everything in it’s right place

There are reasons — some good, some bad, some utterly incomprehensible — why there are age and/or experience limits on a lot of things in life. You’re more likely able to appreciate the consequences of smoking that pack of cigarettes you just bought, or the potential perils of firing that gun that you own. Whatever industry or career you’ve chosen to spend time pursuing, experience makes you a more efficient and smarter performer. The more time you spend behind the wheel of a car, the more you learn to react to any situation quickly and smartly.

I’m not a believer in fate, or pre-destination. I think finding out that that idea was rooted in a universal truth would probably be the end of me — why bother and all, if it’s already written in stone? Not to mention that I see too much injustice and unfairness in the world to even begin to accept that narrative.

I do, however, subscribe quite strongly to the ideas of good and bad timing, of being in the right place at the right moment, of recognizing opportunity when it is presented. I think said recognition comes with age and experience.

I think also that the ability to take advantage properly of such opportunities is dependent on age and experience, as well. Had I been handed the chance to earn millions of dollars coming out of college, I would have likely screwed it up or (worse) become jaded and entitled. I simply wasn’t in the right mindset to handle such responsibility or such reward.

There’s a certain naivete that I carried through a lot of my young adulthood — likely a result of my (overly) romanticized view of life and it’s larger arcs. Things like jobs and property and creative pursuits and relationships were supposed to happen a certain way if you did x, y, and z — that’s the way it is in movies, and TV shows, and books. And when things didn’t happen how I expected (spoiler alert: pretty much all the time), it was a huge shock to the system. Disappointing, sure — of course it was. But also stunning, inexplicable.

Fortunately — and looking around, believe me when I say that I recognize my fortune here — I never expected answers to be spoon-fed, nor did I expect the same actions to generate new and different results. I questioned others about the perceived failures. I questioned myself. I had conversations — some easy, some incredibly painful and self-image puncturing, always educational — and did reading and thought and pondered and probably overthought and over-pondered and then finally learned. Sometimes in a burst of inspiration, sometimes so slowly that I didn’t recognize the lesson for years, but always — and I continue to do so — learning, so that the next opportunity wouldn’t fall prey to a mistake.

Or at least, not the same mistakes I had already tripped over. Always make new mistakes.

My first real relationship ended not only poorly, but in such a way (due to the particulars of my understanding of the world, and myself, and the way relationships are “supposed to work”) that I was left with little to no sense of identity. This, in many ways, was probably the best thing that ever happened to me, because it not only forced me to evaluate and rethink almost everything that is important to and about me, but also slapped me in the face with the realization that the world isn’t as simple as parts of me had always imagined (or at least hoped).

And so the years passed, and I made many, many more bad decisions and unforced errors and questionable (at best) calls. And I continued to examine the history, and the factors external and internal, and to glean what I could from mine and other perspectives — where I had chosen poorly or behaved inappropriately, where others had, where scenarios were simply untenable and how to better recognize them.

I realize that I am not perfect — or to avoid using that loaded term, not where I would like to be in terms of my insecurities, my abilities to react to and manage certain events, my presuppositions and presumptions and prejudices. I still have a ways to go with those things and more, and I spend at least a small chunk of every day working through those issues and trying to be more my own ideal. But I do have a much bigger toolbox, and a much more expansive guidebook, and enough experience that I can handle the smaller things without devoting any energy to them, conserving my efforts for the bigger, more difficult ones.

There’s this idea that certain endings are predestined — because all previous attempts at a given outcome ended a certain way. Beyond rejecting the idea of a predetermined outcome, I refuse this thought — perhaps as a result of my desire (need?) to believe in some part of my younger romanticized comic-book version of the world, no matter how small, but also because while my past is littered with examples of failure, those examples grow less bitter and painful with each passing year.

I have never been a physically graceful or gifted person. It took me ten years of playing soccer before I felt remotely comfortable on the field (never great, but passable). In 35 years, I’ve never become more than a slightly-better-than-average guitarist or pianist. To this day, learning new skills involving my body — dancing, playing drums, yoga — are embarrassing and horrifically frustrating for me, because apparently I sacrificed most of my physical IQ in favor of other attributes (and if anyone can help me figure out what those are, I’d appreciate it). But I wanted to play soccer, and so I kept trying to be better in different ways. I wanted to be able to play guitar, so I kept trying different practice styles and techniques. And one day, I stopped failing at both enough to be happy with the results.

