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.

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

A Old New Year

Blogging while offline

January 3^rd. 2009.

I like irony, even when it is happening in my own life. I would be very unhappy if I wasn’t able to laugh at the joke my life often is. Not a mean joke, in my opinion. Though I have the opinion that all is always for the greatest good. But only cus’ it’s true. Either I look back and am awed at how perfectly and wonderfully my life has unfolded, even and especially the parts that were the least savory while unfolding, or I look back, and I see a piece of the puzzle that has not yet fallen into place.

Let’s start with the Biltmore.

The Biltmore is a very, very nice hotel in Miami. One of the scenes from “Bad Boys” (2? 3?) was filmed in the Al Capone suit, and around the hotel. The Lobby and surrounding areas have soaring pillars leading to ceilings at least three floors high, if there are ceilings at all, and not just open courtyards, all surrounded by equally high pillars and centered around huge fountains. There is a feeling of decadence and easiness about the place. The staff are smart, helpful, and nice. Everything bespeaks opulence. The beds are large, the pillows soft, and everything is wood or stone. The windows are taller than you are. It feels like some fantasy land, where you want to take your wife and have passionate, languid honeymoon sex, interspersed with high quality rooms service, and perhaps the occasional venture to the pool to wash off sweat and saliva. The pool is enormous, literally hundreds of feet long, with a coffee shop that has a waterfall/aqueducts spilling out over the awning, into the pool. And private cabanas, leading to the pool, created out of exotic greenery that kept me busy for an entire afternoon, admiring the diversity and beauty of the plants. It must take an army of gardeners to maintain the overflowing greenery surrounding and within everything. In fact, all aspects of the hotel seem like they must require a full time maintenance staff of hundreds, constantly keeping up appearances. Lord only knows when they did their work, because I rarely saw them. They must have lived in the walls or something.

In the front entrance, were two huge bird cages, mostly covered with cloth, but with windows in so people could look at the beautiful, exotic birds. It made me a little sad, as I watched them and thought about the nature of captivity. Perhaps this hotel Paradise was itself a beautiful prison.

The culminating moment of the stay was new-years eve. I had returned from a good french restaurant, and was up in my Grandfather’s suite, up in the tower area of the hotel. I had come up before the rest of the family, and I opened the windows, and before me was the city lights, swirling in the city heat like a sea of stars, and above, the actual stars, and on the horizon, the crescent moon, just setting, a red crescent falling quickly into the city haze, right next to a red blinking tower. And as the moon set, all around me, fireworks started going off. The sea of stars was exploding, and here I was, high above the city, seeing in all directions, from my warm, safe world of hand carved wood embellishments where every need was catered too before you even thought of it.

Later on, the rest of the family came up to grandfathers room and we played a light game of texas hold em, until midnight, when we put down what was going to be the last hand, and watched the fireworks come back on full blast. It was gorgeous. I felt like the whole world was celebrating me, saying “Congratulations! Well done on 23 years!” Leaning against the old, tall glass window pane, gazing out, I felt like I should be in that position with a soft, flawless, fair skinned woman, naked except for the cold sparkle of diamond jewelry, pressed between me and the window as we gazed out at the metaphor of our lovemaking exploding before us.

Then, when the fireworks slowed down (they kept going for hours afterwards, just less frequent) I sat back down to the table, got a straight on the draw, bet everything, and won the night.

Of course it was magical, and I wish I had a diamond lady to share it with, but more remarkable even was the communication. You see, I talk with the universe, and the universe talks back. Not in the queen’s english, but in physical metaphor. That is, life is a communication. The patterns, the symbology, are a very rich communication. It’s like talking with vision and touch and emotion and everything, all together. In that way, you could say the universe is a book. Though sometimes it feels more like a chat-room. In any case, the whole night was a powerful communication, which is not yet complete. But the importance of the message has been underlined by the power of it’s delivery.

Now, the Sea Pine Inn.

Here we have a second part to the communication. The image/phrase that comes to mind is “tempering.” That’s where you take something like a sword, and strengthen it by first making it really hot, then really cold, then repeating. Well, I went to Florida, and got warmed up, and then came here, to Newark, and got chilled again. More important, I went on vacation, and got pampered, and now I am on assignment, and am being terrified and disgusted.

