Sunday Scribblings

This week’s phrase is I Believe

It is not poetic, well said, or an original thought, but … above all else, I believe that our lives are a gift—regardless of who that gift is from—and that we have an obligation to ourselves, to those that have passed, and to future generations to make this world a better place to exist. If we each did one thing everyday, no matter how small, to benefit others out of pure selflessness, we may all find life a little more palatable.

Sunday Scribblings

This week’s phrase was/is “I knew instantly;” a list seemed to be in order:

I knew instantly . . . that the words, my words, would be the escape from the world that I could not comprehend.

I knew instantly . . . that you would leave me a trampled shell of the person I was before walking into that class.

I knew instantly . . . that I could withstand more pain, suffering and agony than most boys of that age.

I knew instantly . . . that my departure was more than a step towards freedom.

I knew instantly . . . that something would get fucked up by my temporary assignment away from you.

I knew instantly . . . that being in your presence would lift the weight that had been crushing me since birth.

I knew instantly . . . that I was a nomad.

I knew instantly . . . that I would owe you my life.

I knew instantly . . . that I would eventually come to hate you, and you me.

I knew instantly . . . that I had made a horrible mistake by not going to medical school.

I knew instantly . . . that I was not as good a person as were you.

I knew instantly . . . that your death would haunt me into adulthood.

I knew instantly . . . that my performance would never match my credentials.

I knew instantly . . . that you would not be the one that got away, regardless of the cost.

What I did not know was that I would be a thirty something adult caught in the endless struggle to be happy.

Sunday (or more appropriately in this instance, Monday) Scribbling

This week’s word is Tradition

Failure, deceit, broken promises, aloofness and physical ailments, the markings of an existence not yet complete. Since birth, he has experienced, known, digested, and accepted the same as his fate. There was a struggle once, a fight against the inevitable, but he is, if nothing else, the product of his upbringing. No amount of classes, lectures, broken hearts, devastation and false starts could break him free of the cycle of his lineage. They are, as much as anything, his birthright. The positive is that he is the embodiment of the tradition laid out prior to his conception.

His morning after

A follow-up to http://aloneontheisle.blogspot.com/2008/09/into-black.html The hangover is overwhelming, but the world is alive and I am gripped with panic. I want to remain silent, watch you sleep, and keep you in this bed—with me—for eternity. However, I know upon regaining consciousness, you will realize the gravity of your actions, recognize my age, my life’s plight, and my wedding ring. Better judgment will prevail, and run is what you will do. Excuses will fly wild, business meetings to attend, laundry to be completed, hair to be washed. I am a Wednesday night, a funny story to be told to your friends over too many cocktails, and a round of embarrassing admissions. This is my life’s highlight; an aberration from my daily pointless mess. I can’t recall your last name, but I want it to be mine, or at least the one I choose upon our escape from my hell. As you stir, I know not what your words will be, but I know they will not be enjoyed.

Sunday Scribblings

This week’s word is Stranger

Door slightly ajar, lights off, internal voice of excitement deafening.

* * *

I had been trolling the darker side of the internet on a lonely Friday night.

* * *

The music permeating the room was upbeat, but wordless.

* * *

I had nothing, and everything, in mind; I may have posted my email address.

* * *

The scent was unmistakably vanilla.

* * *

It started with an anonymous email, “Midtown Hyatt, room 636, 9:30pm, come in silence.”

* * *

I fumbled my way out of my clothes and into the bedroom.

* * *

I had heard about things such as this, but refused to accept that they existed.

* * *

We grouped, poked, prodded and fucked, uncontrollably, in complete and utter silence.

* * *

I reemerged into the light, noise, and going ons of the normal world, a new man, transformed by the faceless, nameless, wordless sex of a complete stranger.

Goodbye

He whispered thirty-two simple words into her ear before returning to the inevitable:

“While I have everything every other man would ever want, it is because of you, and the time we spent together, that I will no longer question my existence on this earth.”

(Inspired by the final scene in Lost In Translation)

Sunday Sribblings

This week’s word is Change: The face staring back at him in the mirror is a tattered combination of exhaustion, abuse, self-loathing, loss, fear and hope. As another week comes to a slow and painful end, he is once again presented with a chance to start over. To put down the cigarettes, walk away from the bottle, leave behind the faceless sexual partners, and become the person he always dreams he will be in the moments of sobriety and solitude. Every Monday offers the chance to begin anew and start the maturation process internally promised, yet still unfulfilled. He knows, in this moment, that the fresh weeks before him are becoming less numerous than those of his past. The problem lies in the fact that the life he seeks—one filled with completeness, pride, and restful nights—is one that he has neither known, nor understood. His existence to this point has been defined by the recklessness of his days; without them, he does not exist, at least not in his current form. Nonetheless, this is the week—he tells himself aloud—that the change will stick and that the embarrassment associated with his life will end.

It is about time!!

After eight painful years, I feel like I can breath again. Great fucking day!

Rejection

If I could respond to this week’s rejection, it would go something like this:

Dear Mr. Too Busy to Follow Through:

Thank you for taking the time—albeit a week after we had agreed, and only after I called to inquire about my pending application—to send me an informal form letter notifying me that, regrettably, you would not be able to offer me a position with your organization.

As you indicated, you interviewed “hundreds” of people for this opening, so I can only imagine that changing the name in the heading of the rejection, printing it, folding it so that it fit in the envelope, signing it, and plying it with postage, was an incredible inconvenience for you and your staff. I can sympathize with the interruption, as I faced a similar situation in flying up to interview with you, on less than five days notice, and to the tune of $1,500, on two separate occasions. Not often in this profession does one get a chance to meet an individual, face to face, who demands promptness and sacrifice from others, but fails to follow through with even the simplest of requests—they usually hide behind the alleged ineptness of others. For this, I am in your debt.

Finally, I want to commend you for reminding me why it is I loathe my career choice.

Very truly yours,

AOTI

Sunday Scribblings

This week's theme is bragging.

I am a master of masking the truth of the situation. Pain is hidden
behind toothy smiles; failure, canned statements of positivity;
destruction, shoulder shrugs; embarrassment, self-ridicule; hatred,
baseless compliments; attraction, outward indifference; etc. The key
to my existence is to be the same thing to the same people everyday,
regardless of the cost and/or consequence. It saves me from having to
explain my daily ebbs and flows to those I would rather avoid. I am
the definition of even keeled.

Time marches on

There is a back story; it is a long drawn out explanation of missed opportunities and nothingness. But an excuse it is not; we are adults, we should have known it would culminate in this—conversations riddled with pain, tears spilled on pillows not shared, and voids of human contact. For all its failings, it was a conscious decision made in a time long since passed. My response is withdrawal, yours is confusion; regret is a constant. Despite our best efforts, life continues, and, outside of the stated goal, we get carried away with ourselves. . . .

Future greatness

I see very bright things in this little guys future (I am a proud, bragging father).

Disaster of miniscule proportions

One trip each to Kmart, grocery store, and Wallgreens.

