If you can’t tell, I’m on the road to being smoke-free.

The Internet is no place to be if you want to remain a happy and calm person.

If this is your only friend, it's okay to be a little angry.

If this is your only friend, it’s okay to be a little angry.

Or maybe it’s perfect place to be. Once you realize that the anonymity and physical distance of being on the interwebs allows people to cut loose with their Id, to be someone that they want to be rather than who they feel forced to be in their everyday lives… it allows you some frame of perspective. You can read and process their comments and thoughts, and then take a breath, read it again, breathe more deeply, and then move on.

It’s 90% stupidity and vanity out here in the wildwildwest.com, all opinion and hoping for your fifteen seconds of fame and viral exposure (the fact that I keep a blog is your first clue that I’m no better than that which I decry). The loudest voices are those of the lowest common denominator and the furthest fringes. Intelligent, considered moderation gets lost in the ocean of noise – but then, this is a reflection of the world, of the culture that we choose to live by surrounding ourselves with the people and places and thought processes that we do.

I heard once – more than once, but who’s counting? – that the Internet (see also: FinalCut, ProTools, etc.) would be the death of society. Hey, now anyone and everyone can write, or post their music or movies or art, in a forum that literally anyone with access to a computer with a modem can view. It’s even better than American Idol! Except… when the floodgates open, the signal to noise ratio goes through the floor. There are more needles out there to find, but the size of the haystack just grew exponentially, impossible nearly infinite – so said the naysayers, who (in my experience) tended to be people that had financial loss  in their chosen industry motivating their words.

For me, though, it’s been a wondrous experience, the last fifteen years. Sure, it’s opened up a lot of opportunities for me personally — with my writing, my short foray into filmmaking, my music all getting wider exposure than I could have ever hoped for as a guy from Birmingham, Alabama. But it’s a font of knowledge and learning, like being handed the gathered teachings and perspectives of the world in a compact but infinitely full (and still expanding) encyclopedia. Yes, there is a lot of noise, but some of that noise helps shape and contextualize the signal.

An old high school acquaintance (warning – amazing photographs of, among other things, creepy crawlies, especially spiders) posted on Facebook recently:

The fact that you’ve had your feelings hurt by someone doesn’t mean that you’ve been attacked or wronged in any way.

It may happen that one or both of those are true, but it’s not automatic!

I’m not certain that that sentiment is any more or less necessary for people to hear and consider than it was twenty years ago, before email and MySpace and Facebook and comments on news sites, but it is, in my opinion, necessary. And it’s true, too, with reactions of anger.

Just because you post something on your blog, or social media, or in a comment or a reply to email, that I read as stupid or narrow-minded, doesn’t make you stupid or narrow-minded. I’m learning that more and more every day, forcing myself to consider context and viewpoint, and then to ignore the stuff that I decide fits into my instinctive reaction. Because, really, life’s too short to spend all pissed off about things that you can never change, at least not as easily as you can avoid in the first place.

Ghosts in the wires

There’s a negative connotation that goes with the word “ghosts”. It conjures images of frightful things, trapped or angry spirits who can’t move on.

There are all kinds of ghosts, though. Some are happy, some are sad, some are angry. Most are not ready to let go, or if they are, they just don’t know how.

My head — all of our heads — are full of ghosts.  They span the emotional spectrum, from those we happily visit from time to time, to those that come at us out of the blue, bringing a sudden and unexpected shower of tears.  Ghosts of yesterday, of long ago, and even of tomorrows that are no more. They’re wispy and ethereal, impossible to grab when you want.  They’re there and gone, and you’re left with a shadow of a ghost, nothing more until it comes back to visit again.

Every one of my ghosts has a soundtrack.  Sometimes, when I am visited, the appropriate song pops into my head; more often, the song triggers a visit from the spirits in my memory.

I try to remind myself that it’s all about perspective: if you can change the way you look at something, the definition shifts. Good becomes ugly becomes inspiring becomes wrong becomes the way forward. But sometimes, these damn songs force a point of view on me, the emotional memory that goes with each one.

And some ghosts, fresh as they are, have a lifetime of music to play for me.

And for a rare moment,I find myself praying, wishing, begging, for just a little silence. At least until I can find the perspective that makes this look not so painful.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1jC4f_6sEY8]

The death of the wait

In January of 1984, I got to go see Van Halen at the Birmingham-Jefferson Civic Center, with Autograph opening up. I was (and still am) a big fan of both bands, and was thrilled to be going to my first ever concert. It was a huge experience, made even more so by having no idea what to expect going in to the show.