If I had met Natalie a decade ago, I would not have been ready. Five years ago, one year ago (though that last one is technically incorrect, as we met about two years ago, IIRC) — the time (and my head) weren’t right. I had more to learn — about relationships, about myself, about the way I react and relate to others, about what I control and don’t. It’s not an age thing, but an experience thing.

And my experience tells me I’ve never felt more loved or cared for, nor happier or more whole, and capable of generating a different outcome than expected or predicted — one more in line with the better version of the world that I refuse to give up on. If there’s anything that is worth fighting for with everything I have and then some — well, like Vonnegut encourages: “And I urge you to please notice when you are happy, and exclaim or murmur or think at some point, ‘If this isn’t nice, I don’t know what is.'”

sunsets, i have seen too many without you

It seems like it should be simple, to look. Just to look, to shift your eyes inside your head, aiming your gaze.

But then at some point the fear kicks in, an absolute gut-wrenching terror that comes from out of nowhere, no warning, no slow build that rises from your heart and courses through your arteries, following the path of the adrenaline swell. Your eyes come up from the ground and you think that maybe you’ve finally conquered it and you’re almost there and your knees go limp your gut a knotted mass of flesh and blood and bile your brain screaming and pulsing…

As a child, you stared at the sun, directly into the blazing inferno, only for a second but long enough to make out the body beneath the corona. Blue spots for weeks and even now you are haunted by the dreams of a world ablaze, your corneas melting and the beauty of the fire blurring through waxy vision; but that one moment was worth it, because you saw a truth, an underlying foundation of the universe that has left you questioning. In that moment of clarity, wheels turned and tumblers clicked and the key seemed a little closer to your young grasp.

And the wisdom that comes with age carries fear and hesitation with it. Never since have you dared another glance, because that would mean the chance of something bad, something horrible, something with embarassing questions and answers.

What if, at the exact moment of your death, you are granted the truth, the meaning behind life and living and the universe? You are presented with the underlying patterns and their meaning, the tapestry of the mysteries and an instant and utterly distinct understanding of it all. And perhaps this answer is the gift of death, the reward for accepting and letting go, releasing your spirit to whatever comes next.

And what if the answer to the ultimate mystery and death are inexorably intertwined? What if you can have the answers you want, but that’s it, the end, no more for you you been here too long time to go now?

What if looking at her face means the same thing? What if nothing ever seems the same, what if your eyes are burned beyond use, what if beauty loses all meaning? What if hope dies?

And you wish you could travel back in time, become a child again, only for five minutes, long enough to look into her eyes and see the truth.

where you’re at

I’m staring at your face
your beautiful green eyes
the smile that rarely disappears
the soft billowy dirty blonde hair
your freckled cheeks
your smile lines
your perfect lips that inspire a million kisses

an old picture
from across the country
across the years
that captured you at your best

I’m hearing you
snoring gently
a room away
post-coital nap
coiled so loosely
in my bed
on my pillows

your hawaiian tattoo
stark against your porcelain skin
so peaceful and relaxed
cat curled at your spine

(I love the suddenness of your curves
and the softness of your edges)

I want to share everything with you
I want to experience everything with you
I want to feel everything with you
I want to travel with you
discover new places and music
get drunk and gluttonous
learn to cook and to dance
laugh and be astounded and awe-struck

see the northern lights
be struck speechless by the grand canyon
experience the wonders of ancient cultures
hear our favorite music in foreign theatres

dream big or dream home
or dream of both at once
because you feel like both

I’m staring at your face
your beautiful sleeping eyes
a smile hidden for the moment
replaced with what I will imagine is contentment
soft billowy dirty blonde hair splayed across a pillow
your freckled cheeks aglow in the soft light
your smile lines at rest
your perfect lips that inspire a million kisses

and I am whole
soft keyboards shifting effortlessly
cello beds laying a foundation
an echo of effortless but impossible guitar lines

and I am whole
streaming poetry that saved my life
lyrics that speak my thoughts better than I could ever hope to
Palahniuk repetitions and King campfire storytelling

