Likely Last

But not necessarily.

Until further notice, I will be posting Mah Shit to a blog with a new name:

Nakie Time with Isaac the Mad Hermit

I suppose I'll have to make it look all sparkly and stuff at some point. For now it's just a standard template.
here's the link:
http://crazynakedhermit.blogspot.com/

Normal things made dirty

"Can I have some almond milk?"
"Of course. You can have as much of my nut milk as you want. Straight from the tap"

From Fullness Fullness Comes Out

I just had a tremendously long poop. It was fascinating, realizing how much poop can be inside of you.

Just a friendly reminder: most people, yourself included, are actually full of shit.

Spyder

Two days ago when I went to shower at my aunts, I found a spider there, chilling in the tub of the shower. One of those common garden spiders that's got a lighter brown pattern strip down it's middle that people always worry if it's a violin shape and thus a brown recluse (it's not.)

I used to be terrified of spiders. I would see them everywhere. Like that kid from the sixth sense. Like Peter Parker. I had a spidy sense too. Only it was more literal. I would come into a room and immediately start scanning corners, under tables, and a list of other places, checking for spiders. I found spiders where no one else thought there were any. I was like a bodyguard securing the area. If I found one, I would break into a cold sweat. I would edge away from wherever it was, as far as I could get without backing into another spider. I wouldn't be able to concentrate on anything else until it had either been killed or removed from the premises. And if it ran away before it was removed, I would be on even  higher alert, eyes constantly darting from danger zone to danger zone, ready for attack.

I couldn't kill them myself either. The feel of them squishing beneath a tissue or the sight of them curled up was frightening in itself. Mainly I made my mom do it. She tired to get them out safely, but sometimes, like when they were behind my bed, she knew she had to kill them, because if they dropped and got a way, I wouldn't be able to sleep in my bed without pulling the covers over me to the point where they nearly smothered me and staying awake for hours, violently twitching and spasming whenever I felt the tickle of a leg hair moving, afraid it was the spider come back for blood.

Though I wasn't always afraid of spiders. When I was really young, I would pick up spiders and scare my babysitters with them. Though I did have a healthy fear of the enormous wolf spiders that were semi regular appearances around he outside of the house, under the porch and in the garage. Those things are bigger than gerbils and to a little kid they look about as big as god. So when I got locked in the crawlspace with some dried up husks of the behemoth spiders to remind me who I was being forced to share the space with, hiding somewhere in the shadows, it made me uncomfortable.

I wasn't technically locked in the crawlspace. I could have gotten out at any point. But on the door of the crawlspace was a black, big butted web spider that I thought might be a black widow. So I called out for someone, parent or sibling, to help me. And called. And called.

Apparently we had good floor insulation, because I was screaming and crying for probably a good 45 minutes before anyone came to get me. That's a really long time when your little. Triply so when your frightened for your bodily fluids being devoured like cherry Slurpy by dog sized hell spiders.

I eventually got out, but not without scars of the psychic variety. However, I guess one time wasn't enough, because I did the same procedure at least two other times, before realizing it was a bad idea. (I think the last time, I actually was doing it to try and show myself there was nothing to be afraid of. Backfire.

This is all just to say, I was afraid of spiders for most of my childhood life, growing into physical maturity (I'm still growing into emotional maturity.)

The fact that I eventually mostly got over that fear is testament to the power of the meditation I did, and perhaps the other processes I engaged in for self growth. I don't know of any better encouragement or advertisement for picking up a good meditation. It won't make everything in your life perfect, but it will improve things, seemingly at random, that nothing else has been able to touch.


So, the story today: I stepped into the shower, noticing the spider. "Hey bud, I think your gonna want to get out of here. It's about to get a bit hairy for someone like you." no response. "OK, I warned you." Turn on the shower, trying to aim it away from the spider. Spider moves, seemingly at random, more into the shower. then tries to move away, but ends up moving into a big puddle and held their by surface tension. "I warned you." I feel sorry for the bedraggled spider and gently pick it up with a brush and deposit it on the shower mat to dry.

After the shower, I inspect it. the brush I used has hair in it which is tangled around the spider a bit. I know he's not gonna want me messing with him even if it is to free him from his hairy prison, so I leave him to dry and rest. When I come back later that day, he is on the other side of the bathroom, and I am happy he looks to be alright. Next time I check, he's gone.