Four cans Hormel Premium Chunk White Turkey, one can Chef Boyardee Overstuffed Beef Ravioli, one can Chef Boyardee Mini-Bites, two cans Hormel Chili with Beans, one Dinty Moore Big Bowl Beef Stew, one box Original Club Crackers, half block of brie, one jar Goober Grape peanut butter and jelly mix, and one loaf white bread.

Six two liter bottles of water, one two liter bottle of Gatorade, ten beers, three bottles of wine, and a pack and a half of cigarettes.

Eight D batteries, six AA batteries, twelve AAA batteries, two 9 volt batteries, three flashlights, two headlamps, one camping light, one pack of candles, six boxes of matches, three lighters, propane grill BBQ with spare propane, three fully charged IPODS, and a computer to track the impending doom.

Half-day of work on Wednesday, and a “snow” day on Thursday.

Shutters closed, windows locked, drains cleared, mop ready.

Last supper of pizza and sangria with friends.

Then wait, and wait, and wait. . . .

Wake up to the bluest sky known to man, dry floors, and four messages informing me that “snow” day is canceled and my presence is required in the office.

Roll into work an hour and a half late with some explaining to do.

My first “hurricane”; fuck the weather people.

Sunday Scribblings

This week’s word is Forbidden

Dear Diary,

Dad is the greatest! I know I didn’t always feel this way. That I have spent a good deal of time complaining about not being allowed to attend school, play sports, make friends, or even leave the four walls of this house, but I see now that I was angry about nothing. As it turns out, father has been hand-picking me friends, and storing them in the “forbidden” room in the basement. He does it at night when he thinks I am asleep. By my count, he has already chosen nine boys my age. He must be planning a big surprise, because he hasn’t said anything about them. He is really good at keeping secrets.

I can’t wait for the big day, I only hope that it happens soon, and that all the boys like me; I have never had friends before.

Okay, I have to act like I am asleep now, or he will not be able to go tonight….

I love you dad!

Sunday Scribblings

This week's word is Wedding

Darling,

Your constant and incessant nagging has finally paid dividends, I wrote my wedding vows last night!! I know how eager you have been to see them, so I attached them below for your review. Please let me know if you have any thoughts, questions, or concerns; otherwise, I will see you at the church tomorrow!! Big day!!

Your obedient man

****

I, painfully unprepared, take you, pushing me every inch of the way, to be my wife, my partner in this Godforsaken life and my last fuck. I will begrudgingly accept our union and try and sink a little more into my own self-despair each day. I will neither trust nor respect you; I will laugh at you, and cry because of you; cope with you through good times, and run during bad. With this, I give you my middle finger, what is left of my decaying heart, and not an ounce of love, from this day forward for as long as we both shall live.

Do I know you?

My initial thoughts were of my family sitting at home, happily ignorant; of my decision to swing by the bar for "one more round"; and of my unwavering defense of the Second Amendment. But as the moments passed, I fell into my overly-observant ways. Unlike the stereotype, he was neither menacing nor mean. He bordered on polite and felt strangely familiar. He wore a cheap suit, Costco shirt and a classy red tie clad with small Scotty dogs. His black shoes were worn, but serviceable. He emanated exhaustion. Truth be told, as far as I could see, the only difference between him and I at that moment was that his hand held the gun, and my tongue served as its resting place.

Sunday Scribblings

This weeks word was Invitation

It was 2:47 p.m. on a Saturday when it arrived. It was between a J. Crew catalog and a jury summons.

* * * *

The envelope was light blue, bordered by multi-colored, hand drawn surfboards; my name and address was written in orange puff paint.

* * * *

He joked once about doing something such as this, but I never thought he would follow through with it.

* * * *

Two things were contained within.

* * * *

He was thirty-three; at various points throughout his life he had been a professional student, bartender/waiter, comic, international playboy, pubic health worker, client service representative, and attorney; no stone was left unturned.

* * * *

First, a shrinky dink in the shape of He-Man, with the following inscription on the back:

To: Big B
Date/time: Saturday, October 18, 2009, 1:30 p.m.
Place: Astoria Park
Attire: Active wear (a MUST!)
Bring: Hamm’s/Pabst (cases); Pop Rocks (many);
Twister; red rubber balls (five); rope

* * * *

He always was a planner—something I did not hold in high regard—and would settle for nothing less than perfection.

* * * *

Second, an RSVP card (again light blue, but adorned with sailboats):

Please Circle:

Yes*

* There is no other option. There is no return envelope (for obvious
reasons). You will be there. Do not FUCK this up.

* * * *

The sounds emanating from my body at that moment—a muddled mess of laughter, sobs, snorts, and shouts of confusion—were, as I imagined, exactly what he intended. After regaining my composure, I placed his invitation in my pocket and found myself, for the first time in my life, looking forward to a funeral.

Good, I guess....

The question was simple: “what word defines you?” As he sat, reflecting on his life, all he could summon was the word Good (definition: “serving the desired purpose or end; suitable”). He was a Good student; a Good husband, brother, son; a Good friend; and, as far as he could tell, a Good employee. But what he was not—painful as it was to digest—was Great (definition: “remarkable or outstanding in magnitude, degree, or extent”). In that moment, he felt his life squandered, for people are inherently Good (i.e., suitable), but only a select few are Great. It is those individuals that make the world better, the rest . . . they just make it a more palatable place to exist.

Sunday Scribblings

Fuck the “best part of waking up is Folgers in your cup” shit. I want mine to be dark as the ocean floor, thick as oatmeal, and bitter as rust. No sugar, sans milk and a cup the size of a mixing bowl. I expect nothing less than a slap to the head and a kick in the balls. It is the offensiveness of the experience that jolts me to life, not the copious amounts of caffeine. You may question my approach, but this early morning reminder of the painful and truly grotesque allows me to make it through each and every day, for no matter how bad the remainder may get, it will never be worse than its detestable start.*


*Today's word is Coffee (http://www.sundayscribblings.blogspot.com/). I would like to thank Quin Browne (http://www.quinbrowne.com/) for introducing me to this exercise.

Into the black

He watched as she bent invitingly over the bar in an obvious attempt to attract the attention of the overworked bartender. The hatred he sought—over her youth, sexual prowess and ever increasing control over him—could not be summoned. He was instead gripped by the fact that she was everything he ever longed for, but nothing he needed. As the justifications ran internally wild, he could not escape the reality that, at twenty years his junior, she may have been old enough to touch, but was altogether too young to be decent for a man of his age…profession…and marital status. For a blinking moment, he knew what he had to do; but before his conscious could catch hold—as it always threatened in moments of solitude—she was back, eagerly displaying the drink he didn’t want, but desperately needed. With out it, there would be no her. Without her, there would be no purpose.

“Bottoms up,” he whispered, as he knocked back any chance he had to escape the destruction of his future.

My words, your potential problem

They are my words, thousands on thousands of them—but my name is nowhere to be found. For upwards of twelve hours a day, five days a week, I slave over lengthy pieces, only to send them off into the world as the words of another. I knew as much when I took the position—I just did not realize that the archaic structure, rules and constant time constraints would drain me of my desire to put words on paper. If I were more skilled, I would find a way to break out of the traditional, but I am a conformist, deathly afraid to rock the boat and make my superiors question their decision to put their reputation in my hands. For me, no matter how painful it is to watch something I have written walk out the door without so much as a mention of my existence, it is more painful still to know that any possible disaster will have a minimal impact on my career, but could quickly thrust those that trust me into an unflattering light.