Let’s talk about the Sea Pine. It is a ‘Motor Inn.’ I don’t know what that means, except that you have to put down your address and license plate number if you drove here. Tracker students often stay here because it is the only hotel right next to the pick up point for the Tracker School. So if you don’t have a car and you want to arrive a day early, this is the place.

As far as I can tell, the only other use for this place is sex. And not the clean, luxurious sex of the Biltmore. No, this is the kind of sex that will turn you celibate. I walked through the sketch run-down half-empty plaza that was adjunct to the Pine, caring my wheely suitcases, and made it in without being mugged. Which I know is unlikely but can’t help worrying about anyways. Two men hanging out in back of the plaza probably weren't doing anything illegal, but could have been robbing the stores or receiving payment for sexual favors or drugs, or just having a smoke break out back. I’ll never know. The receptionist was pleasant. She seemed nice, overworked, probably happy to see from my beard and suitcases that I wasn’t going to fornicate on the key or computer cable which each required a deposit (cash only) to be refunded upon return of the key and ethernet cable (which, by the way, didn’t end up being used anyway, since the internet outlet was broken. I am typing this up on open office.)

I should probably mention, since it would be unfortunate to wait till it was over to comment, and miss the opportunity of being able to say, that, as I type these words, I can distinctly hear the thumping, fake moaning, and, unexpectedly, laughter, of some people having sex in some adjacent room. I can’t tell whether it’s above, below (in some secret basement dungeon... but that doesn’t keep with the theme of blatantly obvious, and if it was a dungeon there probably wouldn’t be laughing (which is sad)) Welp, looks like he finished. The thumping and fake moaning has stopped, as quickly as it started, and has been replaced with the original sounds of television. I’ve got to say, when I heard the sex start, I was kind of happy. I knew it was just a matter of time, but I was afraid they would wait till it was bedtime to start and be loud and obnoxious and keep me up all night. I guess they’ve got kids to get back to or something. I just hope the shmuck doesn’t feel empty and depressed and stay up all night watching tv. Soundproofing is one of the few things you’d think they’d do. But no, I guess it’s part of the ambiance.

Back to my description; when I entered the room, I locked the flimsy push knob door and hooked the chain lock into place, still worried from the disclaimer I had to sign, about the hotel not being responsible if any of my property is broken or stolen, or I am somehow injured here at the fine Sea Pine Motor Inn, Waretown Plaza, Tom’s River New Jersy. Unfortunately, when I turned around, I found...astonished horror: another door! Leading right the fuck outside. I put the flimsy dead bold in place and contemplated taking out my knife and hiding under the bed, but decided I didn’t want to be down there, after discovering an opened condom wrapper shining underneath the bed.

The red led clock is flashing at 12:00. I'm sure it was 12:00, and probably always will be, at 12:00 (am, I assume) because no one gives a flying pinwheel what time it is or what the alarm is set to because they are not here to go to sleep and wake up the next morning they are here to have a quicky with a hooker or mistress or perhaps even with a partner, away from the kids. The table is covered in splotches of what is probably not seamen, but so help me I can’t think of what else it would be, and even worse, I accidentally touched it and now have a greater than zero chance of having some sexually transmitted disease.

Let’s look at some other fine details. You know, the See Pine Inn really caters to it’s customers just as thoughtfully as the Biltmore: there is a microwave on top of the tv cabinet, perhaps for warming up prosthetic sexual appendages, lube, or after-orgasm burritos. There are two boxes of cleanex on the mysterious sticky substance stained table and in the bathroom (which is useful because the toilet paper holder is directly behind the toilet and a foot from the ground) and at least half of one working power outlet, the other socket of the pair being blown out or melted or kicked in or something. The phone by the bed has the number for the Sea Pine Inn Restaurant taped onto it, perhaps for post coitus microwave dinners.

The shower looks dirtier than me, and the energy-saving bathroom timer-light-switch has the knob removed, so there is effectively no light in the bathroom. Just a fan. Which perhaps I should use, since something about the room's smell is making me nauseous. Or perhaps it’s talking about it that's bringing bile up my throat. I don’t think so; writing doesn’t generally do that to me. Oh, the toilet has a nice paper strip over the top that says “sanitized for your protection.” which is quite thoughtful and practical, really. Even if all they do is put a new one of the paper strips on the toilet each time a customer breaks it, without actually touching the toilet themselves it still confers a (false) sense of safety, that, at least you won't get herpes/aids/genital warts from using the toilet, which is otherwise a serious concern.