Today I wake up, check my cell phone (in my awkward blind manipulations I had knocked it onto the ground so it fell on it's edge onto a bookshelf) for cracks, because I had a dream that I wasn't sure was a dream, where I checked my cell phone, twice and it's screen was cracked. (one of the most mundane dreams I've had. Mainly memorable because it's one of those dreams where you really want to do something but you are too tired to actually wake up and do it so your brain dreams you doing it and tells you it's real, so you'll shut up and go back to sleep.)

Then, I sat up, and....
the spider falls off my head.
.
...
I take a moment to appreciate both the silliness of the situation, and the fact that I am totally calm and slightly amused, rather than across the room, shuddering uncontrollably  in a sweat, with nightmare fodder for the next week. I tell the spider that I'm going to take it outside, because I can't guarantee it's safety in here. I tell it to get on a piece of paper, and stay put till I get it outside.

This time, it listens.

Cloak of Darkness

I am weaving my darkness, refining it, purifying it in fire, twining it with ethereal hands. I am dipping it in a milky ocean, beating it against obsidian rocks, washing it. Weaving a cloak of darkness to drape around me, protective, grounded as the earth, sparkling with the stars of heaven. This is my coat of arms, and I wear it proudly. It is not done being created.

The darkness within is not fundamentally our enemy. No more than yin or yang is evil. The Darkness becomes demonic when it looses it's anchor. I think that as long as you are alive, you will contain desire, and the whole range of emotions. When they are brought into balance, all is right in the world, heaven reigns on earth. But when parts of us are rejected, ignored, feared and hated, then parts of us become hate, fear, ignorance, separation. Maya is the world. It's beautiful and playful. Without at least some of it, there is no creation, no world, no life, nothing to love. no one to play with.

Sometimes spiritual communities, like the one I'm in, form a habit of rejecting their shadows. Hoping that eventually they will go away. And it's sad to see what happens, because they end up living half the life they could. never really complete, whole. They are cut off from their dark mother, from there own heart, because they can't accept parts of themselves. I did that for a while. What I'm doing now, is deeply satisfying. When the darkness is dealt with in a healthy way, it grounds you. It's a freedom from fear that is unshakable, like the second innocence some people gain after a hard life, which cannot be moved because it has seen all that would take away our innocence or peace, and it has swallowed it all, dissolved it in love. Dwelling on negative thoughts is mostly pointless, leading to rumination and then depression. But there is a work that you can embark on, where the darkness is transmuted into greater light. This seems to me to be the process of bringing heaven down to earth. The first step on the path is sometimes ascending to heaven, seeing the view from the mountain top, becoming aware of one's immortality. And then the second step is going back down the mountain, going into the dark and scary parts of the world, of our heart, that have yet to receive this light, and bringing them, one by one, up to the mountain top. This cannot be done if you ignore your shadow, if you deny it's existence or seek to escape from the places in you where it still lives.

The brighter the light, the more intense the shadow can become. I'm just doing what I always do, trying to describe my own path and pitfalls and any wisdom I've gained from doing the wrong thing and getting hurt or stuck. What I am doing now is very mundane. It's sacred as well, but it's grounded, it's simple. Part of me may be divine, but there are so many areas that are still afraid, hurt, angry. I think my first teacher was quite brilliant when he said that after the initial realization of the Self as separate from activity, the rest of the journey is that of action from the level of the heart. He called it devotion: action and surrender. The action is necessary. it almost doesn't matter what action. Sometimes it's just getting up and going for a walk, right now it looks like trying to get a job, trying to get a life. The feeling level tells me whether it's right action or not. The right action is usually the one that feels a little dangerous at first. uncomfortable, scary. But in the end, it feels good and right.

I felt like writing was right action. perhaps it is. though this particular writing does not feel right. How to find it.... It's the thing that needs doing. and when I've been ignoring it, like I have today, it gets progressively more uncomfortable. It rips at my chest, grabs my heart and squeezes it like an angry woman grabbing a man by the nut sack. "you know what you need to do. Now do it."

Its a testament to fear that I still often don't do it. Or put it off till she gives a few yanks. This place of action from rightness in my heart...

first off, it's blind. I don't have a goddamn clue what's right. I just have some ideas. And I go down the list.