Almost there

Seventy-seven minutes left in my twenties; somehow I expected something different, I guess I was wrong.

Welcome to the neighborhood

All I wanted was a cigarette on my terrace. It was late. I was tired. She lives across the street. I do not know why, but I was drawn to her open window. Nothing outside of the ordinary was occurring—she was fully clothed, sitting on her couch, seemingly watching television, stroking her dog—but I was transfixed. I fully intended to look away if she noticed me; she did; I didn’t. In a moment of panic, I ventured off my intended course, hastily concluding that by nervously averting my eyes, my innocent gaze would appear as something sinister, so I maintained eye contact; plan deviation has always been my downfall.

For the first time since the incident, I ventured back out; her shades were drawn. I fear that I am now the creepy guy across the way. . . . I moved into my apartment five days ago. This is going to be a long year for the both of us.

Food tales

I received the following email the other day. I found it quite humorous, so, with permission, I am reprinting it.

***

i think only you would appreciate these thoughts. i was eating blueberries and as i was placing yet another handful in my mouth, careful to only eat the ones with the crunchy taught consistency of fish eggs, i glimpsed one that had been squished open. a wave of revulsion cascaded over me as i saw the white grape-like flesh inside. i had imagined that, like their outer layer, the insides were a resplendent deep blue, almost black. i imagined a skull opened with the brains showing in my moment of disgust as i placed this lone broken soldier to rest with his soft and structural integrity-compromised brethren. the feeling passed and then i finished the box.

i also cut open an organic red bell pepper only to find a poor mutant half grown pepper child living within the guts of its healthy yet heirloom tomato shaped host. i imagined the movie "the hills have eyes". then i threw it away and proceeded to eat said host with my fingers.

Off the radar

Sorry for the extended absence, the past few weeks have been hectic. If all goes as planned, things should slow down soon enough.

In the mean time.....

what happened to all the fun we were supposed to have together
How the fuck am I supposed to know
but you promised
I know . . . and
I hate you
I know that too
you’re a bitch
always have been
do you even care
I quit doing that years ago, I thought you noticed
I need a drink
I beat you to it
why does that not surprise me
go fuck yourself

Once bitten

This is something I wrote a while back. I got to thinking about it as I spent the better part of five minutes this evening chewing the nail on my thumb:

While they serve a plethora of practical purposes, I primarily view my fingers as a snack. The way I see it, they are the smorgasbord of the body, with each individual digit presenting its own cornucopia of flavor. The beauty lies in the fact that no two bites are the same, as each is dictated almost entirely by that days actions. For example, I may dive into a salty, luscious, vibrant nail or cuticle on my left hand in the morning, only to spend my afternoon feasting on a sour nub that requires a butcher’s precision on my right. As you watch me feed, you may find yourself repulsed, but before you judge, think about it, what better way to surprise yourself than with a nibble of the unknown? Now I realize that many are disgusting by my actions, but to those individuals, this is all I have to say: fuck off, I don’t criticize your meals, you shouldn’t criticize mine.

Decisions

My career path has gone in a direction that would offend most in my profession. I started out on top, nabbing what I, and many of those around me, considered to be a life altering position at a very prestigious outfit. After three years of constant abuse, I bolted and took a job at a less reputable company with the expectation of permanence. Unfortunately, smaller stature did not equate with a better life, so I cut bait after a year and took a term post on this island that was necessarily limited to two years. As that time quickly dwindles, I am now faced with a decision that will affect the rest of my life. I am no longer the young, energetic, workaholic I once was and am now unwilling to sacrifice my future wellbeing for another’s bottom line. The problem is, I have no clue what that step should be. As I confront this problem, I realize that everything I find interesting in life renders my six figure education—which I am still paying for—useless. The rational side of me says that I should give it another go and continue to try and prove to myself, and those around me, that I did not make a mistake in going down this road and that I still have something to offer to the world through my institutional instilled knowledge; but the irrational side of me sees this as an opportunity to break free from the daily grind and finally do all the things I talk about, but never have the courage to undertake. I have a restaurant to open, a clothing store to look after, an adventure company to run, a world to travel, and a very bad book to write. This time though, unlike the others, the fear of continuing to do what is comfortable, for no other reason than that is what I am trained to do, scares me more than striking out on my own and failing miserably.

A beautiful beginning

The manner in which the two of you interact reminds me of a schoolyard romance: the touches innocent, but meaningful; the giggles constant, but genuine; the looks long, but appreciated. When your hand brushes her skin, it is impossible not to notice her lips part and eyes tighten in what can best be described as rapture. Outwardly, the two of you lack commonality; you are an accomplished professional with the world at your finger tips, she bubbles with youthful exuberance, searching for the meaning of the life she is just now creating. Nonetheless, there is a truthfulness to your budding relationship that is taken for granted at our age. As an outsider, I envy the way in which you relate, the chainlessness of your combined existence, and the blind happiness that keeps the both of you coming back for more.

If you do nothing else today, watch this

I watched this for the first time today, and besides being struck by the pure and utter joy on the faces of all those involved, I was left with a profound sense of hope; in what I am not sure, just hope.

http://www.vimeo.com/1211060?pg=embed&sec=1211060

Exhaustion

The first thing to go is my patience, without it I begin to attack viciously those around me, blaming them for all that life has seemingly failed to provide me at that given moment. The next is my civility, allowing me to vocalize all things normally kept hidden in the darkest sections of my mind. Following that is rationality, plunging me into a world dominated by crippling doubt and a sea of what ifs and why not. Finally, and when I have truly bottomed out, I lose the ability to control my emotions. As the days string themselves together, and the collection of these normally hidden defects magnify, I become unrecognizable, lacking even the basic abilities usually associated with adulthood. This is when I begin to scare those around me. It cannot continue.

The circle of life

The fear of losing those I hold dear not only keeps me awake at night, but often causes me to drown those I love with constant affection. I now fear that this unchecked desire has lead to the unfortunate—and ultimately preventable—tragedy before me.

There were signs a few months back that my need to give you all that this world had to offer was burning you out, but I ignored them, choosing instead to chalk up your antics to the heat, childhood angst, stress, etc. I know now that I was wrong—that I should have paid more attention to the outward manifestations of your internal turmoil; that I should have set you free and allowed you to grow and blossom at your own speed.

As I say these final words, please know that I will live with this failure for the remainder of my days, and that no matter how many others come after you, you will always be the one that had my heart first.



10-1-07 to 7-1-08.

Say what?

I long to say something profound, to impress you with my mastery of the English language, but it never comes. I think, formulate, open my mouth and fuck it up. Your constant look of confusion would be comical it were not directed at me. I promise, I am deeper than I appear, have more to offer than a stupid grin and a canned joke; if given the chance, you may one day see past my ineptness, and appreciate me for what I am not – articulate.

I am sorry...

