I’ve been writing for myself for a while now. I have notebooks everywhere. Text files in random places on old computers. Phones.

And I’ve even shared some writing, albeit quasi-anonymously, in this space, and a previous one for a long, long time. As long as Clarissa has been alive. But I digress.

It’s been for me. A way of processing what’s going on in my life. In my head. Relationships. &c.

Has it been a benefit? In some ways. Sadly, it’s also been a record of how much I DON’T change when I fail to do it with intent.

But it was me. Genuine. Authentic. Me. My personal handshake with my shadow.

Five years ago, which is revealing itself to be a significant turning point in my life, I made some new friends. A community of like-minded souls. Brothers, even. All over the world. And I am grateful for them.

It turns out we need SOME accountability when we’re being stubborn and resisting—or worse, avoiding—change. I have no regrets with forging these new alliances.

Then, one day, I became aware of the compliments. Writing style.

Ooooh. What a rush of endorphins! Validation... who knew I needed it? This is clearly an unacknowledged shadow.

Next, encouragement to write more. And to share more.

So, I’ve become quite prolific. Writing more. Sharing more. She likes it! He likes it! Everyone wants more. MoRe! MOAR!!

Wait, she... hated it? Yuk? Really??

Well, what does she know? Seriously...

The writing is fun. I enjoy it, and the thought of one day being published is appealing.

Yet, I’ve strayed. And this was pointed out to me by a friend a few nights ago.

You see, some of the writing—this piece, for example—is still for me. Not all of it, however.

When a piece excites me, I can’t wait to share it. Reactions! Validation! MOAR!!

With great insight, this friend said that I’m hiding behind my writing.

She said that I’m pretty interesting. That she wants more. In person.

She said to, “Let go.”

Have you ever had the feeling that your entire house of cards was sucked into a whirling vortex? Same, once or twice, and it is always a profound experience.

I don’t know how to let go.

Next, is the replay of “This is your life!” Have I ever let go? Absolute utter surrender? No, I think I’d remember that...

Spotlights on Amy. On Clarissa. On so many ladies in my past. They knew. They hang around to see if I ever will, as the distance between us increases. How can they believe in me? Trust me?

And it’s finally revealed WHERE I was led astray. I’ve alluded to my past fascinations with these cool characters from a childhood of watching entirely too much television.

“You must control your emotions. They will be your undoing.” This doesn’t mean what I thought it meant. It only creates more shadows. More inauthenticity. More places to hide.

Let go.

Coincidentally, I had an epiphany about anger a few weeks ago. I, and I believe many, have a tendency to suppress anger. Because misdirected anger is scary. And we are all just grown-up children. Our guidance came from two-dimensional characters on screens.

This is not the way.

This is why we need ways to channel our emotions. Not just sweep them under a rug. Martial arts. Yoga. Exercise.

Power vs. force. Wow, all of my worlds are still colliding.

Let go.

We are all flawed. Beautifully flawed.

What draws us to each other is our brokenness. Vulnerability.

Now I see the moments of true connection. With Clarissa. With Amy. So many others.

And the distance. Amy even mentioned that, as a writer, I need to message less. And edit the messages less, that I’m editing the authenticity out of the messages in my quest for “the right words.”

Profound!

Let go.

Can I?

What i'm listening to:

3:15 (Breathe)
Russ
3:15 (Breathe)

It is true that her scent has faded, so perhaps the event is merely symbolic.

Yet, today, I was sad as I washed my beard.

I emerge from the kitchen and round the corner, heading toward the bar. That’s when I see him.

Standing there, alone. Looking cool, with his long, curly hair, brown leather jacket, and perfectly coiffed eyebrows. He spends more time getting ready than most women I know—and I look homeless.

And his precisely groomed handlebar mustache. Seriously, who does that? Yet, it works on him.

His back’s to me. He’s slowly spinning, taking in every corner of the room. Owning it.

Yet, suddenly, all I can see is her. Rising up above me like an angel. Arching her back as she raises her glorious tits off my chest, beads of sweat glistening. Then she comes back to me. I’m instantly lost inside those hazel eyes.

Our mouths meet, hungry! We devour each other as I pull her close. My God, she’s incredible. I want this woman.

The memory of last night is fresh, as I return to the present, Jesse still turning, still scanning the room, still standing next to the bar. My bar. Our eyes finally meet. Does he know?

I swallow. Hard. A beat passes. Two.

I begin my approach as he takes his first step towards me. Shit.

I still don’t know if he knows. Fucker.

My mind is racing. Do I even have a defense?

“Here are the facts your honor. The defendant left the bar with his girlfriend at 7:23 pm. At 3:17 am, he called her cell phone as he got off work. The conversation was brief, and at that time she stated she would be home by four.”

She was. I made sure of that. I was two blocks away from her place when she texted, confirming she’d arrived safely. Followed by a shower selfie. It’s still in my phone.

Somehow, I’m still maintaining my cool as I near Jesse. Does he know? Anything? Everything?

“Jesse, how’s it going?” I ask, betraying nothing.

His congenial smile returns as he extends his hand. The man has a good, firm handshake.

“Great! Lydia wanted dinner, and suggested here. It’s one of her favorites, yet it’s been a while.”

“So, she’s here?”

At that moment, as if on cue, she appears behind him, returning from the washroom—a vision in a small, slinky black dress. She locks those beautiful eyes on mine as she approaches Jesse from behind, wrapping her arms around his waist.

My lord. Why am I a better second boyfriend than a first? I feel a slight twinge of longing. For a moment, I’d love to be sitting across from her. I’d love to have this woman in my life.

Yet, I don’t. Jesse’s girl. Fuck. How cliché.