Back then, there was no Internet from which to download setlists or even reviews of previous night’s concerts. There were fanzines and newsletters, but those travelled by US post, and were put together with Xerox machines and typewriters. Bootleg cassettes and LPs existed, but were only available at small specialty shops and record collector conventions. Video cameras were bulky and expensive, and so pirated live shows were few and far between.

Last week, I went to see My Morning Jacket at the Alabama Theater. I’m not that familiar with the band, but I was able to listen to random selections from their discography throughout the day of the concert by searching for their material on iTunes and YouTube. Since this was their tour opener, there was no way to know what songs they would be playing — though I reviewed the show, and the next day I had emails and comments asking for setlists and clarifications. My girlfriend (a huge MMJ fan and the reason I went to the concert) had said a few times that she wanted to go back and do it all again, that the show was in her top three MMJ concert experiences (she’s a repeat attender) — and by 10 AM the next morning, I had managed to find a quality recording of the show (bootlegged by an audience member) online, downloaded it, and burned it to a couple of CDs for her listening pleasure.

It’s fascinating to me, the differences of twenty-five years, brought by technology. I remember not a decade ago waiting anxiously for CDs to hit the store shelves on Tuesdays, ready to hear the latest discs that I had been reading about and imagining for months. Fifteen years ago, I would record videos on MTV and tape radio shows because they would get songs from albums that were two or three weeks away. We would read guitar magazines and Rolling Stone and Spin and Revolver to get what scraps of news we could about albums or tours that were in the works. Even five years ago, the bandwidth wasn’t necessarily there to grab songs at a whim or find pre-releases without a little bit of luck.

Now today, release dates are a guide as to when you might start checking the BitTorrent sites for review leaks. If you’re wanting to see a band live, you can read a billion reviews from pros and fans alike the day after their first show (if not sooner), find out if they’ll be playing your favorite songs, watch videos from the current tour on YouTube and maybe download the audio (or video) from a few shows, and then purchase your tickets online before you head out the door.

Part of me is a huge fan of all of this. I’m a data junkie and patience is not my strong suit, so being able to find out anything and everything about the upcoming Pain of Salvation or Devin Townsend albums and listen to song samples is exciting and important to me. I can check out audio and video from shows I could never attend, across the country or across the world, and record those alternate versions of songs that I love to my iPod for listening anytime, any place.

But I remember those days, those days of old when we would run to the record store uphill, both ways, in 2 feet of snow and hundred degree temperatures in our shoes made of wood. The excitement that would build all day on Tuesday, as we sat through school or work, thinking about the new CDs hitting the stores, and how awesome all those songs might (or might not!) be — that would eat at us, but in the best possible way. Going to concerts having no idea what surprises might be in store, what songs might get played. Finding that bootleg recording of rare b-sides or amazing shows that you had heard whispers of but never imagined hearing was a once in a year occurrence.

Don’t get me wrong: I’m just as anxious to hear Road Salt One in a month, to see Devin Townsend when he tours later this year, as I was as a teenager.  But it feels like maybe something’s lacking, like I know too much too soon now to appreciate it the way I used to.  It’s not age — my passion for music has only grown as I’ve gotten older.

This isn’t meant to be a luddite rant at all — I love technology, that I can fit my entire (and rather large) music collection in a wallet-sized piece of metal that can be played at home, in the car, on the computer, or through tiny ear-bud  headphones.  I love that music can be recorded, bit-by-bit, as perfectly or as loosely as the musician chooses. I love the sound effects and DTS 5.1 surround.

I do feel for those that will never know the anticipation of a new release, and for those that feel that if it’s out there, they somehow deserve or are owed this music.

And I wonder what the music fan who is twelve or thirteen today will bemoan in another generation.

Dried up roses scattered on the mound / Honouring the one engraved

There’s a magic quality about music, that it possesses the ability to carry one to another time or place or state of mind, completely and without warning.  It reminds me of the connection between the sense of smell and memory, only perhaps more powerful for some.

