of all of this.  I can't stop being there inside my imagination, inside their lives.  I can't not be overwhelmed by how incredibly meaningless every single bit of it is, and yet...

How really
Its well...

The most important thing in the world.

And just when its all about to crush me.  When the light is going out.  When my brain can't take any more of it...  That's when it happens.

I just tell myself...


And I do.  I remember that I can, and that all that stuff happening on the surface is exactly how its supposed to be.  That this reckless life is beyond comprehension.

It is all of those completely unrelated parts, that make up the whole.  That make it all so goddamned spectacular.  That as different as all of it is, as completely pointless from one person to the next...its all
the same fucking thing.
 And I realize

In my waking life, I can accomplish the impossible, simply by telling myself I can.