I used to kill myself worrying about what I hadn't done. it was like the cruel but righteous woman was twisting my...heart... right out of it's socket, the pain of regret was so intense. So I worked on that, and now I can at least usually put aside my past failures, even the immediate past, and remember that doing what needs doing only ever happens right the fuck now. And the more I practice doing that as soon as I realize I've gotten off track, the more I get in the habit of going off track less and less.

it's ultimately an awareness thing. If I am aware of my predicament, I do what needs doing. If I'm not, it's a coin toss that usually ends up tails.

by predicament, by the way, is this: I am a mortal, fragile body, or at least I'm inhabiting one, and I could die at any moment. And I am deeply dissatisfied with my life and actions and feelings about my life. But if I can just do my best, I can be at peace. God, it's so cliched. How do I say this in my own words?

My mortality reminds me of what is important. My shame, when I see it clearly, is just my own heart kicking me in the balls until I do what I deeply want to do. I need that discomfort of seeing my life heading for the jagged rocks to get me past the inertia and fear and insanity that keeps me from starting these projects. And by starting, I mean sitting down, right now, and beginning to write, or play, or clean. Whatever needs doing. Every day, it's a start. Sometimes I don't start until late in the day. This is why it's easier in some ways to have a job where someone else is the boss. You're accountable to others. You need to get up, or you'll get fired. And so you get started, and it's good. I'm going to get a job soon, and I'm going to learn about jobs. I need to know how to live my life, and to do that, I need to do stuff, and find out what feels good and what feels wrong.

p.s. sometimes what feels good also feels really uncomfortable. It's scary to write a book and try and get it published. send it to editors and publishers and get subjected to scrutiny and rejection.



[notes from the future: this was perhaps necessary, working with my darkness, but suprissingly it seems to have come to an end.  Not that it's all done but it's done enough that it's time to move on to something else.  Which is still figuring out work and living in the world.  but the part where I talk about my guilt and shame motivating me to do stuff was ineffective and I don't recommend it for successful and continued creating.  I've found a system that is much more effective.  I might say infinitely more effective, since the system of guilt got approximately nothing more done than without it, and this system gets something more done that if I didn't have it.  I should write a post about it.  To sum it up though, it's much more effective to focus on what you do want to create rather than what you want to avoid (shame, for example), as long as you are also keenly aware of where you are now. Anyways, I'm maybe explain it in a new post.]

I have no idea where this came from

She had slender legs, like a swan.

But not a swan's legs, no, her legs were like the swan's neck, soft white, supple, rounding and swelling as the neck met the body and the legs met the butt.   She had green eye shadow, deftly applied, and her lids drooped indolently.  She was thin.   Ballet dancers are often unhealthily thin.  Ballet teachers are often unhealthily cold bitches.  The two go together.  You can expect a cold bitch ballet teacher to say to one of her girls, "you're getting kind of fat there.  I think soon you'll barely fit into your leotard."  And you can expect the impressionable ballet girls to take the comment like an arrow to there heart, embedded for years, festering and radiating out in all aspects of their life.  Ballet is an art for people who hate themselves.

But people who hate themselves are an easy target for other people who want things from them.

Brusequa was one such man-boy. He wanted pussy. Not literally.  Certainly he wanted to insert his prick into some female reproductive anatomy, but beyond that, he wanted the manly conquest of doing so, the status, the power, the smug sense of self worth that came from having stories about women submitting to him, letting him, begging him to give it to them.   Brusequa was, is, not a sympathetic character then, but to someone who had not been introduced to him via this open and truthful portrayal, he would be seen as clean, pleasant, and agreeable.  He had good manners.   He had a handsome body marred only by a too long neck that was an asset to the ballet and a too big nose that was a punishment by his author.  Something to keep him from looking to good, being to self-confident.

Don't think this made him appear humble, no, it made him present himself as even more prideful.  But it was just a tad bit of an act.  Not totally believed, for who could love that gargantuan nose.

Needless to say, he got the ladies he sook with his entry into the world of ballet. Men are always in short supply, so he could be a prima donna much of the time.  And being around all those women, so insecure about their pudgy, bloated waists that were almost as wide around as there wrists.  Oh la la.

