“I must not scream. I must not scream in front of them. I must stay. I must not listen to my mind. I must not run off the set. I must not run. I must not run! I know — I know I’ll break down. They’ll find out I am weak. They’ll find out I’m in pain. Oh, God! What God? I will break down, look like fool, an idiot. They’ll find out I can’t act! Can’t act! Can’t act at all!

“End of the vision — well, there must be a way out, and my mind is telling me there’s a way out. You get a nice, cool gun...”

Why am I surprised? I’ve been engineering this outcome for months now.

Her interest waned. My interest waned. Yet I still wanted her. It’s been her for seven years. That’s a lot of interest to lose.

It’s been an... interesting (pun accidental)... couple of weeks. She was reaching out. Texting first. Good morning. Asking how I am. Was I a fool to think this was anything more?

Five months ago, we fought. Her life is falling apart. She no longer wants to be lovers. She wants to be friends. I cannot be friends with her. We’re too close. If I’m right in my speculation, it’s exactly why we couldn’t be friends.

Whatever happened, I think it happened on Thursday. Hard to say.

I was annoyed. We had tentative plans to hang out. She even reached out Thursday night... later than I expected. It’s always an expectation, isn’t it? I’d already eaten. So, I sent a lukewarm response to her “wyd?” text.

She sent a “Good morning!” on Friday. And it was!

That’s the last I heard from her.

Friday. Payday. You see, I’ve become accustomed to her patterns.

I love her, but there’s a certain... numbness... to her idiosyncrasies. Protecting myself? Perhaps.

So, when her social media activity went dark, I was concerned... but not as much as I could have been. She’s done that before too.

Many times, she was with me. Maybe that was a clue. The girl is addicted to her social media. Reels. Ask how I know. I’m one of her rare distractions from such things. One of precious few reasons her social media activity indicator goes dark.

Forty-eight hours later, the green dot. She’s alive. She’s checked up on me. Even posted a cryptic story on SM.

This girl is too much like me. Vague is life.

I’ve been working a lot. I’ve been busy. Again, I’m annoyed because we aren’t hanging out. This USUALLY resolves itself when I can let go. So I’m attempting to let go.

Sunday morning. I miss a call from her mom while I’m in the shower. Followed by a text offering tamales.

Her mom frequently calls me when she can’t find her daughter. Frequently, her daughter is with me, so the leap is justified.

Yet, this time her mom is not in crisis. Simply offering fresh tamales.

So, after work, I reach out. I love tamales. Especially Maria’s.

I haven’t heard from Clarissa, so I’m half-expecting her to answer the door when I arrive for the payload.

It’s cold when I knock on the door. Her brother answers and invites me in. Clarissa’s daughter approaches and gives me a high-five. Her brother and I chat for a bit, her mom brings over a bag of food, her father is looking somber on the couch. No Clarissa. Not awkward. Or is it?

So, I leave. I am fed for another week. Now, my mind starts racing.

What just happened? Where is Clarissa? Aside from her father, her family did not seem concerned. What do they know that I don’t? Should I have inquired about her?

They watch Clarissa’s daughter when Clarissa is up to her... escapades. I know, because I am frequently the cause of her escapades.

Clarissa updates social media. She’s clearly not home. Who is she with? Did she meet someone? While I was being stubborn Thursday night?

If she were being reckless, her family would have shown more concern. Now it’s late on a Sunday evening, and I still have not heard from her. We’ve been meeting on Monday mornings... yet because we haven’t met beyond that, I was scheming a way out of that.

Damn, Karma. Really?

Honestly, I’ve been tearing myself apart. I wasn’t ready for a relationship—with anyone. This girl lit me up, and made me wish I was more. And for a moment, I was. More.

Yet I don’t have my own life together. I’m irresponsible. I’m unhinged. I don’t know how to not be horrible for her. We’re reckless when we’re together, in spite of both of us wanting to be... better.

Perhaps, I’m not unlike her previous friends. All I bring to the table is bad decisions and a cheap high.

Many days, I don’t even want to be here. On this planet, I mean. I crave oblivion. She was the only one who dampened that craving... which is a horrible burden for her. Maybe it is best to sever this connection.

Now I find myself spiraling. Yet again. There are so many examples of my own spiraling in this space, it’s why I fear the more I learn, the less I know. And wonder if I learn anything. At all.