A few more little gems: The lampshades are covered in plastic, and with good reason: they are filthy. There are large mirrors all over the place, including right over the bed. That’s right, on the ceiling. I think that could only have one purpose, aside from freaking the hell out of people who wake up at night and see a face staring down at them.

Last but not least, there is a little pink envelope, with the Words: “THANK YOU FOR STAYING WITH US! Your Housekeeper has been ___________. We hope that everything done for you has met with your satisfaction. Your Housekeeper has tried to make your stay with us as pleasant as possible. If there is anything we can do to make your stay even more pleasant, please let us know.

If you wish to leave anything for your Housekeeper’s effort, we are providing this envelope. Please come back and stay with us again soon. It has been our pleasure to have you as our guest. -The Management.” And yes, after picking it up, my finger tips felt greasy and defiled, and I searched for something I could wipe them on before typing any further, that I did not own and would never touch again.

Well, now you’ve got a little taste of the ritziest and the sketchiest hotels you’re likely to find. I think I may not be back to the sea pine any time soon. I hope.

On an interesting note, the fact that the Biltmore was one of the nicest hotels I’ve ever stayed at, and at the Sea Pine Inn I am sleeping on top of the bed covers, in my sleeping bag, doesn't really matter. Not even the fact that I was pampered and comforted by everything around me and huge amounts of expensive food, vs. having a splitting headache from traveling and going from warm to freezing, and not eating anything because I’m afraid to go outside with the sun down and money on me. Frankly, I am alive, well, and entertained. Life is amazing, funny, always new and growing, and beautiful. Always beautiful. And you KNOW that word “beautiful” means something more, because we are currently talking about a place that’s atmosphere is best described as, “inundated with stale seamen and the cigaret smoke of decades.”

trying not to vomit, cus it’s bad for my teeth enamel

-isaac

Nov 17^th, 2010

This entry is much later than the other two, but I am finaly coalating and editing this for publication on my glamorous and highly paid blog.

Tying into the end of the previous post, I vomited this morning, for the first time in many, many years. I was lieing on the floor, practicing an Alexander technique exercise, and I suddenly started feeling incredibly nauseous. I was confused, since all I'd eaten was a vitamin supplement and an amrit tablet. I figured I'd just lie down, skip breakfast, and wait it out. Probably take a dump later on as my body tried to quickly evacuate whatever it was that shouldn't be there. Just then, a friend called me about our lunch date. I explained that I had a really bad stomach ache, and then realized that it was feeling so bad I might have to hang up the phone suddenly to vomit, which I explained. “um, so, no lunch date then?” hold on... just sec, call you back.” beep. GLAAARGLGLARGBLAGGGgggluh... There was nothing to throw up except something that I assume is spit or stomach mucus, and a bright orange half dissolved vitamin gelcap. Well. At least I know without a doubt that I really shouldn't be taking that vitamin.

I'm kind of afraid of vomiting. I think about it and draw up pictures of hurling so hard and nonstop that I can't breath, hideous stenches coming out of my mouth, burning sensations, and feelings of trying to breath in while stomach contents are coming out and choking. But this was really very gentile. I just relaxed and let the gag reflex get something out of my stomach that the incredible intelligence of my body had determined was very bad for me.

That reminds me: if anyone wants most of a bottle of high quality multi-vitamins, I've got some for you. They probably won't make you vomit.

Dream #32

I had a dream last night where an old friend was jamming there finger into my gut chacra until I started crying about how I didn't care about anything and so I didn't have any motivation to make anything happen and if that was my life than I mine as well be dead.

It felt good to get that out on the table.

It also felt good to cry.

This is not to say I discovered some miraculous truth: more like I discovered a big underlying belief that had been eating away at me. Once these things see the light of day, and get felt, they're on there way to being processed.

I use the digestive system analogy extensively, these days. It really is like emotions are food that you eat, digest, and shit out. except a lot of people have serous digestive problems, and are hugely constipated. Because you don't have a choice about eating them, but you do have somewhat of a choice about digesting them and pooping them out. Not a simple yes/no button, but the ability to either digest and poo, or hold it in. Also, there are things that can be done about indigestion. The problem is people refuse to admit they have digestion problems (or constipation problems.)