"Francqua, Francqua, you must be joking. Oh girl, you are a silly creature."

"Oh, Brusqua, don't taunt me so.  I'm serious.  I'm practicing my part."

"It can't be.   Look at that frolicking.   You look perfectly ridiculous."

"Oh don't say such a thing.  Here, let me show you."

And the delicate creature proceeded to dance for smug Brusequa.

[writers note: what the shit is this? I'm so fucking tired. I just wanted to write something today. but ...must...sleep. faaaiilling.

sleep]

The ultimate secret of all fad diets

I'm going to save you a lot of time trying out different crazy diets and give you the drop of truth behind the mountain of bull shit.  OK, here goes:

Don't eat lots of any one thing.
Eat lots of different things.
Avoid processed foods.
Eat lots of plants.
If you need to add extra flavor to make it not taste repulsive then don't eat it.

OK?  That's it.  You want a good diet, there it is.  If you really want to get finicky some things that may have a hard to measure additional benefit:

Avoid weird chemicals (that's partially covered in not eating processed foods, but also means you avoid things with chemicals sprayed on or injected into them.)
Eat stuff as fresh as you can get it.

And to sum it all up in one simple concept: eat like a crazy forest hermit.

Elaboration:  eat like nature intended us to eat.  That's quite variable if you look at different 'primitive' peoples.  Extremely variable, depending on the environment.  But if you can understand and apply this principle in a non-insane way, you don't need any of the others.

There.  Now for god's sake stop giving people money to tell you fractions of this over the course of weeks and months and years and spend that time and money eating good food.

Happy Death Day

I'm not exactly sure what a Yartzite is.  I'm sure I could look it up quickly on wikipedia.  But so could you.  Stop being lazy.

For now I'm going to assume that it is the Jewish name for the yearly remembrance of the day someone you cared for died.  Yesterday was my grandmother.  Who's name, to me at least, was mamu  (pronounced "ma-moo").  And my name to her was "the little one."  Even when I finally grew taller than her (which was quickly.  She was quite short.)

Today was a friends birthday.  It struck me as quite appropriate, though novel to me, that a religion would have the equivalent of a birthday, but for death.  After all, They are, for all people, two of the most important days of anyone's life.

After my closest friend killed themselves, in addition to the grief, was an experience that made me unafraid of death, and quite certain that the core of who a person was kept existing after their body stopped working.  It was just a feeling, a feeling that, though I could no longer hear him as clearly, nothing about him had really changed.  He hadn't stopped existing.  I felt him.  It was the same kind of non-verbal, deeply intimate connection we had always had.

So it makes sense to me, to celebrate someone who you deeply love, yearly, even after they die.  It also makes sense that the celebration is a little different, because your connection to people after they die is different than before.  But I think they like having people who love them gather and laugh and think of them with love, and it's a good excuse to gather together with other friends and enjoy each other's company and maybe eat cake or something.  At the very least, death should remind us to live.

I make no guarantees about an afterlife   Who knows how the world works for sure?  How could you ever be certain of anything besides exactly what's in front of you right now.  But for myself, I'm not afraid of death, and, though I miss those that die, I don't grieve for them ceasing to exist, but for myself, and for the others who will miss them.

Death is harder on the living.  I don't want to die, but when I do, at least I won't have to live with it.

In either case, fill your life with love and things that matter deeply to you.  When it's your turn to die, how do you want to feel about your life?  Don't wait till you're old to think about that.

The Desert Assasin

[Idea for a story from a sticky note I found, covered in cobwebs and dust bunnies, as I cleaned and re-arranged my room]:


The Dessert Assassin

"I've got a problem with a certain... vanilla ice cream.  He gives me a headache.  I need him... taken care of."

"I can do that."

"I want to see panda porn.  It would be great because they'd be so reluctant."

-Me

(if this doesn't make sense, additional information: pandas, especially in captivity, but even in the wild, are going extinct as a species because for some reason they don't want to have sex any more.)

Conversation Fragment

"...ok, I'll wear the wig next time they're all over, but they can't take any pictures, and I have to wear my bathrobe as well.  That will be awesome"

"nooooo. you can only wear the bathrobe around them if you're decent underneath it."