I sat today bemoaning (quietly, of course, because this sort of thought gets you branded as a heretic in the southeastern US) the imminent arrival of spring, the eventual farewell to the cool temperatures that I spend 60% of my year craving and dreaming about. It was a gorgeous day — the occasional lazy, fluffy white cloud punctuated the bright blue March sky, a light breeze breaking up the monotonous air here and there — but already it’s too hot for me.  And immediately I was missing the winter that we never really got (I think I wore my “heavy” coat for a total of ten days this season), and readying myself for the next one, like a cubicle ant on Monday morning praying for the weekend.

It must have been this line of thinking that pushed me to line up Opeth’s BLACKWATER PARK into my iTunes. It’s a disc that I haven’t listened to in a few years (although their last album, WATERSHED, has an inordinate amount of playtime, according to my iPod), and I’m wondering why. The entire album — both the quiet, acoustic sections and the heavier epic-sounding riffs — is permeated with autumn, or perhaps winter, evoking visions of snow and barren plains, misty breath, coats and that stillness that comes only in the depth of January.  It’s evident on their albums since, but none moreso than BLACKWATER PARK.

And I wonder how much of that is a memory association of my own, based on my listening patterns; how much is my knowledge of Opeth (i.e., their Swedish origins); and how much is based in the music itself. There is some music that I will forever associate with winter, some with summer and the beach, some with autumn; some day, some night.  And I’m certain that there’s some level of my own personality or experience in there, but I’m also convinced that some of that quality resides in the music itself.

On some level, too, I’m not concerned with the why, because for now and for the next six months, I can count on Opeth and others to help get me through the god-awful oppressive summer heat.

Observations: October 2009

Some things are no one’s business but your own.

Some things aren’t your business, no matter how curious a being you may be.

Life moves forward, whether you are ready for it to do so or not.  If you’re not careful, it will pass you right by.

There are things that happen in life that may seem to beg an explanation.  But when you can accept that the universe unfolds as it should in bad situations, then you can learn to accept the same in good moments as well.

“Bones doesn’t feel the pressure to act or do or say anything that she doesn’t want to.  And no one – no one – can make her. And that’s what makes her Bones.”

Why is it that we seek the approval of others to the point of compromising ourselves to get it?

There is no such thing as too good to be true.  That’s fear speaking.  And we have no reason to fear the unknown.  Just clowns and spiders.

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It’s winter he says of his dream.  It’s winter, and there’s a light snow falling.  Not that that matters, since everything’s already buried under a thick blanket of blinding white.  Isn’t it funny, how even though there’s clouds in the sky still dropping the little crystals on the world, it’s blinding white?

He pauses, then, and I can’t help but think he’s a little sad.  Or not sad, perhaps, but wistful, wishing that it were a memory of tomorrow instead of a dream of yesterday.

There’s a field filled with people he continues, the smile returning to his face like a Woodstock, or one of those outdoor festivals?  And I mean filled with people — it’s weird, how the world flows seamlessly from snow to people and back to snow, and I can’t tell where one begins and the other ends.  Except…  he trails off for a moment, and I swear that I can see his heart skip a beat in his eyes … except for her.

And I don’t know why this is important, or how, but the air is music.  I mean, I know that music is just vibrations in the air, right?  But that’s not it.  We’re not breathing oxygen in and carbon dioxide out, but notes, and harmonies, and polyrhythms. Do you get it?  The air, every molecule surrounding us, me and her, this woman who is the only thing that isn’t snow or faceless people, is living and evolving and shifting.  And there’s no band, at least not that I can see maybe they’re buried under the snow, I think but there’s music everywhere. And it’s the most glorious, intense, powerful, soul-shaking thing I’ve ever heard or felt.

He stops. The smile is still on his face, but his eyes are glistening.  As I watch him, waiting patiently for whatever’s coming next — because he’s surely not going to leave me hanging on this — a lone tear swells on his lid and escapes down his right cheek. He doesn’t even twitch a finger to stop it, and I can barely resist the urge to catch the drop on my finger, like a butterfly that should be touched before it flies away forever.

I think that music that was in the air was unique for everyone that heard it, that it became whatever you needed to hear, whatever would touch your soul at that moment.  And maybe some of those people heard Mozart, and others heard speed metal symphonies, and probably some of them heard silence.  But it was different for everyone, because that musical air was alive and intelligent and just wanted to make everyone happy.

And while I was losing myself in that space, that tick between inhaling and letting it go, feeling the snow gathering on my hands, she turned, and I saw every feature, every detail. And her eyes – my god, her eyes, like stars being born – met mine.