and I am whole
and I am whole
and I am whole

I hope some part of me
is always where you’re at

I’d sell the world for love and I’d sail the world for you

art
subjective beauty
in the eye of the beholder

different poetry
satisfies
fulfills
enthralls
for different reasons
many or most inexplicable

some paintings are best viewed from a distance
some up close
some are hideous viewed too near
some unviewable from afar

movies
books
sculpture
all the same

(there’s no such thing as a guilty pleasure)

musically
I’m all over the place
certain there’s commonality
but also vast chasms of difference

ask me why a certain piece
enraptures
mesmerizes
fascinates
and I can give you answers
but they rarely add up

the whys are not individual
but additive
summations of a totality

movies
books
sculpture
all the same

the power of words
of descriptive device
is too simplistic
where perhaps mathematical formulae
are needed

some ideas
though rooted in logic
are undone and betrayed
by the geometry of
a simple question:
“Why?”

I can make lists
write words until I am drained and logy
catalog my thoughts
but still never aptly
or fully
provide an accurate answer

and so sometimes my answer
simply
silence
translating to
all the reasons
and none
because sometimes
le raison d’etre
est moins important
que d’être simplement
.

from binary to infinity

it’s not hard to imagine
a forgotten space
a basement, an attic, a sealed-off room
filled with mystery
memories
treasure
bygone emotions

if I put myself to the task
I can smell the musty air
hear the dust as it drifts in the breeze of my passing
feel the cobwebs brushing against my face
like a rare antiquarian bookstore
or a post-apocalypse museum
dim light casting few shadows
on unremembered beauty

crack the window
fresh air rushes in to explore with me
a lone beam of sunshine accompanies
reflecting off a shard of partially covered mirror
and strikes an old prism pendant
rainbow dots dancing across
memories
treasure
bygone emotions
and everything becomes a little clearer
more radiant
more joyous
more alive

open the frame further
further
further
until the window meets sill
from lone beam to flood
hell, shatter the frame
let loose the floodgates
let sun inundate the forgotten
shadow gives way to luminescence

memories and treasure and emotions
more alive than ever imagined
more color than ever thought possible
and the warmth on my skin
and the pure outside air
invigorating
reminding me
not all things
are lost
forever

burn yourself to life

funny thing
fear
signifies that one has something worth losing
but distracts from the enjoyment
the appreciation
immersion

do words help pacify
the worries?
never enough
no full solution
no cure
perhaps only band-aids
massages
kisses to the boo-boo

there’s a photo
(one of the first, I think)
of our hands
focused on the painted nails
a symbol of our shared identity assertion
of us as the rockstar creatives we are
but it’s more symbolic to me
of my hand being there for you
of your hand being there for me
of our being there for each other
I look at it often
and find solace in the thought
comfort in your presence

(I get scared, too, so you know)

frustrating as it is to me
I know that I can’t cure the ills of your world
I can’t fix everything
(anything, really)
but there’s a part of me that will always
keep
trying
no longer to be the hero of the story
but instead, now
to put your dynamic heart at ease
to leave more room in your world
for your beautiful smile

I will spend forever
echoing my words with actions
to enhance your world
to multiply your joy
to share your sense of discovery
and laughter
and wanderlust
and wonder

I will silence my words
replacing them entirely with
deeds
gestures
endeavors
if you ask
(though my words are sometimes my greatest gift)

I will spend my dying breath
aiding you with whatever burdens I can
soothing your anxieties
reminding you that I am here
always
for you
for whatever you need
or want
from me

unimportant to me:
rings
papers
status in the eyes
of the law or the gods
the opinions of others
these are all just words

important to me:
your happiness
your comfort and health
you

I hope I never fail to show you
all of this
no matter how much I might tell

I will burn us to life
Until my only flame is a burning fuse

yin & yang

https://twitter.com/dadmann_walking/

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about similarities and differences (among all the other thoughts that skitter through my headmeat like a monstrous pack of rabid and probably insane baby opossums through the course of days). What makes a good combination of personalities? Is there a perfect (or perhaps ideal is the better word) mix? Clearly you need similarities, or there’s no touchpoint for connection; on the other hand, too much commonality would seem to rather quickly build some sort of contempt (you ever spend enough time hanging out with your honest self, you’ll see this really fucking quickly).