That is: they refuse to admit, even to themselves, that they are holding in emotions, ignoring them, pushing them away, doing everything except letting them be felt and thus passed through.

That seems to be the key: the feelings won't stop until you receive the information they are trying to give you, and to do that, you have to listen, and to listen, you have to feel.

fuck. me. (not in the good way)

I kind of hate myself.

OK, hate isn't quite the right word. It implies a violent emotion, one which desires to destroy or hurt the object of hatred. It's more a frustration and despair.

Why:

I have ideas about who and what I should be, and should be doing, and I'm not those people and I'm not doing those things. Or anything remotely close.

I'll give some illustrative examples:

I'm not a wildly successful entrepreneur for green technologies.

I'm not a world changing activist who inspires millions to take up arms against our destructive system and plant gardens.

I'm not a spiritual bad ass who gives up everything to find a perfect master and totally trusts in God.

I'm not a normal bad ass who one pointedly devotes himself to some mastery and uses it to better the world.

These are things that I am not. And I think they are better, more important jobs than mine.

The result of that is that I feel crappy about myself.

The solution is... I don't know, but it's been suggested that I try finding a way to truly appreciate and love myself, as I am. It sounds really nice and comforting, just to think of. Easier said that done though, as old habits are hard to kill.

Also with that understanding, comes the homework of being ok doing what I'm doing, rather than trying to do what I think I'm supposed to be doing. I'm here working on a dinky little pipe cleaner stick figure, while I'm looking over at Michelangelo, thinking I should be practicing making marble statues and shitting on myself for not doing so.

I have to start from where I am, and do what I'm capable of doing. maybe that looks really, really unglamorous. Maybe for some classes I need to be in the special needs class, and it's hard for me, when in other classes I'm in the Advanced Placement version.

That's right, I don't universally think I'm a horrible person. There are some things I recognize are good about me. Mainly because friends have told me so (I still have a lot of trouble recognizing these things for myself.) That often just makes me more upset about my shortcomings, because I blame them for keeping me from being able to share my gifts and actually do some good for the world. I feel like a grade A cretin, for being given so much and doing so little with it. But fuck you muther (*&^er, (this is the self hate coming through), I can't do what I can't do, and if I am special ed with something, that's what I am. There will always be someone better and worse than you at anything. If you hate yourself and tell yourself your crap at it, you'll feel like shit. Maybe you'll use that to motivate yourself to get better at it. But that never worked for me, or anyone I know, so if it worked for you, let me know, because I'd be interested in that story. It would be a new one.

The other option is to look to what you have done, what you do have, give thanks, and take the next step, from where you are. And take a look at what all the parts of you make up, and live from there. Maybe I'm not good at organizing and motivating myself. I've tried to get better at it, but I just kind of suck beans. Well, I'll do my best to improve that, but maybe I should find somewhere or someone who is good at that, and do what I am good at.

Accepting reality is a relief, because you can stop arguing with it.

This is all easy to say. very very easy to say. It is a huge fucking deamon to slay though. It's a lot of emotional slogging, a lot of work and learning.

But hey, at least that's one of the things I'm good at.

;)

I go once more into the breach, into the consciousness coal mines, for another day, month, or year of backbreaking, dirty, mean labor. I'll let you know when I find some gems.

Never say Goodbye

Dan was my best friend in the whole fucking world.

Dan was closer to me than any other human being or animal or idea or anything I have ever interacted with.

If I was gay, or dan was a woman, I would have married him. A while ago too. As it is, he's a man and gay sex is icky to me, so I'm going to skip that image

Dan and I were different in a lot of ways, but in all the important one's it felt like we were brothers, twins, almost, no, not almost, two half's of one whole.

I think probably less than .00001% of people on earth ever have as intimate a relationship as me and dan had.

We were each others confidants.

I told dan, and dan told me, things that will never be spoken to anyone else.

We were each others guru's.

We moved along at the same pace, bootstrapping each others evolution. The flavors were sometimes different, but it was like woman syncing there periods when they work together for a long time. It always ended up that, as we talked, it turned out we were dealing with the same fundamental issue underlying things. Our views, while divergent enough superficially to give rise to debates, was fundamentally identical. We both grew exponentially faster, having each other there to help us.

Except for the last few months.