(thinks for a moment) "yeah, I'm pretty decent.  I work out you know...."

Grammar

Talking-to: "You spanked mah pigs, boy, and nows yer gonna get a talking-to like you wouldn't believe."
Talking-tos: "Those pigs all need talking-tos, if you ask me."
Talking-to's: "Those are Grandpa Talking-to's pigs boy,"
Talkings-to: "and its talkings-to, not talking-tos."
Its:  "no pa, the American Heritage Dictionary says its talking-tos.  Also, you mean it's, not its, it's means it is, its is a possessive pronoun"

(pig shit fight ensues)



[this is what happens sometimes when I try to learn grammar.]

Titles: the sticky tired long goodnight

I was just coming up for air and as I floated on the surface of the dark ocean of my life at one thirty AM, I felt the desire to put myself to sleep with a post.  Blogger has re-jiggered it's look and has my page views displayed at the opening page, and I was incredulous to read a number over three thousand for all-time page views.  That seems grossly above what I should be getting for page views, since as far as I can tell I have about nine mostly anonymous friends who check occasionally to see if I've posted anything new six of whom are followers who know when I do.  Perhaps there are several page views per visitor or something.  I'm not sure how I'd feel if thousands of people read my blog.  befuddled, I guess.  Perhaps honored.

For some reason summer is ramping up my activity level.  It's been low to medium for a while, but all of a sudden I'm quite busy.  I don't prefer having to use a calendar/organizer to keep track of meetings and jobs, but it is nice to be busy with good work.

Thinking about names for my new blog... Something that conveys the jist of what I like to write, which is honest, beautiful, dirty, humorous, uncensored, informal, straightforward, and heartfelt.  "eloquent dicks"?  Also I guess I have to make sure the name is available, which is tricky.  Also I have to decide if I want myself traceable to it. It would be lovely to have the freedom of anonymity to write under.  I think I'd like it to be publicly accessible and anonymous, perhaps I'd let readers of this know about it, except anyone who's my  facebook friend could read it then.  I'd like to be able to make it personal, which means people I know should, for the most part, not know about it.  So I probably won't post the actual name here.  Just brainstorm.

open entry
the elegant rantings of a perverted hermit
death and bugs  (I think someone else has prior claim to that one :)
The Way Back Down (and sub title: penis penis penis penis)
Bathing Suit Flying Dreams
The only choice left
Gratitude for the moment: an assortment of erotic parables
Uncensored: life inside an unusual mind
The fantastic, erotic and scandalous life of Mr X
in search the nameless perfection my heart alone knows
the mad rantings of a strange pornographic spiritual crustacean


ok, time for bed.

Old posts, fuzzy slippers, a new name?

When I read posts from my friends blogs, it makes me want to write posts. Goddanm, they're so fucking interesting. So's it makes me want to give that back.

It makes me warm and fuzzing thinking I may be making someone else feel warm and amongst friends telling storys and sharing pieces of writing on a snowy winter day with a cup of hot chocolate and fuzzy slippers. Which is maybe a bit like how I feel reading friends posts sometimes.

Anyways, I'm going through my old posts, spell checking and posting old drafts that never got published. And maybe there will be some new ones. Though honestly, it may be time for a new blog name. I think the old one doesn't fit any more. I feel like I've graduated or something.

100+

Found this in my documents folder and thought I'd share. I don't know if these things are causal or just symptomatic (meaning just because people who live to 100 do these things, doesn't necessarily mean you'll live longer if you do them.) but it couldn't hurt.

I'm not sure where I got this from but I think it was an Ayurveda article from the raj.

The nine common factors of living to over a hundred from "The Blue Zones"

1. Stop Eating......when you're 80 percent full. Using smaller, 10-inch plates can help with this habit, as can serving meals in discrete portions instead of buffet-style.



2. Dine on Plants. Eat more veggies, and less meat and processed foods. A balance of healthful fats (such as those found in nuts); a variety of vitamins, minerals, and antioxidants; whole grains (quinoa, brown rice, etc.); quality protein (found in beans and lentils); and high-nutrient foods will leave you with stable energy levels and contribute to healthy body weight. Avoid buying junk food, or put it on hard-to-reach shelves, and cook your own meals whenever possible to avoid fast foods.