If she met someone who lights her up? Well, she deserves it! Why would I ever deny her the opportunity to fall in love?

If she’s simply stepping out, and finds her way back to me? Well, shit... what do I do then? Show her she can be seduced, satisfied, heartbroken... and always come back to me? What kind of life is that? For me?

Fuck.

And there’s a possibility all of this wild speculation is for naught. That she’s spending the weekend with a girlfriend. Or who knows what. Yet, do I want a life where I’m “ghosted” for hours—days—while she takes her “space.”

Ugh. What is a man to do? Just because this girl has shown interest in me in the past, does not mean she is interested. Interest wanes.

She’s been showing interest. We’ve been loving each other. I haven’t been confused because her actions show love where her words fail... until this weekend.

Now she’s exhibiting the behavior average guys are warned about. Disinterest. Disrespect. Why wouldn’t I think some dude lit her up in ways I haven’t?

And if it can happen with her, why can’t it happen with all of them?

I thought I was ready for the demise of this intrigue. Now, all I know is I may never be ready for the natural end of things I love...

All beautiful things must end. Otherwise, they are not beautiful.

What i'm listening to:

Rock of Life
Rick Springfield
Rock of Life

Most relationships fail because women forget one thing. A man’s happiness matters too. Not just her emotions.

A relationship can’t survive if it’s built around one person’s feelings and the other person’s silence.

Men get taught, “Be strong. Be patient. Understand her.” So they swallow problems until they go numb. Then they leave.

Women often think love = constant emotional service. Constant reassurance. Constant attention. Constant agreement. That’s not love. That’s labor.

A man needs peace. Respect. Consistency. Support. Not chaos dressed up as “I’m just emotional.”

Mood swings aren’t a personality. They’re a lack of self-control. And self-control is the foundation of stability.

If his needs are always “too much,” and her feelings are always “valid,” you don’t have a relationship. You have a one-sided rulebook.

Men don’t leave because they stop loving. They leave because they stop feeling respected, and stop feeling safe in the home.

A smart woman understands this. If she wants a strong man, she has to give him a soft place to land. Peace is romantic. A man’s happiness matters. Ignore it long enough and you won’t have a man to complain about.

Part of my finally become an adult—a man—is discovering that I have the wrong mindset about money.

Maybe it’s my tendency to see what I can get away with. My father could never resist a good deal. Even my girlfriend doesn’t accept the first price.

To say my dad was grifter is not entirely accurate nor fair… he worked hard, yet he was frustrated by the world that was no longer a loyalty-rewarded system his own father enjoyed. He found a level of comfort and was satisfied with that. And mowing his lawn.

I learned how to live with less and look for a deal. That zeal for yard work missed me entirely, however.

Mom, on the other hand, got it. She had hit that point where money worked for her, and it made her generous.

I see thought experiments on both sides of the aisle. There’s the stingy side. Don’t buy that overpriced cup of coffee. Live like no one else, so you can live like no one else.

Then there’s an abundant approach. Hustle so you can enjoy that cup of coffee guilt-free! You have to spend money to make money.

One of my best friends is frugal. Some call him cheap, yet I’ve seen him match whatever value he sees. And what he says makes some sense.

There are a lot of entitled, single moms out there waiting tables—even if they clearly don’t want to be there—and do nothing to add to that dining out experience. They then bristle at a 5-10% gratuity. Or when that tip fails to materialize entirely.

I get it. This is how to keep the lights on and a roof over your head. Yet, in this case, I agree with him. Being charming and pleasant and “serving” the guest is part of the experience. If you’re not adding to the experience, why should a guest pay more?

But I digress. I have many thoughts on the dining out experience as a whole, but they can wait.

Focus. This is about me. The man child. The one who is amazed that people—adults—are financially mature. They purchase big ticket items. Cars. Homes. Vacation homes. Travel.

They are greeted with a $12,000+ daily balance from the ATM.

Why can I not fathom this? What did I miss growing up?

Perhaps I do not want enough. Enough to set goals anyway.

Now, I find my life disenchanting. Like a petulant brat. Maybe I am the one who’s entitled…

I’m beginning to hone in on new wants. Dreams. Desires. Plus, I no longer want to do life alone. Yet, by minimalizing to meet my money needs—and supporting my own laziness—I find I am disappointing.