We were each others supports. When we couldn't talk to anyone else about something, we could talk to each other. Hell, Dan's girlfriend of several years was jelous of the depth of relationship we had.

It is so exeptionaly rare to find a soul that is so resonent. Both Dan and I knew it. This relationship was not normal, was not something you could expect from life. it was something of extreme value and rarity, and we both had ridiculous gratitude for it, from the very beginning and never abating.

I really hope Dan isn't my soul mate, because he's a guy and he's gone from physical manifestation. But I wouldn't be surprised at all if he was. I could be sad and bitter that I can't give him a hug or have a regular conversation with him any more,... and I guess I am. But frankly, the extreme gratitude for such a rare opportunity, is much stronger. The fact that I had any time with such a relationship is a pure and extreme miracle and blessing.

I love you dan. I love you so much. No one but you, me, God, and the few blessed lovers/brothers who have had such a relationship, will ever know how much.

Today I got all my birthday letters, because I was gone for 9 days, starting on my birthday on my survival trek: the culmination of my 8 month primitive skills apprenticeship program. It was an awakening and reminder that, despite how uncomfortable it can be, being cold, wet, hungry, I love living out in the wilderness, as part of the wilderness enough to justify the unpleasant aspects. Though I also know damn well that survival doesn't have to be a struggle or a pain, but can be pure luxury and joy and adventure. As tom brown says, "if primitive survival is uncomfortable, it just means you skills suck." In any case, I was reminded that, despite being rained on and quite cold and cramped, I'd sleep in a debrie hut any day over a bed inside, or even a sleeping bag. not because I'm trying to be cool or extream or have some idea about living sustainably, but because sleeping in something natural, made of natural materials, in tune with the local enviroment, made by myself, and being woken up by first light to sit outside my little human-nest and worship God as he rises in glory over the unspeaably beautiful landscape, is worth every bit of back strain, sleep deprivation, dirtyness and wetness. And it only gets more comfortable from here, because I am constantly learning and getting better.

Anyways, the point is, for whatever reason, today is an extraordinarily significant day. It is a day of death and rebirth.

One final note on this thing we call "death":

it's a crock of shit.

there is no such thing as death. it's a fairy-tail invented by someone or some people, to scare little children into eating there oatmeal. I've never seen a single death, only transformation. If you believe in an afterlife, then you agree with me.

Except 'afterlife' is a bad word for it, since it's still life.

If you don't belief in an afterlife, then it doesn't really matter anyways. we're all going to die and go out like a candle and we won't be around to think about how terrible it is that we don't exist anymore. The fear is totally irrational and can be dropped without any negative consequences at all: just try and live as good and joyful and satisfying a life as you can. Really, logically, that is the only answer on how to live, eather way. The only difference is that, as seems highly probable, there is is an 'after' life, there's not even any illogical reason to be anxious about leaving the body.

Dan didn't say goodbye. That bugged me. But I understood, soon after, why he didn't leave a note:

we are all eternal.

there are no real goodbye's.

So there's no purpose in saying something like that.

that's why I usually end with something like:

be seeing you.

Until then: I'm gonna miss the hell out of you, dan.

Me right now = James Bond + Cookie Monster

I just ate a whole bunch of chocolate chip cookies that I just baked instead of dinner, and for lunch I had the huge stir-fry with quinoa I made, plus three almost whole, fried Smelt (since we were learning about candle-fish in class, and how to clean fish) and I feel sick now, and have a head-ache from too much staring at the glowing screen in front of me.

I regret nothing.

(said with the same intonation as a secret agent being tortured for information, refusing to crack.)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V9rzMaAucI4

Sometimes, I have sex with you, when your not looking.

sometimes I fall in love with someone from a few words, from the inflection of the voice, from an anecdote or two.

sometimes, my heart burns, literally burns in my chest, like it's on fire, like I'm on fire. Like tonight. I want to do something with this person. I want to have sex with them and marry them and be with them always. Right now. and I am blocked from doing so. and it burns like an inferno consuming me.

now, I've found at least the beginning of a solution. It started with me realizing that the one blocking me from having what I wanted was me, and by the same token, I could let myself have what I wanted. So now, when my heart burns and my spirit lusts for a dream of a girl I want utterly, I let myself have her, have it, and I make fabulous love with the patterns of light and feeling that are her body. It is desperate need fulfilled, and it feels a little bit like masturbation, in that I worry I won't pursue actual women, because if I want them I can just have them, immediately and unreservedly.

