Last night, I realized that my greatest flaw is forgetting that I am no longer nineteen. Especially in the presence of a beautiful woman.

Yes, I know that ship has sailed… a long, long time ago.

Yet, sometimes, when I am captivated by a pretty girl… well, I lose my head, which can lead to a lapse in judgement.

I’m probably not the only one, in this complicated world. At least I am authentic, even if there is no longer a place for genuine people in society. We must be guarded, careful.

Vanilla.

I’m certain I’ll continue to be… spicy. Take it or leave it. Good vibes only, please.

Once inside a woman's heart / a man must keep his head / Heaven opens up the door / where angels fear to tread / Some men go crazy, some men go slow / Some men go just where they want / Some men never go.

Beautiful song. This week I hear it through a different filter. The verse above speaks to me, as a man who is continually struggling with falling in love. With wanderlust. With indecision.

A friend recently noted that, he has transformed. He no longer falls in love and out of himself and his grounding, like his wounded self used to do.

Wow.

He went on to explain he met, and LOVED this incredibly gorgeous woman in body, soul, and mind—yet didn’t FALL in love. Staying grounded, he felt by NOT falling in love allowed HER the space to fall into HIM in love. That a man falling in love is a type of theft of the feminine energy and robs women of the gift of masculine stability. “To lean on, to hold on, to drape themselves over, and to fall into.”

Incredible. And the timeliness of this conversation is uncanny. As one who struggles with falling in love with every girl he meets. As one who has taken a step back. Or two. And watches her advance to close the gap.

What a beautiful way to put it. Falling in love is the woman’s job. The man’s is to love her, yet allow her the space to fall.

If I practice and succeed at nothing else this year, let this lesson thrive within me.

What i'm listening to:

Shame on the Moon
Bob Seger
The Distance

My shit’s fucked up? Well, that goes without saying, but yours more.

Oops, I did it again. I need a hobby. A distraction.

The girls in my life adore me. Yet they don’t want to consume me. They adore me for what I am when they meet me.

And what that is… is genuine. Things happen fast. Push me outside of my comfort zone. That’s good, right?

Until I get lost. I don’t know if it’s OCD, or the day, or the moon, or that blues song that plays overhead at work, or my body freaking out and saying, “Run away!” but something shifts. And she becomes my obsession.

I am not eating. I am not drinking. I am not sleeping. I am not reading. (I am clearly writing.)

I need a hobby.

So, I go out. And meet more girls. Bring a few home. Fuck. Rinse. Repeat.

I find I’m understanding Hank Moody on a new level. I’ve gone deep.

He’s orbited by all of these beautiful women. With more entering his life all of the time, all the while entering them as well.

Yet, the one he truly wants is just outside of reach. And everything he does to cope dances back and forth across the line between making his life with his adored better—or worse.

Ironically enough, though… a month ago, before my obsession started growing, I was lamenting. We’re never truly ready. You entered my life too soon. I still struggle every day. I am far better than I was two years ago. Or even last fall—but I still have a lot to learn. I am still a fledgling lover.

I was lamenting that I still hadn’t mastered picking up a girl. And taking her home. And waking up beside her.

(And wanting that with her. Life is complicated, however.)

Now? Well, I am figuring that out. I am loved, and loving. With everyone, but her.

I am certain she still adores me, yet while I continue to obsess—and hide my flaws and brokenness—I will lose her. And seeking solace in all of the other women may not fill the void.

At least it’s a hobby. Something to do. Getting my mind off of her, four seconds at a time.

My fantasy / has turned to madness / and all my goodness / has turned to badness...

What i'm listening to:

My Obsession
Icehouse
Man of Colours

Today, I needed a change of scenery. And I was rewarded.

I haven’t been embracing chaos. As much as I believe in entropy, why won’t I let go and simply allow things to happen?

A friend recently suggested it’s a fear of rejection. Hmmm…

At other times, I’ve considered it a fear of failure. Others, a fear of success.

Yet, that’s not quite it.

Today, the light blub came on. It’s all about. Control.

More specifically: a fear of losing control.

Hmmm.

We’re getting closer. What if, it’s a fear of surrender?

Relinquishing control.

Which is interesting. And ironic. How much control do we really have?

Plus, there is power in surrender. In accepting the chaos. On your own terms. Surrender can be guided. Nudged towards desired outcomes.

Letting the butterfly enjoy you, as much as you enjoy her.