I know that you do not blame me, but I can not help but to blame myself. I have a sinking suspicion that if I had given your very rational fears even the slightest credence, you would have listened to the voice that created your initial wave of concern, and things might have turned out differently. I should have protected you. I failed at that and I am extremely sorry—I will never let it happen again.

**Head bobbing off beat**

Every person I know longs to be somewhere else, doing something different. I am no exception. If I am honest, and I rarely am when it comes to these type of things, I want to be a member of a dance troupe. I can see it now, me and my crew gyrating down the street guided by our freedom and the smooth beats of [name your favorite artist here]. I figure all I need is style, rhythm, dedication, years of professional coaching, and six lucky individual to believe in the dream. . . .

Growing pains

He attempted independence at twenty-one, but could not rid himself of his overbearing family and their ever present fears about his health. At twenty-two, he received both a gift – the long awaited transplant – and a curse – the added fear of a full body revolt. Now, however, a year later, at the age of twenty-three, he felt himself breaking free from his caged-self. For the first time, he was strong, capable, and free from the daily regiment of drugs that had kept his body viable since birth. As he giddily spoke to them about his revised hopes and dreams, he felt a shift in the family dynamic – he was no longer only resented by his siblings for receiving all the attention, but also by his parents for not giving it back. They had dedicated their lives to making his last, and he wanted nothing more than to experience everything they had foregone to care for him. And on what should have been the happiest of days, he learned his cruelest lesson, no love is selfless.

Scared into hiding

I tell people I am neurotic about my personal information because I do not want to be found. The truth is, I long to be discovered by those I abandoned. To be told that my absence is noticed, that my sins can be forgiven. At this point, even a scathing email would be a welcome relief, as it would confirm that my presence meant something. Putting the excuses aside, the fear that no one is looking is the real reason I mask my identity. For the thought that I have been erased—by my own doing—sickens me to no end.

You are the light at the end of my dark tunnel

I fear that my overbearing presence has trampled your dreams; that you will one day look back on your life with regret because I dominated it. I have never had anybody be dependent on my existence, and that intimidates me. What happens if it doesn’t work out; if I choose a path that leads to a life of unfullfillment? I worry that you were meant for something more than this……than me. The thought of clipping your wings and making you less of an asset to this world than you are meant to be paralyzes me.

I want nothing more than for you to tell me that this will all work out, that we will continue to be as happy tomorrow as I perceive us to be today; but again, that would be me laying the weight of my selfish single-mindedness on your shoulders. It is not your job to placate my demons, you are more important than that. I fell in love with you because of your passion for life, and want nothing more than to continue to see that fire rage. So, as we reach our next cross-road, please be honest with me—and regardless of how I react, I want you to stand by your desires, for, at the end of the day, it is more important for me to have you shine that it is for me to get what is easy.

Thirty-two years and counting

I have thought about this post for weeks now, trying relentlessly to compose the perfect piece to honor this occasion—but, as I have come to accept, there is no combination of words that I can put together that do this day, or you for that matter, justice. Thus, you are stuck with my tired, oft stated, and dull birthday wish.

S, you are the best person I, or anyone who knows you, has ever met. Everyday of your thirty-two years have been a blessing, and we all long to spend the next sixty plus in your presence. While others struggle to leave their mark on the world, yours is already firmly entrenched. I hope you take this one day to realize just how amazing you are, and understand that each and everyone of us are is complete and total awe of you on a daily basis. Your kind heart, gentle smile, and constantly outstretched hand makes us better, even if we grumble at yet another one of your “good person” ideas. Nobody is perfect, but you are damn close. It is both and honor and a pleasure to be able to spend this day—even if it is 1500 miles away—with you. We love you, and wish you the happiest of birthdays.

Titles

I could not think of anything to write about, so I decided to take the fist few songs that came onto my ipod and use their titles in a story. They appear in the order in which they played.

Everybody knows that there is so much more to this seemingly two-headed boy than meets the eye. While he appears to be stuck up the spout of life, dreaming of a wild world, he is bound to become more, a man of conviction. Amongst his future accomplishments, he will build Havana, under the cover of darkness, in his small section of the world; artfully recreating the place his parents once called home. But in this moment, there is no rush, for he knows that all in good time, perfection will come. And while waiting on the night, he will slip between the bars of society, pucker his loose lips and kiss the gentle moon.

Songs: (1) Everybody Knows by Gougers; (2) There Is So Much More by Brett Dennen; (3) Two-Headed Boy by Neutral Milk Hotel; (4) Up the Spout by Mateo Messina; (5) Wild World by Cat Stevens; (6) Man of Conviction by Brandon Rhyder; (7) Build Havana by Future Clouds & Radar; (8) All In Good Time by Ron Sexsmith; (9) Waiting on the Night by The Greencards; (10) Between the Bars by Elliott Smith; (11) Loose Lips by Kimya Dawson; (12) Gentle Moon by Sun Kil Moon.

Change in the blink of an eye

I am trying to play it cool, but am having a hard time forming a coherent sentence. I desperately need a drink, but fear my shaking hand will give me away, and you will see how smitten I am with your presence. Six minutes ago, in a world that did not include you, I was a statue, incapable of emotional attachment. But, in this minute, I am the definition of vulnerable.

The Devil pt. 3

Notwithstanding my stated intention to tell her upon her return to the continent that I no longer harbored a place for her in my heart, I broke. As her arrive neared, I spent countless hours in the gym, completing my transformation from a 230 pound blob to a 170 pound sculpture. The vision of her stepping off the plane and being memorized by my new found physique and confidence drove me. On that fateful day, I drove to the airport with flowers in one hand, and my middle finger prominently displayed on the other—torn as to which would make an appearance. As she trudged down the ramp, I lost my nerve—I handed her the flowers, gave her a kiss, whispered that I loved her, and shed a tear.

Her reintroduction into my world was awkward. I was forced to distance myself from those that had kept me company the past 12 months out of fear that they would disclose one fact too many, and my cover as the faithful boyfriend would be blown. I truly wanted to make it work. The problem for her was that in her absence I had rebuilt myself into a confident—if not arrogant—young man finally able to cast aside the sheepishness that had caused me years of turmoil. She noticed a difference and it scared her.

For the first time since the inception of our relationship, I had the upper hand. The year of partying, pastries, and overcast skies had done a number on her once magnificent frame, and olive complexion. She was bloated and ghostly; I loved it. To make matters worse for her, I moved into a house with my high school buddies—individuals who had known me pre-devil, and were hell bent on having me join them in their quest to cast aside all things socially acceptable. Her groupies were gone, replaced by an odd cast of unique female housemates. Either due to a growing sense of attachment, or a feeling of loneliness, she fought for us.

For the most part, I appreciated her effort, and did all I could to make her feel welcome in my self-centered world. But, unlike years past, I did not spend every waking minute pining away for her—choosing instead to enjoy the company of numerous inebriated women who longed to show me the “true” college experience. Nonetheless, while I enjoyed the endless company, I basically stayed true, keeping it in my pants long enough to make it to the devil’s layer. As we came to accept our new existence, it appeared that we were going to make it. Or so we thought.