My relationships — as much as I despise forced-binary groupings, here I go — can be divided into two camps: long-term, where that mix of personalities was reasonably close, and short-term (like, a couple of weeks, if they were really unlucky), where I immediately found and fixated on — well, if not flaws, the differences that I saw that I didn’t like.

Ah, fuck it — let’s call a spade a hoe: they were flaws.

In my head, at least, my current situation falls into the former of the two categories, only moreso. As I was telling someone the other day, for maybe the first time in my life, I’m not finding the differences irritating or hard to cope with, but beautiful pieces of the bigger whole, necessary parts of her that make her the person that I love so much.

I think to some degree those differences are necessary, to create a sort of tension. Not the kind that creates wedges and arguments and fights, but rather the tension (I was about to write “if I may”, but fuck you, it’s my page and I’ll write what I waaaaaaahnt) of the literary variety, required to propel the storyline forward, to instill growth in the protagonists, to make the goddamn thing readable.

There’s nothing sadder than a talented writer with no tension. Oh, wait — aren’t those poets?

But I digress…

Take the relationship between yin and yang. Stealing from Wikipedia (which is likely stolen from elsewhere, so it’s okay, citation nazis):

In Ancient Chinese philosophyyin and yang (/jɪn/ and /jɑːŋ, jæŋ/Chineseyīnyáng pronounced [ín jǎŋ], lit. “dark-light”, “negative-positive”) is a Chinese philosophical concept that describes how obviously opposite or contrary forces may actually be complementary, interconnected, and interdependent in the natural world, and how they may give rise to each other as they interrelate to one another.

Is this one of my 31 tattoos? Yes, Karen. Yes it is.

One the one hand, they are opposites — in meaning and visually. Twilight zone images, dualities in motion. On the other, though, they have so many similarities — same color schemes, same shapes, both moving in the same inferred direction. And they complement and connect to each other seamlessly. The two don’t cancel each other out as much as they drive the other forward, spotlighting the beauty and individuality of the other.

So what’s the perfect or ideal mix of personalities to create the laboratory-perfect conditions from which a lasting relationship can grow and flourish? Jesus, Karen — if I knew that, you think I’d publish it here, for free? Get the fuck outta here. I’d be on the road making fucking bank with that knowledge. Go watch another Brené Brown video.

But combined with my experience of the past — and all the things my idiot self better have picked up and embedded in my half-chewed brain — I really think that I might have stumbled across it.

Now, we just have to have a conversation about which of us is which universal force… Look for that soon on a pay-per-view near you.

rockets fall on rocket falls

i am open about my vulnerability
in conversation
in theory
but in practice?

perhaps not so easily

i don’t process stress
anger
disappointment
negativity

perhaps i should rephrase
i process by swallowing
devouring
storing away for later

moments that twist
anxiety spirals
overwhelm
threatening to leave me lost
tossed and thrown by battering waves
untethered
unanchored

i am reminded
how comforting to have a touchpoint
a tether
an anchor

someone who i can be
open vulnerable
safe
with
someone who sees past the mask of ink
the asocial tendencies
into the heart
of me

dancing about architecture

talking about love is like dancing about architecture
a line in a script
although flawed
i wish i had written

one can dissect the end result
(foundation, walls, layout)
without ever fully understanding
the true beauty

all is rarely as it appears

sometimes
rules are meant to be broken
stepping outside the sandbox of physical laws
bending time
stretching space
redefining the notion of expectations

columns supporting columns that hold up columns
mutable walls letting or denying passage
windows appearing contextually
depending on the viewer
and how they choose to view

the word is my medium
i can’t dance
don’t dance
and usually don’t stand too near anyone who does
but in her case i would make every exception
publicly
spotlighted
gladly

there are exceptions to every rule
(including this one)

but i would return to university
immerse myself in the world of space design
eero saarinen
i m pei
frank lloyd wright
bathing in words and concepts
until i dreamt
every night
every day
of buildings and spaces and their endless forms

and i would watch the films
the ballerinas
the tap dancers
the performance artists
the gymnasts

and i would hire coaches
trainers
choreographers

and i would spend my remaining days composing
practicing
recording
perfecting the agar
on which to grow my experiment

because if i could one day dance about architecture
then maybe one day i can also
talk clearly about how much she means to me