Forever only exists for those who don’t try to force it.

So, with this new awareness, what’s next?

I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how to proceed. All I know, is I would like very much to see her. To spend time with her. Every moment she’ll give me.

It hurts to be aware of the possibility that she has already given me every moment. That she’s not my girl. That I’ll miss her, even if she’s sitting right next to me—already checked out. Why does my mind fast forward to that? And imagine that, especially when she’s sitting right next to me? What signal does that thought broadcast?

And it’s possible she’s not my girl.

Yet, when will I know for certain? There are moments, in my past, when I’ve tended to tell myself she’s not my girl, solely to protect myself. From pain. From surrendering. From simply letting.

I am certain of those moments, because the sin of regret sets in. Did I really leave nothing to chance? Was I veiling my desires?

Am I still? Not because I DON’T want her… but because I don’t want to lose this perception of control. I don’t want to let it happen.

I want her. How can I persuade myself to surrender to whatever happens? And why do I have this persistent image of the world burning around me?

What is next?

What i'm listening to:

It Might Be You
Stephen Bishop
Sleeping with Girls

Dawn breaks over the glass house I call home. I wake with the sunrise, and I look over. You’re lying next to me. Still peacefully asleep with a smile on your face. Dreaming of me? I hope so…

I lie next to you for several moments—which feels almost like eternity. I can’t help gazing in awe. At your face. Your body. You’re so incredible. And you’re my girl.

You weren’t always. You fought it. Because of life. Because of others. Because of expectation.

Yet, somehow, it’s always been you. Every moment with you is like we’ve always known each other.

I rise carefully… not to disturb your slumber as I slip out of the bed. I head down the spiral staircase, and start the coffee pot. For you. I hate the stuff.

While the coffee brews, I make myself a cup of tea and start preparing a light breakfast. I think today we’ll eat it on the balcony. Yes, I’ll prepare a tray.

I carry our breakfast out to the balcony, pausing for a moment as I pass the bed… adoring your beauty. You’re just beginning to stir, and sheet has slipped from your breast. Every day, I want you so bad. Even though I have you.

You join me on the balcony, wearing only a sheet. I smile as I watch you eat. It reminds me of the night we met, when I snapped a picture of you eating that gyro. And another of you laughing at me afterwards—your eyes sparkling with wonder!

Now, I just keep the images mentally… because you’re my girl.

After breakfast, you take the dog for a long walk in the woods. I do my daily push-ups and settle down to write.

I write about life. About how understanding does not come from thinking. About how we have to defeat our own egos. Every. Day. In order to get what we want.

No, that’s not right.

To get what we deserve. Yet another piece of writing about how we are all that get in the way of our own happiness. Perhaps, yet it looks different from the other side.

You are my muse. You inspire me to write. To open my heart. To be vulnerable. To realize we had to climb over all of those bodies in our past to get to where we are today.

You return silently with the dog and begin preparing lunch for us. You have taught me so much about life and nutrition and diet and lifestyle changes. You have rescued me from my anguish. Yes, these are the thoughts that run through my mind as you grill us delicious sandwiches for lunch.

“Perhaps I can write about that tomorrow,” I think, as you bring the tray of lunch up our spiral staircase.

Did I really just use the word, “our?”

After taking a long lunch—I simply can’t stop watching you eat. Well, I simply can’t stop watching you. Period. Full stop—we part ways for the afternoon, each to work on our separate projects. We have to finance our lifestyle somehow, yet I’m always looking toward the day we can simply curl up and enjoy our “nappuccinos.”

I love those li’l words that are… ours.

(There’s that word again.)

As the evening approaches, we’re reunited. We share a drink and talk about life and beauty and our day. I am amazed that we continue to find each other’s perspectives fascinating. With no one else, can I share my views on the great taboos: religion, society, politics.

Is this a relationship? I don’t know… we were both led to believe relationships are work, and this doesn’t feel like it. We simply enjoy each other.

After dinner, we take the dog for a walk in the woods. A long, lingering walk… occasionally holding hands, occasionally I’ll fall behind (so I can gaze at your amazing ass), and occasionally stopping to laugh at the dog as she plays.

We return to the cabin and do our own thing for a while. Me? I usually read. You? I am content you are here. That you are my girl. You do whatever keeps your heart full.

Later, I will do my part to keep you full.

