Soundly, Calmly, Resolutely

I believe I have accomplished an unofficial sensory overload.
Having no desire to do anything self-destructive is very disorienting.

Cigarettes taste bad.
Alcohol hurts.
Sex is an aching void.
And sweets feel abrasive.

The surprising result of this collection of shifted sentiments is not the woebegone angst of a purposeless twenty-something boy. Actually it's quite the opposite: unbridled possibility.

It's not necessarily so easily defined as to merely be called optimism but there is hope in it somewhere.
And with the search for this rogue hope I shall revitalize my will to be everything I possibly can in the coming season of my life.

And while I may one day need to smoke, drink, fuck, or binge, I'll still hold to the center I'm wandering toward at this time in order not to fly like a spastic pendulum from one manic extreme to the other.

I soundly, calmly, resolutely refuse.

Here goes the plunge

While I stare somewhat contentedly out the kitchen window of my small studio I realize that I'm happiest when I'm not trying to be happy.

This notion is nothing terribly novel and yet it comforts me.
Perhaps my well being is only as strong as my ability not to consider it too fiercely.

The days all begin to roll into one another the more I release my iron grip on holding each one to some sort of productive standard.
What I will do shall be done.
What I won't shan't.

And what I will become is only the next thing and the next moment.
There are so many, many moments.

Don't tell me not to go

Whenever I hear someone telling me square in the face not to do something
I immediately resent them.

Sometimes I will listen and ponder
And then agree.

Mostly I just turn on the blind ear
And find the tiniest sound in the room other than that voice.

Lucky for me
Your sound was too loud to hear anyway.

And all of the tiny sounds
Were telling me to fly.

The night my house was blessed by a witch

Tonight my house was blessed by a witch.

She was not a bad witch.

But she was not a usual witch.

You see she was a he!

And we will keep calling her she.

It flows.

She was a joyful soul.

She filled up her laughs all of the way to the top.

She held talents in her hands like the sky holds stars.

She was a muse.

And she sat with me.

Just with me!

To inspire me, to permit me insouciance, to uplift.

She showed me many things she had created, had drawn for years.

Her pictures were lavish arrangements of precise details.

The length of her investment in their constitution showed in perfect crosshatching.

And once she left I felt her absence.

Only then did I see the drawing on my refrigerator white board:

She had left a little part of herself with me, in my home!

The length of her investment showing in her showing me.

Carrie

I wouldn't have said anything accept that you saw everything I had, I think.
You looked so much farther into me than I thought a person could.
You reached behind my eyes and sorted through my thoughts.
You seemed to sink into my blood and travel toward my feelings.
How I ever let you in like that is still and most likely always will remain a mystery.
A pleasant curiosity and an overwhelming relief: that is what you are to me.
The way I am permitted to be when we are together is something I cannot fathom or put into proper words other than to say that I'm finally allowed to take flight.
Considering the fact that rising into the air of my own accord is something after which I long on a daily basis, every moment spent begging the release of gravity, and you give me permission, this is what makes you the most special.
I love you in immeasurable, ineffable ways.
If only we had had more time to stare, more words to speak without tongues, I feel you would have known this tonight.
I know you're capable of so much more than simply listening.
You have the incredible ability to hear me in my most silent screaming.
What will my heart do when it is once again solely responsible to bear the weight of my innermost downs?
Surely you will never part from me completely.
Yet I feel the surety of our soon to occur separation and it is one of the few things allowing me these moments of grief at the thought of my departure.
Oh that your essence would alight on the metal wings of that vehicle which will ferry me from here to yonder.
Only soon to be followed by your being.

Amidst the beauty

When I look around at all of this, this silliness, I can't help but feel a bit detached.
It's not because I don't care. By no means. Quite the opposite.
It's because everything is so beautiful.
I don't want to be caught up in enjoying one beautiful thing while missing out on another.
I don't want to get dizzied and overwhelmed whilst standing in midst of organic chaos.
Rather I remove myself. Somewhat. Though not all of the way. I must still feel active, alive.
And in taking myself just far enough away from everything to see it all, as if seeing one's whole house and yard from an airplane, I am permitted to revel in the simultaneous beauty with near absolute surrender.

I take it all in; the warmth of the people and situations and places softening the hair on my arms; the bursting palette of shades and textures making my pupils shrink; the smell of crisp, open freshness rejuvenating me like waking up with the sun in the middle of the woods; the clamorous cacophony of every word, wind, and drip blending into the faux ocean waves of tv snow.

Where might I find myself if suddenly reinserted into some part of the whole picture?
In an ethereal version of Where's Waldo I would look for my hair above the jostling throng.
And I wouldn't find myself. At least not my body. But somehow, amidst all of the untamed intricacy of the masterpiece, I know without doubt it is where I belong.