Halfway through the year, we were both accepted into a program that would send us to the Nations capital for a semester of work and classes. Accompanying us would be a small group of like minded degenerates.

Once in D.C., I fell in with my roommate and a shy, diminutive young genius—we did not know it then, but this would be the foundation of a lifelong friendship. We were almost immediately joined by a loud, pudgy, constantly drunk graduate from our college who I had befriended years before. The four of us quickly realized that we had three very important things in common: (1) our love of woman, (2) an abundance of free time, and (3) our love of the bottle. The thought of a healthy relationship was comical.

As our boozing reached epic proportions, we fell in with a crowd of lively, attractive and desperate co-eds. While the devil was a constant at all functions, I really do not remember her presence all the vividly. I know there were fights, excuses, and sneaking around. The fact of the matter is that I clicked, became comfortable in my skin, and mastered my now infamous ability to detach myself from any situation, regardless of its chaotic nature. This would serve me well as I blocked the devil out, bedded her friends and ran amuck. Why she stayed with me, believed my absurd excuses and blanket denials, I will never know; but I suspect it is because she had actually fallen in love with me.

Unfortunately, like all good things, the school year and summer came to an end, taking with it my freedom—we were home bound—the devil, myself, and my begrudging acceptance that I needed to put the craziness behind me and give “us” another try.

And she's back

Her name appears in my inbox, and my heart skips. I know better than to dream, but I can not help but wonder if this will be the time she apologizes for the years of neglect, the hurtful silence, the lost childhood. But as I eagerly scan the page for any sign of remorse, I am disappointed; left, once more, to slowly exhale the desperate breath held within. Predictably, there are excuses; short clips of joyous days spent in my absence; and dreams of new beginnings. They are cookie cutter -- seemingly written in days past, stored, only to be sent when she senses me letting go of the pain. I want to delete it, cut ties, and walk away – but I fear such an action will eliminate any possibility that this will some day change, giving her an excuse to blame this ridiculousness on me. For in the end, I want nothing more than for her to realize that she needs to love me as much as I need to be loved.

Silence at last

Nine hours, forty-two minutes and fifteen seconds is all it took to silence the defeatist voice that has been present since childhood – if I had only known, I would have pushed myself to the brink years ago.

One foot in front of the other

My first ultra-marathon is on Saturday. As I write this, I am sitting in the airport waiting for the second leg of my journey to get underway. Upon my arrival, I will meet up with my wife, good friend, and, a bit later, my sister and her new boy toy. For the next four days (as it has been for the five or so days before this moment), the conversation will center almost entirely on me. We will discuss my running needs – hydration, calories, band aids, sunglasses, etc. – my ridiculous desire to push myself to the breaking point, my next goal, and hopefully, about what a great experience this all has been. And while I love the attention (I am not shy about saying that), there are a few things I want to say before I get too focused to care about the details:

To those who have stood by me for the past five months and dealt with my incessant chatter about weight loss, running shoes, food consumption, nipple chaffing, heat stroke, etc., without so much as a grumble, a slap to the head, or an eye roll, I thank you. Without your unwavering support, good natured ribbing, and ability to put this all in perspective, I would have come to resent this journey. You have all made it possible – as such, this race is as much yours as it is mine, we are a team, and I only hope I do not let you down.

If I do not finish – for any reason – I will be okay. I have come to grips with this possibility, and know that the chances are real. If it happens, do not be afraid to talk with me about it. While I hate to fail, I can think of nothing worse that failing without an outlet.

I know some of you look at me and wonder what the hell am I going through that would cause me trade in everything I love for long, lonely runs. I am not crazy, but I have no better explanation for you than this – I do it because I can, and one day, for whatever reason, this will no longer be possible. It is not sexy, inspiring, or even well thought out. I am young, strong, energetic, a borderline insomniac, and have an abundance of free time; hence, I run.

With that, I am off.

Lucky man

After a lifetime of unreturned phone calls, forgotten birthdays, and missed moments, I struggled to quell my constant fear of abandonment. When I sensed it rising to the surface, eagerly anticipating yet another destroyed day, I brushed it off with a joke and a smile, but I knew I was fucked; for no matter how bad I wanted them – anyone really – to reach out an comfort me, it never seemed to occur (at least not in my mind), and my sense of self-worth and confidence died just a little more.

Nowadays, however, I understand that I need them less than they need me, which, as you can imagine, is not much. I am not going to spend the rest of my days wondering how long it would take for someone to find my body in the event something ever happens to me (a real life long fear). After spending a weekend surrounded by those that truly seem to love and support me, it is clear that everything is going to be okay, and that I have no reason to allow the failings of others to consume my everyday.

Darkness is not my friend

My entire building has been without power since Sunday. I thought it was because of the storms – which have been violent here for the past couple of days – but grew suspicious when I noticed others in the surrounding buildings enjoying their gloriously illuminated apartments. I attempted to corner a building security guard in an effort to question him about the problem, but he proved to be more evasive than I had assumed a man of his size could be. Finally, yesterday evening at 9:15p.m., a handwritten sign appeared at the buildings entrance which states the following:

An electric break down in the primary cable to the main switch of the condominium has left us without electricity until at least April 30.

Mr. X electric expert is current absent, but will be working on the repairs upon his return.

Sorry for any inconvenience this may cause.

I am not feeling confident that our power will be back on by the 30^th, are you? Besides my uneasiness about this explanation, there are a number of things that are bothering me: (1) what the hell is a “break down in the primary cable”, is that a fancy way of saying the damn cable broke? Don’t sugarcoat it, if it broke it broke; (2) is Mr. X seriously the only man of the whole fucking island who can fix the “break down”? I know it is a small place, but this if absurd; and (3) I love how they assume this whole incident may or may not be an inconvenience – sure, besides the fact that everything in my freezer has now spoiled (my fridge stopped working long ago, so no need to fret about that), I can not cook, have no hot water, can not see a damn thing, and am now living in a hot box, everything is peachy, no problems here!

All that being said, I realize that the building is not trying to be without power, so I am not blaming them per se, but still, this is ridiculous for so many reasons.

Tic-Toc

He can taste freedom in the salt laden air, but remains bound by obligation. Each and every weekday he pulls his exertion ready body out of bed only to plant it firmly behind a sea of paper and computers. He watches the hours tick by, and wonders -- often aloud -- how it came to this. How does a man who spends every waking hour contemplating different ways to physically exert himself end up motionlessly locked behind a desk? The simple act of rising for coffee is an exciting experience – at least movement is a component. It kills him to wish his days away, but Monday through Friday is a chore, and he wants nothing more than to see them pass. To most, a year consists of 365 days; he sees only 104 – the days he can break free and enjoy life the only way he knows how.

What more can you ask for?

I strongly question my ability to be unhappy, angry, depressed, or lonely when I can wake up, walk onto my patio and meet this sight head on. This right here is all I ever dreamed about as a child, yet I let it go largely unnoticed. Having spent the last two days hunkered down out here, just watching and listening, I have resolved to not let this be another thing I sought, but failed to appreciate once obtained.

Now if I could only convince my wife, the girls, best friend and a few other hanger-ons to move here, life would be perfect.