3. Keep Moving. Find ways to move naturally, such as walking, gardening, using fewer labor-saving devices. Get a pedometer to keep track of your activity. Many physicians recommend a minimum of 10,000 steps a day. And of course, as any yogi knows, nothing keeps you young like a daily dose of spine-twisting yoga asanas.



4. Slow Down. Balance work and rest, take vacations regularly, don’t overschedule yourself. In other words, stress less.

5. Drink Red Wine. People in most Blue Zone communities drank red wine consistently, but in moderation. The antioxidants in wine are powerful disease fighters; if you don’t want to drink wine, organic grape juice or other fresh juices high in antioxidants are a good substitute.

6. Find Purpose. And pursue it with passion. Having a purpose of life keeps you engaged, vital, and young at heart. Your body will reflect these qualities too.



7. Join a group. Create a healthy social network. People with strong social support groups are known to live longer and they navigate life’s ups and downs better.



8. Feed your soul. Engage in spiritual activities, which bring deeper meaning to your life. This doesn’t necessarily mean religious activities, even a walk in nature can be a spiritual activity, as long as it helps broaden your perspective and connect you with the wider cosmos we are a part of.



9. Love your tribe. Make family and community a high priority.

Firefly

May 18th, 8:35pm

First firefly of the season spotted.

I stand very still, almost not breathing, watching inside myself like an ancient hunter stalking a rabbit.

I stalk my heart, my pain, and the motions of my mind. My attention is rapt, hoping to kill, to love, to end the tortured life of the hurt inside me.

Only attention will do it, so I pay rapt attention. I listen to the feelings going through my heart like my life depended on it.

Because there's nothing else to do, and I'm tired of doing nothing.

Sometimes, little flecks of light drift out of my heart, like dandelion seeds blown on an unknown wind, like fireflies searching for a home. Touching down on random objects; sunsets, a finger, a big white wolf-dog, a piece of seaweed,

they impregnate the world with love.

I'd like that to happen more often.

Secret Posts

I haven't stopped writing by the way. I've got around ten to fifteen posts, that are still in draft form, that I'm just reticent to post. I can't remember why. Recently I've just been writing them in my journal because they don't seem fit for public consumption. Maybe I'll do something about that. Maybe not. Here are some trinkets, for now:

I'm going to bed really late, consecutively. That plus starting to work out more regularly = tired Isaac.

I have a girlfriend. Yay! How many posts have I complained about not being able to get a girlfriend? How many conversations? How many times have I tried, unsuccessfully, to just get rid of this desire so I didn't have to be so dissatisfied with myself? I feel like I'm out of character. I feel like I'm going to get letters to my script writers from angry, single fans who related to me and are mad that I'm gettin' some while they're still single and socially dysfunctional with relationships (jury's still out on my social disfunction. Give it a few months to shake out.)

Geoffrey Baker died recently. He was a wonderful, wonderful human being, hilarious and truthful and unique. Many people's lives will be poorer for his passing, but they're lives are richer still for having known him. Death may keep assholes from being king for too long, but it also keeps cool people from staying around forever.

Death and life have become more real for me. My emotions have become more real for me.

Still trying to figure out what to do, what new goal I should pursue, since Waking Up nuked my previous ambitions and entire paradigm of seeking. Currently I know one fundamental quality that is worth pursuing: Love. To elaborate, currently, I am pursuing my deep heart satisfaction and fulfillment, looking for a heart full of love and hopefully joy, though I think my vision of permanent happiness is a figment of my imagination. Not that it doesn't exist at all, but I'm pretty sure it doesn't exist how I picture it.

Hmm, it now occurs to me that my motto since high-school was "Truth, Love, Laughter." I didn't realize I might have been prophetic with the order.

The nugget of wisdom the universe gave me for today:

it's relatively easy to come into contact with your true nature, the Self, and recognize it. I'm confident that with most people who are sincerely interested, I could help them find it in an hour or two, and if they're open, five minutes. But the trick is living from there permanently.

Apparently, for that to happen, "...the mind must immolate itself in total surrender to the deep undifferentiated state; to the Divine."

Sounds right.

Rock n' Roll

-I

Choke

I choke on my own spittle periodically. I wonder if that's like reverse drooling. Stealth drooling. Dangerous though because if you actually start choking, it's way more conspicuous.