“I have the perfect spot. A corner, window seat, with a view overlooking the city. Right this way…”

I lead them to a secluded booth in the corner of the restaurant. My section. Why do I do this to myself?

As she slides into the booth, I am not seeing the beautiful dress at all. She’s still nude. Glistening. Shit, I can still taste her.

And she is smiling at me. Genuinely.

As Jesse sits, her focus shifts to him. I present the menus under the candlelight. Their hands meet on the table. A beautiful couple.

“Enjoy your dinner,” I tell them as I turn to walk away.

“Thank you,” Lydia says, barely a whisper.

“… For everything.”

Some mornings, it’s simply a treat to wake up...

With a firm...

Hot dog...

In between her buns.

With no further ado, and without fanfare, I present the books read in 2023.

1. The Shadow of the Wind - Carlos Ruiz Zafón
2. The Prestige - Christopher Priest
3. The Canterbury Tales - Geoffrey Chaucer
4. Spark - Holly Schindler
5. The Pillars of the Earth - Ken Follett
6. Grace - Nicolas Canon
7. You Are an Author - Matt Rudnitsky
8. The Shallows - Nicholas G. Carr
9. Managing Oneself - Peter F. Drucker
10. The Sand Pebbles - Richard McKenna
11. The Money Stones - Ian St. James
12. Same as Ever - Morgan Housel
13. Exercised - Daniel Lieberman
14. A Report from Group 17 - Robert C. O’Brien
15. Edge of Collapse - Kyla Stone
16. Loving Women - Pete Hamill

Oh, the games we play with ourselves!

For instance, I excel at hiding things from myself. Truly!

And I tell myself I HATE when I do this.

Yet, clearly I do not. For why would I continue to play a game that I hate? Is that not… madness?

I must love the mystery in rediscovering what safe place I decided to store that item.

I must. What fun!

Well, I avoided Whamhalla. Yet, it’s kind of a hollow victory. Because I do like the song.

It’s a great pop song, about unrequited love, which I happen to know a little about. Avoiding it stripped a bit of the joy of the holiday season.

I can say I survived Whamaggedon 2023, for the novelty of it, and to say it IS possible. But in the future, I don’t think I’ll play.

What i'm listening to:

Last Christmas
Wham!
Music from the Edge of Heaven

I awoke with a start. Someone was banging on the door. Hard.

“Jesus,” I mumbled. “What time is it?”

The clock on the nightstand confirmed it was just after three in the morning.

The banging persisted. Whoever it is, they want in.

I slide out from the warm covers and reach for a pair of jeans. Boxers. Anything. I fumble for the light switch before cracking open the door to peer outside. “Shit,” I think to myself. “I know these guys.”

Larry and his father push their way in.

“Where is she?” Larry demands.

“Where is who?”

“Don’t be a jackass. We know she’s been sneaking out at night. Her friend, Misty, suggested we check here.

“You’ve got quite a reputation in town,” Larry’s father accused.

“I’m sorry, sir. If you’re talking about Elsie, she did meet me several hours ago at the Century Club,” I replied, surprisingly calmly. “But we didn’t leave together.”

My composure was solid. I’d been expecting this confrontation. Elsie is an incredible girl, beautiful, witty and a sensational body. Yet, she’s also a nineteen-year-old Jehovah Witness girl. What’s a 22-year-old guy to do?

“She’s not here,” I finished. “Go ahead and look around.”

Larry is still visibly filled with rage, but I’ve denied him the satisfaction of venting it on me. His father looks resigned. Age and experience, I suppose.

I wouldn’t know. My veins are still pulsing from the intrusion. Yet somehow, I’ve never been so calm when confronted. I’m sizing them up. I’m twice Larry’s size, and his dad is... old. But, two against one? I’m not confident this will end in my favor if it escalates.

They both wander around the apartment. Larry peeks into the bedroom, but doesn’t go in.

“Larry, we’ve been looking for a while. Maybe we missed her, and she’s home now,” Larry’s father offered.

“Maybe.” Larry’s not convinced.

His dad turned to me, “Look here, you little shit, I don’t know exactly what’s going on, but if you ARE seeing my daughter, that ends now. Got it?”

I’ve been confronted like this before. I have to suppress my usual “shit-eating” grin, so I look down. “Yes sir,” I say.

“Good,” Larry says. “If we have to come back here...”

“Got it,” I said, not letting him finish. Now, I’m annoyed. It’s late. Irritation has replaced my tiredness. Who knows if I’ll be able to get back to sleep?

“She’s too good for you,” Larry’s father finishes.

“She is,” I agree. “And she’s not here. And I have to work in the morning, so I think you should leave.” My temper slipped a notch.

After one more cursory glance around the apartment, they both move towards the door. Slowly.

“You’re not to see her again. Remember that,” Larry said as I closed the door behind them.

As I slid the deadbolt, the adrenaline begins to subside.

Damn, there was nearly a fight. In my own place.

Damn.

There’s movement. From the shadows next to the bedroom window, she emerges, wrapped in a bedsheet. My god, she’s so beautiful.

“Elsie, honey,” I start. “We need to talk...”

There is a quote by the late George Sanders:

My own desire, as a boy, was to retire.

This is my desire as well. I want to be wealthy. Stupid wealthy. And lazy. I don’t want to do anything for this wealth.

And I don’t want to get old. At least not before the wealth happens. There are far too many twenty-something women out there.

Will my life change dramatically when this occurs? No. Resoundingly no.

I will still spend the majority of my day reclined. Probably reading. Or napping. Just elsewhere. Anywhere.

Because I am lazy. If only I could afford it.