One bite at a time...

While not sexy, I thought I would share with you my food consumption between Saturday morning at 3:45 a.m. and Sunday night at 9:23 p.m. – the official start and end to my weekend.

Before launching in, I believe a foundation is necessary (otherwise the below just seems weird). I run a lot. For example, I have run roughly 840 miles so far this year – not an incredible amount, but enough to keep me hungry. More specifically, this weekend, between my Saturday and Sunday morning runs, I logged 55 miles; as you can imagine, I am a walking stomach. Now that you understand where I am coming from, below is what I can remember from my eating frenzy:

4 – pieces of cinnamon raisin toast (“CRT”);

5 – peanut-butter and jelly sandwiches on CRT;

1 – medium size-jar of crunchy peanut butter (this includes the PBJ’s, but finished the remaining off with a spoon);

2 – packages of swiss-cheese eaten with multigrain crackers;

9 – Quaker chewy granola bars (6 of which were eaten while running);

3 – power-gels (all of which were taken while running);

3 – Annie’s vegetarian burritos (rice and beans; rice, beans, and cheese; beans and vegetable);

1 – three servings of rice, one bunch of bok choy and a block of extra firm tofu;

1 – brunch buffet consisting of two helping of scrambled eggs, toast with nutella, three fruit bowls, third of a ring of brie, a cup of three-bean medley, and four glasses of orange juice;

1 – bowl of ice cream;

1 – can of tomato soup with spaghetti noodles and grilled cheese sandwich;

1 – Snickers bar;

1 – dove dark chocolate bar;

1 – bag of pretzel ropes;

1 – bag of sugar-coated vanilla wafers;

1 – bag trail mix;

1 – Nestle chocolate milk;

1 – trip to Costco during sample hour;

2 – protein drinks;

4 – Gatorades;

4 – Vitamin Waters;

1 – 20oz Pepsi (drank while running);

2 – beers;

? – cups of coffee;

? – gallons of water.

Notwithstanding, I am two pound lighter today that I was on Saturday morning.

Hi mom!

The communications have once again ceased. Last time, I actually questioned the reason for the silence, and racked my brain for anything I may have said or done that would have offended them into muteness. This time, however, I can safely aver that they are just too lazy to pick up the phone and check on their son.

I am all blocked up

I have a vicious case of writer’s block, so am going to just scribble a few things out, sorry.

Yesterday, as I crested a tortuous hill during the first half of my run, I came face to face with a sunrise that was just beginning to peak through the clouds, and over an old military fort on the Island. That sight, coupled with the song The End from the Man on Fire soundtrack, brought me to tears. It was the closest thing to a spiritual moment I have had in years; I hope that moment never leaves me.

She is forty, but is a social child. Every time I talk with her, I regret it. Either she makes a sexually suggestive comment about me in front of others, or questions my every word. If it were socially acceptable, I would tie her to a pole and throw tacks at her throughout the day.

We added two new members to our family this weekend – the boys (http://aloneontheisle.blogspot.com/2008/01/confessions.html), as you can imagine, are beside themselves with excitement.

My fateful bowl of Raisin Bran Crunch (see post below) not only cost me $700 in dental bills, but will rob me of two hours of my life ever Friday for the next three weeks. That being said, I feel compelled to admit that I have forgiven RBC – and am once again enjoying its crunchy, yet sweet, delightfulness.

I find that I am an “honest” writer when I am too tired to self-edit – If I am cognizant of my words, I fear that I will hurt others, and therefore refrain. Is there a fix, or am I doomed to sleepless nights?

10 a.m. dentist appointment, a fucked up way to start a Friday

My tooth broke today. It snapped in half while I was eating a cup of Raisin Bran Crunch. It is my favorite cereal. I said yesterday that my age had not yet caught up with me. This was not the confirmation I was looking for.

Just curious

I wonder if your daily mishaps -- despite your Ivy League education -- are as frustrating to you as they are humorous to me.

Random thoughts

Here are a few things I have been thinking about over the past few weeks. As you can tell, there is neither rhyme nor reason to the following, simply things I have been thinking about.

I am afraid that the two best political candidates we have seen in many years are going to so damage each other that neither will recover. I hope I am wrong.

I do not miss drinking, but I crave socializing with people my age, and cannot figure out how to do that outside of bars (and I am not a look but don’t touch kind of guy).

I look ridiculous in short running shorts. Some people can pull is off – I am not one of them. I am tall, hairy, and nearly transparent in the high thigh area – the public should be spared.

As important as I would like to think I am at my job, I could be replaced within 48 hours, and my office would not skip a beat.

Sometime I wish they would test my 48 hour theory.

I am where cell phones go to die.

In my opinion, the Supreme Court is moving scarily to the right; if something doesn’t change, and quick, drastic changes are on the horizon.

I question seriously the level of drivers training on this island.

The daily loving touch of another human being is grossly underrated. I know, I long for it constantly (and I am not talking about sex).

Does it look like John McCain has aged dramatically since the start of the Presidential campaign? In all honesty, if he dropped dead tomorrow I would not be shocked.

On April 13th, you will spend your 30th birthday in a foreign land, I will not be there, and it is killing me.

Toenails serve no good purpose; as I have proven repeatedly, you can function normally without them.

I try not to admit it – because there is no real end in sight – but I am tired of running, and just want to take one full week off.

And finally, while I have not written part III to The Devil yet, I have been thinking about it constantly.

Worth the read

I have previously directed readers to different blogs – and whether you read them or not is up to you (there is no reason to take my word as what you should and should not do in your free time) – but if you have not read those blogs/sites, please, if you do nothing else, read the site I am attaching below.

It was a blog written by Andrew Olmstead, an active duty soldier who was recently killed in Iraq. It is one of the most incredible things I have ever read, especially the final posthumous entry – It brought me to tears, and made me rethink my own existence. I wish I had something more to say, but I don’t, so here it is.

http://www.andrewolmsted.com/

You may be confused

“It’s nice to finally meet a respectfully, well rounded man” she said. I just smiled, wondering silently how she got that impression.

The Devil pt. 2

Our second year “together” began promisingly enough. For the first few weeks, it appeared as though she was ready and willing to dedicate herself to me. We spent quality time with each other, I met her family, interacted with her high school friends, and, for the first time, was introduced as her boyfriend. I was in heaven. It was not to last.

As the herd from the previous summer slowly crept back into the picture, I was again the odd man out. She began to spend an obnoxious amount of time with individuals I had once counted as my best friends; punctuated by an awkward moment spent between my girlfriend and my former comrade in a bathroom. To this day, the true happenings of that evening remain a mystery.

As I fought to maintain my foothold in her life, the summer came crashing to an end, capped by her departure to a foreign land on my nineteenth birthday.

I would like to say I was able to regain my confidence in her absence – but it would be a lie. From the moment she stepped on that plane, until the time she finally broke my heart beyond the point of repair, I pined for her, eagerly counting down the minutes until I could once again hold her in my arms.

Led by my blind faith, I purchased a ticket to visit her abroad. My only free time was during the Christmas and New Years break of 1998 – I packed my bags, kissed the family goodbye, and disappeared. It was my brother’s last holiday.