Peanut Butter

08/14/08

That's the expiration date of the peanut butter my aunt found somewhere in the house. It has been opened previously. When my aunt heard the expiration date she said in a surprised and frightened voice, to throw it out. However, I was curious, what three to five year old peanut butter looked like, so I opened it up. Knife marks. No mold. As smooth and brown as the day it was made. I think I have to try eating it. First, because peanut butter is awesome. It shouldn't be wasted if it can be eaten. Second, because how else will I know if peanut butter keeps for two and a half years otherwise. Tomorrow, I begin the experiment.

A very Sad Love song

I haven't posted in a while. I've written posts, but I haven't put them up. Some of my posts may be better left to my private journals.

nonetheless, I feel like writing a little something, for the oceans of adoring fans.

Life goes on. These last few weeks, New Years, brought back memories of Dan. I often take the opportunity of new years to review the year. And this is the first new years without dan. How long has it been? It was may. I remember it because it was so close to my birthday. When I got back from my Survival Treck to that email, one of my thoughts, after the initial shock and lack of reality, was, "happy birthday dan."

I can, I am, going on without him, but what a poorer world for me. Dan was my closest friend. I know of no one who's primary interest is as closely aligned with mine. We were scientists, researchers on the frontier of enlightenment. That was both of our's fondest desire. We burned for it with an unquenchable desire that kept us up late into many a night, discussing pro's and con's of paths, helping each other through each hardship as it came, discussing each new horizon and discovery.

We had such different worlds, were such different people, and yet the core was the same, the exact same. With dan, there was no drama. There were no fights, little ego between us, even when there was plenty between the rest of the world. There was nothing we couldn't tell the other person. We were each other's spiritual coaches and cheerleaders. We told each other where they were getting stuck, and it was taken not as a personal affront, but as a gift, showing each other where the next step might be. It grew over time, like all relationships, but right from the beginning, there was a resonance that was explosive in it's power.

There is no way to decide to get and then create something like that kind of friendship. It is a total gift, a miracle. Dan and I both knew that something like what we had was not the norm. that almost everybody went through life without having a friendship like that. Dan thought it would last forever, and perhaps he's right. I couldn't bring myself to believe that, since I knew it might end some day, and didn't want to feel the crushing disappointment of broken promises. I never let myself believe it would go on forever. I hoped. I dearly hoped.

I so much want to grow old with you, dan. You are not replaceable. I suspect you will always be missed by me. Every time I think of you, I see what my life would look like now, with you. We had it all figured out. From now till we were old men chasing around the nurses and streaking through the old folks home, laughing our asses off. I cannot imagine that my life will be richer without you. Certainly, right now, it is poorer for your absence.

I would like to believe that God will look after me, and send me the people or the person that I need to make life feel full. But once again, I cannot bring myself to put my faith in that, for fear of the heartbreak of disappointment. Sixty years old and still alone, realizing God has failed to bring me my mate. Or sixty years old with someone I only like.

It haunts me, the question, "can I find someone who I resonate with as much as Dan?" It seems a daunting, impossible task. How the hell to I find them out? I can only imagine, at this point, this late in the game, most of them have already been taken, have already found a satisfactory partner, best friend.

I'm not gay, fyi, but, it feels like I've found the love of my life, and they've died. Not just died, but killed themselves. And I wasn't there for them. Maybe I could have stopped them, and I didn't know, didn't take it seriously enough.

I hate being right, sometimes. I'm good at looking at situations in a level-headed way, weighing possibilities, and coming up with the most likely outcomes. Like realizing me and dan might not be together forever. I never thought he'd kill himself. But I realized, maybe we'd move to separate places. Maybe our paths would diverge. It was not preferable, but that stuff happens, in life.

And so it happened. I'd say, "I told ya so." but there's no one to say it to.

And now I say, it's unlikely I'll find anyone I'm as close to as dan. Not impossible, but looking at the odds, even finding one person I matched with that well is an outlier. Maybe not. Maybe I'm just a hard person to get to know. Maybe if I meet more people, spend more time with people, I'll find another. But I look around at my friends...And I can't find one person or one pair, that had as much intimacy as me and dan.

