Alone.

Some of the great prose out there suggests that we’re born alone and we die alone.

I used to embrace that.

Basking in my solitude.

Now?

Something’s missing.

I let a lovely young woman into my life. I no longer wanted to be alone. I no longer wanted to leave no legacy.

Yet, when I saw her yesterday, I knew. Something’s changed. She’s calm. She’s satisfied.

And I’m no longer her fantasy.

I wonder what happened? Did she meet someone new? Reconnect with someone old?

Does it even matter?

She’s so beautiful. And she was mine.

Yet, I still could never say the words. I was arrested by her presence. Each. And every. Time.

This is why I deserve to be alone.

Hours on the phone each day leave a massive void. And all of the notifications, from my favorite person, are now few and far between.

Why even have a phone at this point?

I am currently reading The Alchemist for the first time, and I want to lay these thoughts down before the events in the book play out.

In the beginning, the young shepherd is looking forward to visiting a merchant’s daughter. The infatuation with this beauty is apparent, and he’s eager to further his relationship with the beautiful young woman. I can relate, because this is the focus of his adventure so far.

His reunion with his girl is near, when he is approached by an old man. At first, he is annoyed because he doesn’t want to be bothered from his current plan for his life. Yet the old man persists, reveals himself as a king, and calls the boy to a “hero’s journey” of sorts, to find the treasure he dreams of. The shepherd sells his sheep and answers the call, sailing on a ship for northern Africa.

Now, as I am currently reading this, he has just arrived at an oasis in the desert, nearly a year after leaving Spain. He is meeting interesting people, learning fascinating lessons, and... well, living life!

He thinks occasionally of the merchant’s daughter, wonders if she remembers him, if she’s married, if he will meet another who interests him as much as she does.

And this, is my distraction. My focal point. I am reading along cheering for this reunion... although it may never happen. Because this distraction IS my life.

Last year, at this time, life was a grand adventure. I was making decent money, living life—more or less—on my own terms. I really had no cares in the world... I was even looking forward to an overseas adventure.

In April, my “distraction” came along. And how! She awakened a portion of myself I didn’t know existed. Suddenly, I want to bring this woman into my world! And she wants to go!

Yet, her life is not so willing to allow her to adventure alongside me. As we explore the possibilities, familiarity sets in, and challenges. There is a cultural gap. And a generational one. And she has a two-year-old. None of these are a reason to scrub the grand tour...

Like me, however, she is an overthinker. What will her traditional Mexican parents say? Or even think? Who will care for her little girl while we are making our way? At this point fantasies abound... we’ll bring along her young sister, who will nanny for us. We’ll explore the world for a year... or more! Eventually settling to return near my young woman’s family. Eventually.

I relate to the shepherd’s desire to see his young woman, and think about his tour whisking him away from her without even saying goodbye, because I did the opposite. Calls to adventure that warmed my soul became calls to her that warmed my loins. Yes, we got to know each other. Yes, we even fell in love. Hard.

Then everything changed. My fantasies turn into a life with her. Raising a small family and living a fantastic life. The call to explore diminishing as I am consumed by her.

Yes, I think consumed is the correct term.

A wise man once told me, and many others since, that our women want to be part of the adventure—she wants to be swept up and come along. And that is exactly what happened. This woman was all in.

What I want was not so clearly defined. So, maybe “everything changed” is not the correct expression. Two things changed for certain.

When we fell in love, I didn’t want to lose her. I wanted HER on this adventure, damn it! When circumstances dictated that I couldn’t bring her along, I changed my plans.

As such, mine is no longer the soul she fell in love with. I have refused the hero’s journey. To be with a woman.

I know my tale is not original, yet perhaps it is a tragedy that should be. Although, maybe this is what draws us in to books like The Alchemist... because although he wants his girl, he chooses himself first. And answers the call. We all know what life looks like when we simply stay home.

Will he meet her again? Will I be disappointed if/when he doesn’t? As for my life, I know she wanted me—in ways no other woman ever has. Is our story finished? Is it even important to be wanted? Will I become some enlightened sage living in a cave in the Himalayas, because I can no longer relate to those who don’t seek enlightenment? Yet, oddly can’t relate to some who find enlightenment?

I guess, this is why I write...

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