While the trip had its ups, I remember it more for the downs. She was moody, indecisive, and generally annoyed by my presence. Regardless, I left very much in love.

After my turbulent visit, I returned to the states as determined as ever to prove my worthiness. I spent hours in the gym in a pathetic attempt to impress her with a muscular transformation. I wrote letter, made phone calls, and drove myself deeper into debt. There was no limit to my love.

My brother passed away within months of my visit. In my time of need, I turned to her for support. She returned that gesture by cheating on me, justifying it by explaining that I had failed to give her the support she needed. I was despondent. Thankfully, but regrettably, my female friend from high school stepped up to save me (http://aloneontheisle.blogspot.com/2007/09/another-in-long-line.html). I swore, right then and there, that I would never let her back into my life. I would, as always, falter.

The Devil Pt. 1

To say I was smitten at first sight would be an understatement. She was everything I thought I wanted – confident, sexy, and experienced. I had no clue at that moment of the destructive effect she would have on my life.

We worked together at a large retail store; she was a receptionist, I was a cart attendant. My friends saw her first, and immediately set out to gain her attention. I should have backed off – they were my best friends. But regardless of the possible ramifications, I could not control myself. For the first time in my life, I saw something I was willing to mortgage my future to obtain. Once she figured this out, I was a goner, and I didn’t even realize it. Over the following months, she masterfully played my friends and I off each other, slowly destroying the relationships we had spent a life time constructing. From this experience, we would never recover, but that is for another time.

Once friendless, I was completely beholden to her. Forced to befriend her clan, I came to rely on her for everything but the air I breathed.

During the first year we were “together”, she hooked up with no less than seven men in front of me; each time blaming me for not being enough of a man to keep her happy. I dutifully responded each and every time by spending more money, time and effort to meet each and every one of her needs and desires. Sinking so low as slink out of her bedroom when other men would come calling. I was ashamed of myself for devolving into a helpless puppy, but believed her with every ounce of my being when she said she was trying to figure things out.

When others would get wise, and cast her aside, I was the one she called to comfort her. This cycle repeated itself at an alarming rate. Shockingly, and to my great surprise, as our first year at college came to an end, and the steady stream of men had dried to a trickle -- either sick of her childish games, or gone for summer -- she informed me that she would let me be her “exclusive” boyfriend until she boarded a plane for a foreign land the following fall. I thought my perseverance had finally paid off. As time would tell, I was horribly wrong.

Fuck them for making you worry like this.

It will work out, you will come out of this on your feet, and you will continue to be a ray of sunlight in our lives.

Good things come to those who wait

I could taste her long before she acknowledged my existence. For months I planned, mapping her nakedness throughout the days. As I injected myself into her existence, I felt her goodness, but sensed her will faltering. She was ignorant of her body’s desires, but I knew, deep in my being, that she wanted nothing more than to have me ravage her. Patience, sexual tension, and years of loneliness were all I needed to push past her moral moat. She is the crown jewel of my life’s conquests – a victory to savor, cherish, and revel in for a lifetime.

The countdown begins

I shrug it off, but underneath, I am deathly afraid that I am going to head off into the mountains, be consumed by the trail and staggering elevation, and fall flat in my pursuit of running splendor – forced instead to slink home with nothing but a bruised ego to show for my efforts. Everyday I push myself to the breaking point, and am continually amazed at just how much my body is able to endure – but remain unconvinced that I can will myself to gut out the nine hours it will take to complete this idiotic test of endurance. Consequently, I train harder, longer, and with more intensity – knowing that if I am unsuccessful, it will not be because I neglected to take the necessary steps, but because I finally found my body’s outer limit. Sixty days and counting.

In my dreams you are alive – a bright eyed, wondrous young man with a world of hope in front of him. I only wish I knew how to make those nights last forever.

This is not a game

I am overly competitive. I know this, and do all I can to keep it under control. However, if challenged, I will do everything humanly possible to prevail, regardless of the ramifications to my victims personal and/or professional life. You know this, having previously acknowledged the crazed look that flashes when my guard is down. As should be obvious, I am trying to hold it together, and protect you; but you keep pushing, poking, prodding, and tempting me to make your life a living hell – I advise you stop.

Just another day at the office

The thought of tortuously removing the grin from his contemptible face with a series of strategically placed paper cuts has helped me get through the day – I may have a problem.

Self-Promotion Part II

Another shameless self-promotion: http://sixsentences.blogspot.com/2008/02/simple-pleasures.html.

Forgive and forget?

I spent so many years being the forgotten one that I am having a hard time adjusting to the fact that family is now actively seeking out my company, advice and support. I excel at sitting on the outside, silently criticizing those around me. The recent barrage of phone calls, emails and social gatherings is making it hard for me to maintain that position. The problem is, I don’t know how to be a good, supportive, and loving family member. I was written off at such a young age, that I never learned to "play well with others", and show the love and kindness that so many now need. For every phone call or email I receive, I can think of ten of mine that went unanswered. They may have forgotten, or maybe never understood, the destruction their distanced caused me, but I, realizing the power I now hold, am finding it hard to forgive.

Is it necessary?

Today you expressed a desire to change, shift the way you view your surroundings, and while I agreed with you at the time, I am now having second thoughts. It is true, you are not the most positive person I have ever met, but you are, to a friend, one of the most sincere people I know, even if that means expressing yourself through tireless bitch sessions, and strategically placed barbs. Good or bad, we know where we stand with you. Each and every one of us loves you, the you that complains, gets angry, and thinks the world is conspiring against her. Without your cloudy personality, I am afraid you would loss your identity. Now I may be wrong, so change if that is what you desire, but please, I beg you, do not do it because someone on a mountain selfishly told you to be more positive.

Almost forgotten

I no longer anticipate your touch, words of encouragement, or blazing smile. In fact, your infectiously positive personality barely registers in my increasingly dreary days. Except for my waking hours, and occasionally during dreams, I don’t even think about you anymore. Watching you walk away was easier than you thought, and to think, you were going to “teach me a lesson”. If you want to know how damn simple this all has been, give me a call to talk about it, any time, night or day, please. . . .

I am a lucky man

While this day was spent apart, I want you to know that I long for nothing more than to spend an evening in your arms, and to return the undying love you have given me throughout the years. You make me proud of myself, for no matter what else I fuck up in my life, I will always know I did one thing right, and that was bringing your into my everyday. Happy Valentines day my love, I miss you.

Work and nothing but

For years I have blamed my jobs, bosses and surroundings for the incredible number of hours I worked. Regardless of how it started, it always ended with me angrily walking away from each position, promising that I would never let “that” happen again. In search of a final fix, I was lured to this island with promises of a nine-to-six workday; but, as I find myself leaving the office progressively later each evening, I am starting to think that it is not the employers or locales that are to blame, but the employee.

There is a great project going on called the six-word memoir (http://www.smithmag.net/sixwords/). If you haven't already, and you have a minute, visit the site and submit something. Speaking for myself, attempting to sum up ones life in six words is an incredible, and eye opening, experience. With that, I will leave you with mine:

Loved more than I ever deserved

Hello?