His voice cracks, and I suddenly realize that the one tear has become a genuine river of tears, but all the while, his smile just gets bigger and bigger, and I can’t help but feel some of his happiness myself, so contagious is it.

And I know — KNOW he says with such emphasis that it shakes me — that she and I, in all the world — we two are hearing the same song.

And it’s the only song either of us ever needed.

We sit in silence, then. And I envy him, and his dream, and his memory of the music that connects.

One week later…

Two weeks ago, I met Melisa.  One week ago, we began spending a lot of time together.  Here, now, she’s in an airport in Houston, heading to Vegas for the weekend.  I’m moving, in process of divorcing Cynthia.  And I’m amazed, and overwhelmed, and scared, and happier than I can remember being in who knows how long.

Note the parallels between this and L.A. Story, as far as the endings and beginnings and closures.  Note the weird parallels between the opening scenes of me and Melisa, and me and Melissa, with the immediate attraction and the weekend trip.

(Both are very minor in connection, but worth mentioning, if only for hte sake of appreciating synchronicity)

Two weeks ago, I was ready to be a bachelor in the most vile sense of the word.  Now, I can stop imagining possible futures and the vast potentials I see with Melisa.

Of course, there’s reason to question and doubt all this.  My history is littered with this exact line of thinking, with intensity, with me letting my heart take the wheel.  And while I might deserve criticism for such (and, at least at this moment, I look back on some of the past and wince; the words alone make me feel like, even at this age, I’m trapped in the thought processes of a 15 year old), I don’t regret it. I suspect that most people are lucky to feel once in their lives, if at all, what I’ve allowed myself to experience repeatedly.  And sure, as Stacy says, it’s the mindset of a lust junkie.  But you know, that rush is pretty heady and wonderful. Why not allow yourself to give in?

The answer to that, of course, is found in a trail of broken hearts.  Fortunately, people heal, and I like to think that, over time, whatever pain I’ve caused, on top of being temporary, was tempered or perhaps even balanced out with contributing to their lives, to enriching their thinking, to opening doors or helping to heal wounds — something positive.

But — and I’ve not looked back to ensure that I’m correct here, but I’ll go with my gut and trust my self-awareness — Melisa is significantly different from the past women (and girls, to be honest).  Notably: she and I are, from what I can see and as much as I would ever think it possible, kindred spirits. It’s eerie, frankly, the parallel thinking and history and outlook and perspective.  And I’ve spent so long learning to love and appreciate and enjoy being myself, it’s not hard at all to understand how I feel about her.

For the second time ever — and this is after consideration that I say it (the only other example in my head is Melissa, though I could imagine that, if my memory was worth a damn, I might see Maria in this as well) — I’m attracted to / falling for someone who doesn’t need me to save them. I think  that my hero complex (I need to remember to look that up; there’s gotta be a term for that) has served me well in the past, and helped me shape a lot of myself as well as help others, but it has left me carrying too much weight, in relationships.  As much as my little martyr complex likes the idea of being to carry to weight of two people on my shoulders — and I do believe that I’m more capable of doing so than most — I can’t keep doing it.  I’m nowhere near where I think I should be (and I have no idea where I should be in this life, but I instinctively feel like that place is way ahead of where I am), and I’ve started to resent people around me for it.

Melisa is different because I view her as an equal.  I don’t know how long it’s been since I viewed anyone around me — male or female — as such.  And there’s arrogance there, okay, but maybe deserved?

Hello, me.  Shut the fuck up. I’m working shit out here.

She’s passionate about music like no one I’ve ever met. She’s funny, and she laughs with me. She’s intelligent. She’s absolutely beautiful. Laid back. Honest and open and communicative. She mysterious without being so intentionally.  She’s amazing in the bedroom. I feel challenged with her. We talk without any end in sight, and without the need for distractions (has that ever happened?  Again, falling memory, but I don’t think so). Looking into her eyes is like looking into the sun, and her kiss is like the moment between a breath and a scream.

I’m losing thoughts.  I really wish my brain didn’t work this quickly, or that I could type 18,000 words a minute…

I think that maybe the timing of all this — not so much her weekend away, though certainly that on a microcosm; but with the divorce, the fact that we have to take it slow[er than usual] is maybe the universe’s way of assuring me that this is everything that I think it is. Or maybe ensuring that I appreciate it all, that I take it all in, that I remember all the lessons of the past 37, almost 38 years.