But that's not exactly how it works.

though it is partially.

I will no longer pursue woman based on a feeling of fundamental lack that I think they can fulfil. I will no longer pursue ideas of women that I have become infatuated with, taping paper masks to strangers faces and falling in love with my crudely drawn images.

Because those are things that they cannot give me, and they are things that I can give myself.

I'm not sure I can accurately describe the reason I would pursue women now. not because it is complex but because it is simple, too simple for words. Because i want to, because it is right.

I made deviled eggs today, and ate a few, and I just farted and it smelled like eggs.

also, later this evening, I made rice pudding.

this makes me very happy.

don't fail at love

I think I think to much, and act to little. Often when I was younger, I would think as an excuse for not doing something that scared me, but was probably the right thing to do. It was like a stall tactic. I certainly didn't do it consciously, but looking back, I can see how I just couldn't face the fear of failure, fear of not being good enough. Those things really scare me. what if I put in my all and it turns out I'm a nothing, untalented, stupid, forgotten within a generation or two. Squandering resources while successful people accomplish big things.

The real fear of putting in my all is that I will have a crystal clear vision of my worth reflected in my accomplishments, and if my accomplishments are mediocre then that means so am I.

And I have been convinced that I am mediocre. My attempts at relationships when I was younger proved that to me. I was a complete failure at having a romantic relationship. At even starting one. So it seems perfectly reasonable to my subconscious that I must really be a failure as a person, since i have failed at that most basic and important task of having someone of my choosing love me.

At the same time as I feel this way, irrationally and emotionally, I am aware that this thinking is only hampering whatever my potential is, and serves no positive use.

And the clarity of that understanding means I cannot do that any more. Not willingly.

I think it's likely I will continue to be timid and avoid really putting in effort. But from experiences with previous cycles of growth, it seems very likely it will be diminishing, and learning how to act directly and not get lost in mental mires, will be growing. It's exciting, very exciting, and also scary. I may have to face directly now or soon, my intense fears of being worthless and a failure. And to face those fears is to feel them, and they feel like ouchie.

U2, "it's a beautiful day", silence.

broken

spell-check on blogger is broken. so I may not be spelling well in the next few posts. My webcam is broken. my cousin just smashed into something and some part of his body is now broken. the screen door out to the balcony I'm typing on is broken. The sound system piped throughout the house sounds like a record at the end of it's track. It is broken too.

My heart is not broken. My heart does not break. My heart is made of rubber, not porcelan. My heart is made of meat, of muscle. It tears and brusies and rips. but it heals. It bends. Hearts are not weak things. They, like people, are indestructible. They bend. they may even snap, but they keep functioning, to whatever capacity they can maintain.

My heart has hurt a lot, for long periods of time, and deeply. and it's all forgotten. It mine as well be a story about a friend of a friend someone's neighbor told me. It's a good story. It makes a good book. It makes a good life.

I've done some things I'm proud of. I've never stopped loving anyone I have ever loved. I still love my first puppy-dog crush. I see no reason to stop anymore. I used to think I shouldn't love. That really hurt.

I used to think other people should love me like I loved them. That hurt a lot too. I used to think other people hurting or feeling uncomfortable wasn't ok. That also hurt.

I

I'm harsh to my mom. It's a sad thing. I'm not harsh to anyone else almost. It's even hard to appologize when I say something hurtful, and realize what I've done. for some reason, with her I feel embaressed to admit it.

There is almost nothing that embareses me enought to do something out of integrity, but that does.

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I want a page break here.

the sea at night is deep blue and soft. the sound of waves on the rocks below is soothing. I want to fuck a hot girl. I want it like I want comfort food or a nice laptop. I feel a lack or a hole and I want to not feel that. I think that maybe sex will do it, despite the fact that I know it won't. The only difference is I don't have a memory of having sex and what it was like afterwards, to remind me that it really didn't fill that hole. But I don't need it. I know the answer to this question, and if I can trust that, I can save myself time and energy.

however, I do think I should try to have a relationship. because I'm scared of it, because I don't know if I want it or not, because I don't know what it is, first hand, at all. I have mastrubation to extrapolate straight up sex. But I don't have any experience that can give me an idea of what a real romantic relationship is like. I want to. It's scary and exciting. I like adventure.