I'm not being hyperbolic (not using hyperbole.) There is no one on earth who I feel closer to than dan.

There are oodles of people who've been fucked up by his suicide. I'm just one. But I honestly don't know if anyone has lost much more than I have. I don't even know if anyone has lost as much. His family? Maybe. They didn't have the same kind of relationship I did. They only occasionally had the same kind of conversations. And, though they are all healers in there own way, none of them had the same identical frequency.

His girlfriend? Maybe. She may be more fucked up by the suicide. She and him had broken up by then though. And even she sometimes said she envied our relationship.

Are you starting to get this? I'm not just being Byronian and twisted and tortured. I'm fucking FUCKED. I had a one in a million friend. A one in a million million. One in a million people is this close to you, and one in a million actually meet that one.

I had it and I lost it. I have failed in the most gargantuan way imaginable. I have epic failed. You have to work really damn hard to have enough stuff at stake that you can fail that hard and that massively.

I just want somebody, everybody, to fucking get up and salute me and say, yes, you really are a bigger failure than just about everyone else. You really screwed up, more massively than almost anybody else. Maybe it wasn't your fault, maybe it was. The bottom line is you lost many times more than most people ever lose in several lives.

What I'm trying to say here, what I'm trying to get across, is that I, Isaac, have lost something. I have lost something huge. I have lost more than you and you and you. I've lost more than most people ever loose.

So YES, I'M A BIT FUCKED UP RIGHT NOW. If you wouldn't mind giving me a hug or something, I fucking need it more than you know. And the fact than I feel totally meaningless, passionless, uncaring, and depressed, WELL, THAT'S FUCKING UNDERSTANDABLE. so no fucking surprise, I'm not over it yet. No surprise, if I never really get over it. Not unless dan comes back from the grave and goes for walk and talks with me once a week like old times.

I miss looking up at the stars and exclaiming in amazement at the vast and fabulous beyond description beauty of life, and talking in reverent tones about the deepest secrets of existence, with someone who's seen the same things my eyes see.

I really hope I am totally dead wrong. I really, really hope I find someone I'm even closer in spirit to than dan. Someone I can share the same night sky with. And talk with awe and reverence of the Great Mystery of Life, from our own experience of it.

You were such a bright burning star Dan. In all of my town, you shown brightly, turning heads. You gave life to the spiritual gatherings you attended, you attracted people with your wisdom and your humor and kindness. You helped many, many. so many have you helped. Perhaps there among them is someone, maybe, who you helped more than me. who's lost more than I have.

Eternity goes on. The great wheel turns. You'll have more chances to help. We, I hope, will have more nights to spend together. If I meet you up in heaven, I may slap you for your assholery. But then I will hug you, and we'll will catch up on all that we've missed of each others stories. Next time, come back as a fucking woman, and we won't have all these problems. eh, maybe we'd have more...

You've goddanm made my job way more difficult dan. you were supposed to be my support. and I was supposed to be yours.

I don't think people knew how close of a relationship we had, dan. Otherwise they might be more worried about me committing suicide too. Or else they just know me too well for that.

I don't want to let any of you worry, though. Suicide was never my thing. I came to that cliff long ago, and unlike dan, who looked down and said, "well, not now, but maybe later." I said, "that's not for me."

I've gone through more emotional pain than most people; it's one of the many things me and dan shared in common. If suicide was a viable option, I'd have been dead back when I was 14. The reason I'm not dead is I didn't believe it would solve my problems. That, and when I tried everything I could think of to get out of that emotional pain, something worked.

What worked? First, as an initial pick me up, meditation, and second, as a continuous crutch, a group of friends.

It scares me, how reliant on friends I feel. I am scared of the power they hold over me, angry sometimes. They have the sole power over my happiness. I don't have control. When I am lonely and miserable, I stay lonely and miserable, until a) some random amount of time has passed or b) I am with friends.

[Notes from the future: I'm leaving this untouched save spelling corrections. If you read this and feel offended, don't. This is just a record of my feelings, raw and uncensored in the heat of the moment, not an accurate statement of my general understanding and beliefs. I don't actually feel like I got the worst end of dan's suicide. I've got no way of telling how it affected other people and I don't care how I'd compare. What I was saying was evocative of how I was feeling in all it's pure, childlike, irrational intensity]