It appears that my absence no longer commands the same sense of longing that it once did. Instead, I have become a roadblock in the busyness of the everyday. This is a drastic shift. When I first left, there were a lot of sweet gestures, greedy to talk phone calls, and loving emails. Now, without my occasional attention grabbing outbursts, I fade into insignificancy, left to hang my heart on a few meaningless, end-of-the-night phone calls. I need something to save me here. I live a life of nothingness. Wake-up, eat, work, run, repeat – do you think that this is fun? I know you are busy, but I am tired, sober and lonely and I may be asking a lot, but please. . . .

Just another Sunday on the island

While running an "organized" road race yesterday, a spectator pointed at me, slashed his finger across his throat and angrily yelled at me in a language I don’t understand. I was propositioned twice. Another man was shot to death while his wife stood nearby. I thought the run would be a good chance to get out and see the island. I am starting to think there are some things in life better left unseen and unexplored.

It is what it is and that is fine by me

As I scoured the internet for yet another quick fix to my ever increasing sense of incompleteness, I realized that for as long as I can remember, I have been obsessed with thoughts of the unknown, unattainable, and flat out unreasonable. My constant pursuit of change has caused me to flee states, walk away from high paying jobs, switch residences at an alarming rate and disappear from the lives of loved ones. However, until today, I chalked it up to my youthful pursuit of happiness. The problem is, I am no longer young, nor am I seeking happiness as much as planning my next great escape. Truth be told, I am afraid – afraid to wake up thirty years from now and realize that this is all my life has to offer.

Up to this point, I have fought a gallant fight to stay one step ahead of permanence – figuring that if I vanished before it took hold, I would bypass the inevitable realization that I settled. So in an effort to understand this irrational aversion to the known, I spent the evening pondering my life’s decisions, and asking whether the life I have before me is one I am willing to stay with for the long haul. And the answer is, to my great surprise, I am. Now it does not encompass all my unattainable aspirations, but then again, neither have any of the other lives I recreated for myself after yet another attempt at perfection. The bottom line is, for the first time in my life, I do not think I would be able to forgive myself if I were to run from this life – as hard as it is at times – only to realize thirty years from now that my obsession with the other had led me down a path to nothing.

Honesty . . .

It was a suggestion, a passing thought really, "you should talk to someone about that" -- nothing more. Now, after heeding her advice, I realize the gravity of my mistake -- the look on his face is riddled with fear and confusion -- I thought psychiatrists had heard it all -- I was wrong.

Lonely

All I ever wanted was to be left alone. My wish has come true. Now what?

Confessions

To some this will sound weird, to others, it is an accepted part of who we are, but I feel like the world is ready to know -- needs to know really -- and it is better you hear it from me, the source, than a random, so here it goes: my wife and I have adopted three family members consisting of a plastic potato and two stuffed sponges. They are the greatest things to ever happen to us, and I am not embarrassed to admit that. Without their love, support, and constant good cheer (no matter how bad it gets, they always have a smile), my wife and I’s relationship would be an empty shell of its currently splendid self. Further, the boys (as we refer to them), have been embraced by our friends, and accepted into our extended family. They are our children. They make us proud. And we love them.

Self-promotion

It is not much, but if you missed it, here is a link to something I wrote: http://sixsentences.blogspot.com/2008/01/thank-you-all.html. If you decide to visit the 6S site, please look around and read some of the entries by the other authors, they are absolutely incredible, and you will not regret it.

Tuck and roll

I fell down a flight of stairs today. They were marble. I had my hands full. It hurt. The doctor told me I would grow into my body. He was wrong.

Tomorrow is a new day

I see fear in the face staring back at me, and realize that I am solely responsible for the pain, destruction and despair. Through the years, I have stripping him of everything he once held dear, and allowed him to lose his way. Like all great destroyers, I stroked his insecurities, massaged his anger, and goaded him into a sense of inadequacy. It isn’t fair. For as long as I can remember, he has been everything I have ever asked; but I neglect, abuse and take out my daily struggles on his psyche. In this moment, I see him pulling back, becoming more and more hesitant to keep my head above the fray. Twice in the past three days I have been chastised for my treatment of this lonely soul, scolded for bottling him up, and questioned for my refusal to stop this vicious lifelong cycle. I know what I must do, but lack the strength to forge this road alone, and he knows this. “Today will be the last time” I finally say aloud; but he knows me, and sheds one solitary tear as I turn off the light and back, ever so slowly, away from the mirror.

Actions

There is no excuse for not thinking through our actions, and realizing the pain and destruction our selfish decisions can wreck on others lives. It is one thing to sink our own ship, but morally reprehensible to drag the innocent along for the ride.

Who is laughing now?

You stood in the yard, sunbeams bowing at your feet, and I knew I loved you – I was nine. For the better part of ten-years, I struggled to impress upon you the importance of your being, and my desperate need to have you in my life -- you wouldn’t have it. You had your own existence, and kept it safely shielded from me. For all those years, my world was packed into the possibility, the hope, the dream, all to be stripped bare by your heartless selfishness. Had you not ignored me, laughed with the others and ran from my touch, things would have been different. Obviously, that is no longer the case. By the way, for what it is worth, minus the tears, duct tape and your god-damn whimpering, you are still the love of my life.

New Years Resolutions

Now that it is January 6th, and I have had a number of days to chew on my resolutions, and I feel that it is appropriate to put them in writing. As a way of background, I usually pick something asinine, like to be a better person, husband, son, bother, friend, etc. -- but it should not take a new year to do these things; I should be striving for these goals year round, so I will not fall prey to those same traps this year. Instead, I have decided to choose things that are outside of my comfort zone, and will require a concerted effort on my part. So here they are:

1) Run 2000 miles: now I run quite bit, but have never sniffed this number (an average of roughly 5.5 miles a day). In order to accomplish it, I need to make some drastic changes. No more late night beers, followed by countless cigarettes. Days need to end at 10 pm and begin at 5:30 am, no small feat. Further, I must avoid injury, a lifelong battle. Subsumed in this quest, is my goal to run a 50 mile ultra-marathon (which I have already signed up for), and to run a 3 hr. marathon. Here is to pounding some pavement;

2) Write something inspiring: As you can tell, I am not a “positive” writer. In fact, most people who read me worry about my psyche, and are eagerly anticipating my eventual meltdown. However, I am not that person, and want to construct something that bring tears of joy to someone’s eyes, instead of tears of sadness. And finally;

3) Learn to cook: I want to create gastric orgasm -- a meal so good that it makes the eater lightheaded, confused and desperate for more.

So here is to wishing all of your hopes, dreams and desires come to fruition in the New Year. Happy 2008!

Your guess is as good as mine

“I thought we were happy . . .” she sobbed uncontrollably. As I cradled her wilting body, trying desperately to sooth her, it occurred to me that the blood spatter on the wall resembled a doughnut. At this I laugh, and know that hell’s gates have opened a bit wider, eagerly awaiting my arrival. “What the fuck is so funny” she hisses, looking at me angrily, and I have no answer -- how do you tell the woman you love that you find humor in the final remains of her soul mate?