Pay attention to the small things

Do you want to know what makes me supremely upset?

Even if your answer was no I'll proceed to detail anyway:

People who are full of themselves.

You may think of this profession as one that ought not be written considering how painfully obvious and assumedly universal it should be. But the fact of the matter is that the keenest of its offense is found in those who are completely unaware of their own ailment.

That is to say, the ones who don't realize that they are full of themselves are the most annoying.

Again, I realize that many of you may or may not already feel this way.
Even so pay attention to the small things, won't you?

Sunday as it should be

Having spent the early hours catching up on the sleep I missed the night before while serving the Houston Rockets round after round of Sambuca, I awoke just before 11:00 to the sound of my phone ringing and the crisp sunshine of yet another sharply cold Portland morning pressing through my window. Wayne was calling to see whether or not I would like to accompany him on his Sunday morning rite of a visit to the local Finnish steambath and sauna. Realizing that I was completely without hangover (the result of working too late to procure any Sambuca of my own) I felt that a healthy dose of humidity might be just the ticket to guaranteeing a good day.
We agreed that Wayne would come around for me within a half hour. I boiled the water and ground the beans for my morning french press while simultaneously throwing on some semblance of a warm, half presentable outfit. I had just slipped my arm into the first sleeve of a plushly insulated hoodie when my phone began to ring again announcing Wayne's arrival. Coffee in hand, keys jangling obstreperously, I rushed out the door and down to street-level where Wayne waited patiently in his SUV. Making our way to the spa we chatted lightly although both of us were still somewhat foggy with morning sluggishness.
Located in one of my old neighborhoods, I marveled at having never before visited Löyly. The interior was sparing yet quite stylish. The reductionist aesthetic was complimenting to the simplicity of the notion of simply sitting in a hot space and allowing all of life's myriad toxins to melt off. There was a steam room, a cold shower, and a sauna. Outside of the three was a spacious and naturally lit seating area complete with very, very quiet serene music and a selection of reading materials. And water. For drinking. There was tea available for purchase along with various skin care products meant to augment the healthfulness of the visit.
Wayne and I began by sitting in the steam room where we continued our conversations begun earlier on the ride over. We were a bit more cognizant at that point and could stand to converse with a bit more complexity. Following a brief reprieve in the lounge area we then visited the sauna where we both chose to be rather quiet. I began meditating and found it much easier to clear my mind with the pungency of the heated cedar and sizzling of the hot stones to sooth my sensory perceptions.
Once finished, we showered, dressed and headed to brunch where we were met by Lucie and her roommate Margaret. The four of us enjoyed a lovely meal at the Jade Lounge where our friend Brett had just begun serving the morning before. After coffee, bread pudding french toast, and huevos rancheros, the four of us parted ways and set out to continue our restful and enjoyable days.
Wayne dropped me off at home where I decided to read and relax so as not to upset the placidity of the primary part of my day. Through the hazy stream of cigarette smoke, I stared at my computer screen and decided the whole ordeal deserved to be recorded. How often is it that a chance morning turns out so picture perfect? With the ambiguity of the answer floating lazily with the blue gray smoke I set to work.



And now, for today, I am through.

Time unwasted

I slept most of the day today.
I missed things I would have rather been able to do.
But I knew I needed it and thusly decided not to feel remorse.
It was this long, deepish sleep that yielded some strange yet crisp dreams.
It has become more and more obvious to me that dreaming is increasing.
I've had friends tell me that they're been dreaming much more than usual.
This is a gift I think.
Perhaps we're all growing to be less and less asleep.
And perhaps that is what's causing the waking to bleed into dormancy.
Whatever the case I try to hold onto the images and possibilities of fantasy behind my eyes.
I can fly, I can see, I can invent.
There is so much possibility.
What if I were to die before the end of this year?
A question worth asking I believe.
We all must question the longevity of our being from time to time.
It undoes the hubris.

Teaching One to Love Reading

I've always felt more strongly connected to the reading I do where a reference is made to something else I've read.

When an author alludes to the epic battle of Troy, Odysseus's tormented venture homeward, the seven rings of the Inferno, the Glass family, or Nancy Drew I can't help but fall just a little bit in love. I feel special, intimate, in the know. As if the author and I have now officially become brethren.

There's more and more love to be found in reading when one realizes how incorporated literature happens to be. It's what makes us up-and-coming authors feel some sort of right to the field: we are officially in the know.

And we want so badly for others to be as well. So much so that we write and write and write and write. We hope to come up with a way of gaining a new member of this not-so-secret society. And we want our writing to be the door through which they choose to enter into the sanctum of scholarship.

So in essence, teaching one to love reading is tantamount to teaching one to meditate. The student must possess the inner-desire, it's the talent of a teacher to unearth and foster that preexisting passion.