I can live an adventure, easily. I only need to keep reminding myself of one thing: the adventure is lived starting NOW. Not later.

Ok, I guess there's a second thing I need to remember, which is adventure doesn't have to look like anything in perticular. Adventure is an eye, not a thing seen. It is a hand, a way of walking, and not what you are doing or the place you are going. That takes care of itself.

hmm. I think that was a bunch of bullshit. I don't know what I'm talking about... no, I know a little of what I'm talking about. I know about the eye of adventure, and the walk of the traveler. but I am still timid to go that way, blazing my own trail, alone.

alone, alone alone. the name of the blog. the name of my heart. the deeper I accept that, the more I love. strangly.

I am what I am, and the more comfortable I am with that, the less afraid I am to look at it, and the more I look at it, the more I love it. In this case "what I am" constitutes everything I experience, know, and do.

what do I do? I seem to have choice and power to create my universe, my life. I seem to have to power to direct things. I seem to be only watching a pre-scripted play, either enjoying it or boo-ing it.

what's going on with me right now? what else is importaint?

It's newyears. ten minutes till the calenders flip to 2010 here in mountain time. It's a full moon, right overhead. Shimmering pool at night. Full of love. I do not know anything. I am much wiser than I ever was. I am much happier being me. I am quiet. anti-social sometimes. I am kind and loving, easygoing and silent. hilarious and timid. I lean back in my throne, the pool chair, and make dreams with the cloud scapes and the stars and the moon. it's newyears. drink a sip of really bad shampagne. sing badly.

fireworks from the hot tub (small dinky ones. beautiful.) good music. distant cheers. reflections in the dark window of the burning colored explosions.

bigger fireworks now, louder. Now some flashing lights approaching the place in the beach where the fireworks were coming from, I guess illegaly. Hope the cops let the firework benifactors off easy. they were a nice touch to the night.

there are so many amazing stories I am not living. but that must not be my concern. How should I live? I feel like I get close to the answer when I sit and stare in silence until the world starts to melt.

In that vulnerability of doing notihing my heart is tender, ungaurded. it quivvers in fear and excitment as it slowly, apprehensivly reaches out a hand to touch the most intimate place of universe.

there's only one way this could be more tender, ungaurded and loving, and that is to be doing this in the midst of every day activity.

I love you, whoever is reading this, and I love what you think of as your faults as much as the rest of you. because i don't see them as faults. They are what make you you. I love that. I know this is true for you because it is true for me, and loving myself is the most difficult person to love. He's the only person I treat worse than my mom.

why am I kind to people? I think it really is because I am happy inside. and when i get angry at them, I'm getting angry at myself. they just remind me of parts of me I don't like, and it makes me sad, that I'm not better.

people treat others how they treat themselfs. especialy when they're treating others badly, you get a view of what they do to themselfs, inside.

the moon says it better than me, look;

Reading writing

The best writing I do is that impelled by a strong emotional charge. I let go of trying to control the worlds coming out, trying to make a good impression, and let the emotion inside scream through the fingers moving and the black appearing on white and the letters coalesce into the outline of my heart, like dusting for fingerprints.

Tonight we talk about anger and forgiveness. Self anger, anger at what I have done wrong or am yet to do. My lackadaisical nature, my late nights, my inconsistencies and broken words. I am ashamed.

And always now, the paradox is attached to everything: I am perfect. Nothing to change, nothing to make better. I am forgiven. I am completely forgiven. Why? but there is no why or need for why. it is it's own answer. love and confusion, unworthiness to be loved and acceptance of the divine love.

I'm afraid to believe in myself because it means I will start moving, and taking risks, and that's scary to think about. That's why sometimes it's better just to do, and not let yourself dally with thoughts going in circles.

I read. Things click. I try to meditate, I don't know if it works anymore, if I'm doing it right. My body is mortal, my mind is fallible, my faith in Self is unshakable, but it is nameless, and all the words gather round it to throw stones.

It doesn't care. It loves them. The nameless non-existent man inside the center of my heart. The Mystery. The unseen, the unspeakable. Is it even knowable?

Too much thought.

All I really want to do tonight is bleed on the floor from my open heart and ask God where to find him. Is he on 5th street? Halfway out of town? I think he lives in the white house with the red trim and the quaint little tin garbage can and ceramic bluebirds on the steps.