In some ways, I have a life she wants to join. Yet, in others, she sees that I fall short.

The life design influencers encourage writing these wants, dreams, desires down. Some go a step farther and create a spreadsheet. Budget for the rich life you deserve.

I have one friend who even budgets a line item for each of his girlfriends. Yes, girlfriends. He had three at the time.

He doesn’t want for money. He is frugal with what he needs, enjoys spending for his wants.

This. This is the life I crave. Is it so unattainable, as I was led to believe?

After all, I don’t know many who simply have abundance.

Let’s face it. Scarcity is the norm in society. Perhaps, this is by design. Controlling the masses. Bread and circuses and all that. And debt.

Most of that I do not want—I’m not even interested in bread, circuses, or debt. Maybe bread.

I have been accused of being a foodie. The one extravagance I maintain.

I want more. I want to feed my insatiable wanderlust. I want to take care of my woman. I want her to never have to worry so she can relax and surrender to her own loving nature and her femininity. Life has been too cruel to her for too long.

Yet, this scarcity is indoctrinated in me. I go there before thinking.

Just today, I caught myself saying, “I never thought I’d live long enough to see one bedroom apartments go for $1,000 a month!”

How can I follow my dreams? How can I afford this at this stage in my life—and more! I fantasize about having a spacious and beautiful place to live!

Is there anything I can do to make real money? Will anyone read my writing? Am I qualified to do anything?

Restate my assumptions: 1. Mathematics is the language of nature. 2. Everything around us can be represented and understood through numbers. 3. If you graph these numbers, patterns emerge. Therefore: There are patterns everywhere in nature.

Pop.

It wasn’t audible. More of a feeling. Maybe I did “hear” something, but it was only me. Inside my head.

Just a pop. Followed by relief. Instant relief.

The headache which had plagued me for days. Weeks. Months. Was gone. Obliterated.

A euphoric wave washed over my head. I liken it to being anointed, yet I only know what I’ve read about that. No actual experience. No frame of reference.

That damned headache had become part of my identity. Did it worry me? Yeah, sure. Was I curious about what might be going on in there? Was I having a stroke? An aneurysm? Those kill people, right?

Yes, I was curious, but not enough to go to the doctor. This pissed her off to no end. She doesn’t want to be left alone.

My head feels lighter, somehow. It’s actually hard to describe the sensation. Warm. Wet. Maybe orgasmic.

But wait. Something is missing…

Running through a quick system check. Memory is fine. I can see. Smell. Feel. Hear. Taste.

Four plus four. Eight.

Next level. Close your eyes. How many yellow objects are in the room? Seventeen.

Next level. What is a 27% tip on a $63.41 tab?

Nothing. Nothing comes up. Total darkness. A lapse, if you will.

Panic swells down below. I’ve always been able to see math. Perform it in my head.

My grandmother noticed it when I was in grade school… “How much tip should I leave?” She trusted me… even when I started inflating tips. After all, the service was stellar, she deserves more than fifteen percent.

I recall the Aronovsky film π. No spoilers here, beyond the lead’s debilitating headaches. Is this my fate? Or was it?

Are they gone now? Along with my natural mathematic ability?

I can still quote this movie. Yet intermediate (and beyond) math is just… gone.

Am I still “smart?” Can I survive like this? Adapt? Will it return?

A friend was taking medicine for her bipolar disorder. It caused blindness.

Albeit, temporary—her vision returned after she switched medication.

This. This is why I don’t know what is going on inside my head. The once noble practice of healing has been corrupted by pharmacom and money. There’s no money in cures. Only maintenance.

She loves the accommodations in the local hospitals. The attention. The care. Since spending so much time with her, I have spent more time in hospitals in the last two years than my several decades prior—combined!

Yes, I believe the people at that level truly care. They want their patients to feel better. Yet, if the “higher-ups” aren’t promoting more natural lifestyle changes and holistic healing first… before pumping us full of chemicals or cutting us open? The art of healing is lost. Sold.

Maybe I ought to have my head examined. Maybe the “pop” was bad. It certainly scared me at the time.

However, I am still here. This incident happened seven months ago. For the most part, my mathematic abilities have returned. So have the headaches.