Later comes. Some nights, we’re filled with passion and tear up the bed and soak the sheets, and laugh as we have to do the laundry. Maybe that can wait until morning. Who gets the wet spot tonight? Shall we flip a coin?

Not tonight. Tonight, we’re both content to simply embrace… until we make love anyway.

And I watch again. I watch you fall asleep… and I am grateful. For you are incredible. And tomorrow will be just as incredible.

The function of man is to live, not to exist. I shall not waste my days in trying to prolong them. I shall use my time.

Good words. I know now what I must do.

Do I?

The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few.

This axiom has been firmly embedded in my brain since a nine-year-old boy saw a li’l movie at the drive-in which climaxed when a half-alien sacrificed himself to save a starship.

Which is fine. These are great words to live by! The joy we create with our generosity of spirit is truly a beautiful thing.

Yet, I lack balance. I need to find that third way. Years later, I am still struggling with awakening my repressed selfishness. Even though I know repressing anything breeds unworthiness and self-loathing. And leads to repressed sexuality.

I’m currently reading a book my friend Patrik recommended called Sex at Dawn. Nearly every page blows my mind, in that agriculture, society, religion, and policy have always (and continue to) stripped the egalitarianism they claim to want.

I’ve been taught selfishness is wrong. Yet society tends to reward the selfish. I share, but I want and need. And my wants and needs tend to be ignored.

The following passage from the book compelled me to share:

It is difficult for members of a modern individualistic society to imagine the extent to which the Canela saw the group and the tribe as more important than the individual. Generosity and sharing was the ideal, while withholding was a social evil. Sharing possessions brought esteem. Sharing one’s body was a direct corollary. Desiring control over one’s goods and self was a form of stinginess. In this context, it is easy to understand why women chose to please men and why men chose to please women to expressed strong sexual needs. No one was so self-important that satisfying a fellow tribesman was less gratifying than personal gain.

This text threw a spotlight on my sexual repression. I fail to express strong sexual needs—especially to the girls I like!

And who knows why I’ll talk about sex to girls I am not attracted to, yet not the girls I adore… I think unworthiness is the key to this mystery. I’ll save this for another discussion… unless someone here thinks they are related.

Aren’t sexual needs selfish? Is this why I am unable to express them to the true beauties in my life? Am I using the less attractive as an outlet?

And most importantly, is there a solution to my anguish?

What i'm listening to:

good for you
Olivia Rodrigo
SOUR

I haven’t felt like this in so long… it feels so. Alien.

I swear to God, I never fall in love. Then you showed up and I can’t get enough of it.

Oh, who am I kidding. I always fall in love. Yet I don’t believe in love.

Damn.

Who even am I?

We’ve been talking all of… fifty-three days. And you’re still here. And I haven’t fucked it up yet—albeit not for my lack of trying.

You’re still here. You haven’t said “No” to me.

Not once.

Mmhmm.

I haven’t believed in love for a long, long time. I still may not.

Yet, something is here. You called it a vibe. Yet, you like me. Even if we don’t know what to do with this vibe.

Then, tonight, something happened. You are consuming my thoughts. Yes, I still love girls… practically all of them… and you’re at the top. I adore you. I will always adore you. Even if this goes sideways. (I hope it doesn’t.)

I don’t even know what to do right now. Yet, I hope you’ll stay with me. For a season. We only have a season. We should enjoy it.

God damn it.

Don Williams saw it coming. And Boz Scaggs.

I like you.

What i'm listening to:

Look What You’ve Done to Me
Boz Scaggs
Urban Cowboy

How do I get?
How do I get to sleep?
Please let me sleep?
Poetry, that'll work

Come, sweet slumber
Enshroud me in thy purple cloak
Hmm, doesn't even rhyme

It has been a while since I have been up and/or wide awake at four in the morning.

Six hours of sleep.

Yet, I feel fine. How I’ll feel later on remains to be seen, but for now…

When did six hours of sleep become… enough? Is it?

Overall, I think I’m in a good place. I am not depending on pancakes to handle bouts of insomnia.

Yet, occasionally…

I have been talking with someone new. She is fucking lovely. Seven weeks in, and we’re still talking. That may be a new record for me.

And when I don’t think too much, it’s glorious. It’s like we’ve known each other forever.

It may be safe to say, that any madness is coming from within my own head. How do I put my ego to sleep? Forever.

After all, if she didn’t like me, she wouldn’t still be here.

What i'm listening to:

Paranoimia
Art of Noise
Re-Works of Art of Noise