I questioned the timing — how can I possibly jump from Cynthia to Melisa with such intensity, over such as negligible time frame? — but then I realized that, for all intents and purposes, Cynthia and I have been little more than roommates who once shared some interest for a year or so.

I’ve not felt this alive in — how long?  Everything seems so much more intense: smells, sights, the sound of music, the feeling of fall air, the buzz that comes with too little sleep, the touch of her hands on me, the excitement of the now and the curiosity of the future.

And maybe, too, the fear, that feeling that I haven’t felt in a very, very long time. Had I shut myself off from the rest of the world, to protect myself, and in doing so cut off some of my senses? Or was I just not so attached to the ideas and souls around me?

On one hand, the answer matters, for my curiosity and passion for knowledge. On the other, it doesn’t matter at all, because when she’s near me or in my thoughts — which is most of the time — I feel like everything is finally falling into place.  That I’m finally getting the rewards that I’ve worked and suffered for.

What happens next? I don’t know.  History would suggest that there’s a period of intensity followed by contentment followed by a strong sense of “time to move on”.  But there are already cracks in the foundation of “going by experience” — some utterly minor, some overwhelmingly huge — that I’m not afraid to ignore those thoughts.

It all feels, whatever else, real and right.

Of course, if we are as much alike as it seems, then she’s having the same thoughts, and the same fears.  So does that make it more likely to work out, with double the awareness? Or do we double the odds that one of us will get bored?

I suppose I owe it to myself to consider these things, if only to avoid getting blindsided. But I’m also determined to feel hope, because I can see us as unstoppable, the envy of anyone who’s ever dreamed of an ideal love.

And, too, there’s this, perhaps the most important part of the equation: I’ve found someone who could, very easily, end up being the best friend that I’ve always wanted to know existed. And maybe that’s all that really matters, and the rest is the most excellent icing on the perfect cake.

It’s time to stop listening to the voices inside that other people have put there, the voices that talk about what should be done, the rules, the right way.  Those voices have never in my past worked for me or made me either happy or who I am.  It’s time for me to give the wheel back to my gut, my instinct, my heart, and revel in all of this. The over-analysis will continue, I’m sure, because that’s me, but that’s okay, because the little discoveries tucked in the folds of our conversations and my considerations of her have already surpassed any other person’s in my life.

Too good to be true?  I think maybe Melisa might be proof that there’s no such thing.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cMU316ixzc0]

You’re just too good to be true.
Can’t keep my eyes off you.
You feel like heaven to touch.
I wanna hold you so much.
At long last love has arrived
And I thank God I’m alive.
You’re just too good to be true.
Can’t take my eyes off you.

Pardon the way that I stare.
There’s nothing else to compare.
The sight of you makes me weak.
There are no words left to speak,
But if you feel like I feel,
Please let me know that it’s real.
You’re just too good to be true.
Can’t take my eyes off you.

I love you, baby,
And if it’s quite alright,
I need you, baby,
To warm the lonely nights.
I love you, baby.
Trust in me when I say:
Oh, pretty baby,
Don’t bring me down, I pray.
Oh pretty baby,
Now that I found you, stay
And let me love you, baby.
Let me love you.

You’re just too good to be true.
Can’t keep my eyes off of you.
You feel like heaven to touch.
I wanna hold you so much.
At long last love has arrived
And I thank God I’m alive.
You’re just too good to be true.
Can’t take my eyes off of you.

I love you baby,
And if it’s quite alright,
I need you, baby,
To warm the lonely nights.
I love you, baby.
Trust in me when I say:
Oh, pretty baby,
Don’t bring me down, I pray.
Oh pretty baby,
Now that I found you stay
And let me love you, baby.
Let me love you…

Yet more on perspective

Don’t be afraid
Open your mouth to say
Say what your soul sings to you

Your mind can never change
Unless you ask it to
Lovingly rearrange
The thoughts that make you blue
The things that bring you down
Will mean no harm to you
And so make your choice joy
The joy belongs to you

And when you do
You’ll find the one you love is here
You’ll find you
The love yeah

Don’t be ashamed no
To open your heart and pray
Say what your soul sings to you

So no longer pretend
That you can’t feel it near
That tickle on your hand
That tingle in your ear
And ask it anything
Because it loves you dear
It’s your most precious king
If only you could hear

And when you do
You’ll find the one you need is here
You’ll find you
Love you

What Your Soul Sings, Massive Attack

When good things happen to us, we become suspicious, questioning the veracity of the moment.  We wonder if what’s in front of us is too good to be true.  We seek out the catch, the fine print, the hidden price for what’s being offered us.