My memory may be beginning a descent… all the more reason to write and see what I can produce. We’ll revisit that in a few months—with increased awareness of forgetfulness.

Again, maybe I ought to have my head examined. Maybe, one day, she’ll convince me.

We did it. We saved the daylight.

While you cherish the saved sunlight, I’ll be painting my windows black.

You bite my lip just for the taste
You’re on your knees, I’m on the case
You take the heat and with such grace
You say we’re done, but here you stay

You said you’re scared, I’ll let you down (I’ll let you down)
Just stick around, and you’ll find out (and you’ll find out)
But don’t you wanna make me proud? (So make me proud)
‘Cause I’m so proud, baby, I’m so proud of you

Do I stress you out? Can I help you out?
Does it turn you on when I turn you around?
Can we make a scene? (Scene), can you make it loud? (Loud)
‘Cause I’m so proud, baby, I’m so proud of you

I like the way you kiss me, I can tell you miss me
I can tell it hits, hits, hits, hits
Not tryna be romantic, I’ll hit it from the back
Just so you don’t get attached (‘tached, ‘tached, ‘tached)

What i'm listening to:

artemas
i like the way you kiss me
yustyna

“What is that smell?”

I closed my eyes and sniffed. It was drifting over from the next table.

Unmistakeable.

Pipe smoke.

Not something one smells often in this day and age.

The fragrance whisked me back to high school. My first girlfriend… and all of the pleasures and pains that surrounded her. Mostly pleasures.

Drive-in movies. The lake shore. Releasing the parking brake, accidentally, and nearly losing the car. The bridge. Those eyes. Those… eyes.

Her sister… another story for another time.

And her father. You see, her dad smoked a pipe.

If pipe tobacco tastes as good as it smells, I can see how one might get hooked. Why, oh why, did they never make cigarettes smell/taste like this?

Maybe they did. I don’t know.

I opened my eyes… gazing into those beautiful, brown eyes. Inquisitive. Studying me from across the table. Filled with love and admiration.

And I smiled. With a subtle craving for tobacco. I may take up the habit.

Lately, I’ve been lamenting the loss of the “old knowledge.” You still catch a glimpse here and there, but there’s less and less of it as each elder dies.

A few weeks ago, I was visiting my aunt and she asked if I wanted a piece of sweet potato pie. She then launched into the story that she had never even tried sweet potato pie. Her neighbor had sweet potatoes that she needed to “use,” so what better use than to make a pie!

A faint memory. It really used to be like that. How much food do we simply throw out?

The Internet is no help in this arena. Go ahead and Google if it’s safe to use milk past date for anything.

Sour milk is sour milk, right?

Banana bread exists because people have both bananas and milk that go bad with time.

Open up an old cookbook. How many of these recipes use items you already have somewhere, at various stages of spoilage?

Yet, we lose that ability over time. Sure, we can use fresh. And might even prefer fresh. But the option is there, and as we’re entering a new era of serious economizing, why not?

Then there’s GPS—and Google maps. Does anybody know where they’re going anymore? Casual driving would indicate the answer is no.

Ever drive in Omaha, Nebraska? The residents ALL drive like they’ve never been there before. Incredible!

I recall in middle school, learning how to read a map. What all of the symbols meant. How to determine where you are. Now we have an app on our phone that does that for us.

It’s so effective, in fact, that the state of Indiana has decided to no longer print the free highway maps that many states distribute.

And that’s a damned shame too. What better way to tell an adventurer, like myself, that your state isn’t worth exploring.

The reasoning? The populace has maps on their cell phones, so it’s redundant.

Yeah, that’s great. And makes some sense. Except, I’d like to point out that I have service with the top carrier in the US… and my phone still boasts NO service in the southern, wooded half of your state.

Speaking of woods, my grandfather, and my father knew their way around the forests on the mountain by landmarks. Me? I wish. I’d get lost without at least a map. If only I’d paid more attention as a young lad…

I guess I’m old enough to enjoy the challenge of looking at something and then figuring out how to get there from here—as I was taught when I was thinking about learning to drive.

Do they even teach that anymore? Hell, do we even do thought experiments anymore?

Probably not. Why do something someone else has done… just Google it.

And then there’s the modern convenience is refrigeration, which has existed most of my life—hence the not knowing what to do with spoiled food.