When bad things happen, we may question, “Why me?” but we accept that the bad things happen.  It’s an every day occurance.

I lost my wallet.  Damn it.  I guess that’s just the way it goes.

You want to offer me a great deal on the car that I want — in fact, need, as my old beater finally gave up the ghost?  Okay: what am I not seeing? What are you going to pull on me here?

Why do we do this?  Do we not deserve the good things in life?  Do we bring so much bad on ourselves that the good seems undeserved?

I’m as guilty as anyone else of this, but I’d like to not be. I don’t want to be suspicious of the good things in my life.

It took me a long time and a fair amount of effort to get past the point of stressing about things I can’t control. I realized that I was missing out on a lot of the present by either obsessing about the past or worrying about the future — one which I can’t change, and one over which I have very little control — and so I fixed that.  But now I wonder how much I might be passing up in the world because I think I don’t deserve it, or that it goes against the rules and expectations set up by society-at-large.

Especially given my proclivity to ignore those same rules and expectations.

Little by little, I’m learning, I think, how to make a world that is, if not better, then at least a little happier.

The Mirror

What would you do if you met yourself?

Would you like yourself?  Would you be interested in hanging out with yourself, having a beer?  Would the conversation be fascinating, or would you be bored in minutes? When the night was over, would you hope to see yourself again, or would you give anything to avoid that awkward situation?

Yes, I’m aware of the stunning amount of narcissism inherent in this line of thinking.  Shut up.

After my first divorce, years and years and a lifetime gone by, I realized that I had a tenuous grasp of my own identity. I had spent so much time trying to make other people happy (thinking that that was the key to my own peace of mind) that, when left alone with no one else to please, I didn’t really know myself at all. I’ve spent the last fifteen or so years trying to understand myself — not just knowing who I am and what I like and don’t like, but the underlying reasons and causes for why I am who and what I am.  I’ve tried to figure out the pieces of myself that I don’t like, and to discard those pieces.

And contrary to my above statement, I don’t really see this as a mark of vanity.  I think understanding yourself, a sense of self-awareness, is incredibly important to understanding those around you, and your interactions and relationships with them. Of course, as always, the more I learn, the more I know I don’t know shit.  Mileage may vary.  Caveat emptor.  Slow: falling rocks…

For me, over these past years, this self-examination has been largely key to my happiness and optimism (cynical though that optimism may be colored).  I’m perfectly content being alone, which means that I’m not constantly on the hunt for validation through attention from others.  When alone, I have plenty to do, and I enjoy my own company.  When not alone, I don’t have to question the motivations of others, or of myself.  There’s an honesty to my own behavior (and I think of those I choose to be around) that I can distinctly say was not there in my “other” life, pre-questioning.

They say that opposites attract.  I get that, to a degree.  There’s a lot you can learn (and I do so love learning, often) from someone different than you.  But it seems so much more obvious to me that — in the long term, at least — having friends and lovers that are alike would make more sense. Not identical, obviously — you’ve already got one you to hang out with, from here until the day you are no more.  But identical enough that there’s an inherent understand, shared passions, similar belief structures; a foundation upon which you can explore your differences and learn new things and experience the unfamiliar and (hopefully) unexpected.

Real self-awareness — the kind that is meaningful to yourself — requires that you ditch the rose-colored glasses. The side benefit of that is an ability to view life the same way, to admit that things aren’t perfect, to see the flaws.  The important follow-up is realizing that, in your acceptance of your own imperfections, you can find the ability to accept and even embrace the imperfections of those around you.  You become aware from the beginning that this isn’t some mirage or illusion, and the early acceptance of reality can keep that same reality from making a sudden sharp intrusion into your fantasy.

Kurt Vonnegut’s Timequake deals with the idea of having to relive, moment for moment, action for action, the past ten years as a passenger in your own body.  Just as he posits that you might consider living your live in such as way that the unpleasant moments you would have to relive are kept to a minimum, it seems important to me that you become the kind of person you would be okay spending an evening, a week, a year, a lifetime with.  Because that’s the reality of situation: no matter how much you may (even successfully)  distract yourself, eventually it’s going to come down to you, yourself and you. Shouldn’t you be okay with that thought?

I know I’m not there, yet, but I’m getting closer every day.