Yet we existed before air conditioning. We innovated. There were massive warehouses that stored ice wihtout refrigeration. And people knew where in their homes to keep various perishable food items. Pantries. Cellars. The cupboard under the sink.

We used to use windows and shutters and blinds. We used to have a knowledge of where the sun is. Where the wind is blowing from. Fans helped, yes, yet they weren’t always necessary if you can use nature to get some airflow through your house.

Modern houses are built airtight—for better or worse—and get quite stuffy without the constant hum of that computerized HVAC system. However, we may be seeing a return of smaller units and swamp coolers.

It’s early, but i think in this era of renewed economizing we are going to see a tech fatigue. For several decades now, the masses have rushed out to buy the latest tech because it must be the greatest. What’s wrong with using the same phone for five years? Seven? Ten?

The same computer for twenty?

Maybe the manufacturers will build them to last again, because they can… even if it’s not the cash cow of planned obsolesence. Maybe.

It seems all we really have to recall this old knowledge is what we read in books. At least we have those. And if I have anything to impart to future generations, perhaps I’ll write something down as well.

We have become so reliant on the technology. Parents today insist their kids carry cell phones, so they know where they are at all times. Life 360, and all that. Is the world really so terrifying?

Gone are the days of, “Be where you can see the porch light by dusk… when it’s on, supper’s ready! And don’t come home until then.”

I guess I just wasn’t made for these times.

Expectations. We all have them. It’s part of the human experience.

Growth—true growth—is not taking it personal when someone doesn’t behave the way you expect.

In reality, very few people can demonstrate this level of enlightenment. Why? Because from my point of view, for instance, the world is entirely my creation. A matrix.

Everyone else is a non-playing character. The vast majority of the non-playing characters go on about their lives without affecting mine.

There are a few of these players we grow fond of. Some become mentors. Others become friends. A select few might even become lovers. There might even be a handful whom we know better than anyone, and whom we allow to know us as well. These have influence. These can wreck us, at least momentarily. And we still have no control over them.

Our worlds are in a constant state of fluidity. You may be focused on getting your life handled. Reigning in your sadness. Defeating depression. Rediscovering the beauty in the world.

While you’re focused on yourself, I may be dazzled by a lovely young woman whose vitality infects me. I’ve given you your space, along with your one word answers and your tendencies not to share. In essence, I’ve moved on.

We chat on occasion, but the investment is no longer there. If you scroll the thread, it hasn’t been there for months. Years.

Maybe, with your focus on yourself, you haven’t noticed my curiosity ebbing. Until you do. My attention is no longer what you expect—and you don’t like it.

You act out. “We are no longer aligned, and I must release you with love.” No contact. End of the thread. Dead on the vine.

Are you truly healed? To let this bother you so much? Burn it all down, because I don’t respond as you’re expecting. You have closed the door on the past, and you’re not willing to look back and see how your past created you. You are hiding.

Now, I’m no expert on enlightenment, nor on healing. I am still broken. I own this. Some of this damage has been caused by you. Some of THAT damage still infects my current relationship.

Funny how we keep so much of our past with us. And it’s also funny how so much of the advice out there—including yours—is to avoid the red flags. Walk away. Love yourself, first.

I am grateful you have found self love on your journey. You no longer need others—in fact, you must protect your energy from others. Shattered people. Like me. Bye.

Yeah. This bothers me too. Yet not as much as I expected. I began divesting when I lost interest romantically. Perhaps men and women can be friends, but that is almost more work than an actual relationship. Because something is missing. A level of trust. A level of authenticity. Can you be friends with someone you find attractive? Without letting jealousy get in the way?

I doubt it. Yes, the clean break is best. We are no longer aligned, and have outgrown each other. You no longer understand my passions—and lack of them. And I haven’t understood a thing you’ve said about spirituality for some time.

I have enjoyed your friendship, our camaraderie. We have shared experiences and stories and have influenced each other in ways that will remain. Always. You are a part of me.

You’re just no longer part of my life. Thank you, for everything. And I wish you the best. I hope you find the happiness you seek.

Stop taking things people do personally. None of us really know why we do what we do anyway. Including you.

What i'm listening to:

What Do You Want From Me?
Monaco
Music for Pleasure