What do people do?

Is this where the bad decisions come from? Idle hands and all that?

Here, I find myself with a day off. And nothing to do. At least there is nothing I have to do. Today.

I can stay in bed. All day. Glorious, no?

Except, that is what I do. All day. Nothing.

Clarissa calls me. “What are you going to do today?”

I have no answer. Other than, “I can come over.”

“That’s not what I want,” is her reply.

Here, I lie in bed. With nothing to do.

Yet, people do things. Have I always been like this? Just sitting in neutral with no tasks at hand?

I joke. “My hobby is sleeping,” I say. It’s not wrong though. It’s no joke. Some days, I don’t leave the apartment. Or the cottage. Or the house.

At times, I adventure. No city is too far. Nor countryside. Nor attraction. Nor mountain, nor monument.

But why? For those Marriott beds? Perhaps. Because I will sleep on “vacation” too. Hmm.

No drive.

Yes, I will wander into the out. I will find something to eat. Likely a sandwich or a taco. Preferably a taco, but again she doesn’t want to see me. I will go get some things from the store. Fabric softener is at the top of the list.

I need a haircut. The bedding needs washed. Or warshed, depending on your dialect. I used to exercise—walks, lifting at the gym, runs. Hell, I used to eat far more protein than I currently do. My back hurts, so a trip to the chiropractor definitely won’t hurt. I have more books to read than I can finish before I die. I’m tragically pale—and unhappy—so a few minutes under the happy lights is an option as well. I used to write. More. A lot more.

And there’s plenty of time in the day to do it. But there’s television. And doom scrolling. Clarissa will call again and we’ll talk—probably for hours. She is also doing nothing. Sitting in the dark. Thinking. About everything. About life.

When did we become so lost? So idle? Devil’s playthings, indeed.

Yet, I am so comfortable. Lying in this bed. Typing this out on a laptop. I can roll over and go back to sleep. And it will be glorious. Satisfying. I’m so relaxed.

What if comfort is an indication that I am less? The key indicator that I am NOT doing the right thing? What if it’s my drug. Not unlike her. This euphoric sensation of the next narcoleptic wave that will whisk me away to dreamland. Where adventure and sex and love and action await.

Seriously, what do people do? And what will I do today?

I don’t know how to not be Superman. Even though I’m not a… super man. I know she’s hurting, I can feel it. And as much as I wish I knew what to do, I really don’t. I don’t even know if being there for her is the right move.

Is she depleting me? If she is, I don’t feel it. I am never more at peace than in her presence—even during her moments of chaotic turmoil.

She doesn’t fully believe that she can escape… no, that’s not the right word… affect her life. Her lifestyle. All she has known is being sexualized. Which is a tragedy, because she is a beautiful woman. And confident… most of the time. But she only knows she doesn’t want life as it is right now.

And escape. Escape is tantalizing. Life is long and hard and mostly dull. So, this is what attracts us to new experiences… someone new may come along, and we like them, so we trust them immediately. A couple of drinks later, we’re opening up to them. Next thing you know, we’re friends. Maybe a little bit more.

We all have demons—some we control, some we ignore, yet all are dangerous—but we try to put on our best mask. We smile. And, Lord, the drink helps here. Because, it is so much easier than full honesty.

Ask how I know.

In seven years, we both harbor secrets. Yes, honesty is important. Yet I don’t want or need to know everything she has (or wants) to share. Or not. All I can do is be here for her to listen. To help her through this struggle. Maybe more, but we’re starting here.

Does she want me to share more? Possibly, yet I have no way of knowing.

Over the last several days, she has shown me that I matter. Yet she is so slow to trust. Maybe it’s because we’re taught that anyone who is too good to be true must be. I’m not the ideal candidate, yet we share a genuine affection for each other. Even if we don’t exactly know what to do about it.

No, I’m not Superman. I cannot save her. I may not be able to save myself. But I cannot leave her to face her demons alone.

Right now, I’m more than her friend. Right now, I cannot be her lover. Right now, I can be her champion. I can listen when she wants to talk. I can take care of certain things with her and for her. I can show her how much she matters. To her daughter. To her family. To me. To herself? Maybe. Eventually. That may take some time.

It’s true. We can only heal through radical honesty. With others? Yes, but that falls flat when we’re not being radically honest with ourselves. That’s when the victim mentality sets in.

Are we sure we did nothing to let this happen? Sometimes we only have to open the door… and discover that a friend is not really a friend. Yet closing ourselves off is not the answer either.

She’s sleeping so peacefully right now, and I weep while I wish for her to hold onto this peace while awake. And at night. Nights are the hardest, I know, my love, and it’s terrifying when one of the demons follows you into the daylight. I know you want to understand why it happened. How anyone who professes love to you can betray you. Some answers are not ours to discover… only karma or the universe can sort it out.

Yet this is her dark night of the soul. I suppose I can accompany her, but ultimately this is her path to walk… alone. And all I can do is stay on my own path and offer support within my means. Will there be moments of tough love? Times when I’ll have to wait outside the dark cave while she does battle? I have no doubt.

I am learning a lot about love. What does it mean to be there for someone? When she’s sick? What if she loses the battle? What if the demons win?

And what about me? I am the way I am, because I never wanted to take care of anyone in my life… hell, let’s be honest. I never wanted to care for anyone else in my life. This. This is way this young woman blindsided me. Was there an initial attraction? Yes, but this was more. It’s like our souls touched. And entangled.

So, I couldn’t let go even if I wanted to. Herein lies yet another lesson. Because I have to hold on to myself. No matter what happens with this woman. I have glimpsed her life. Getting sucked in can ruin me. Pulling her out will require effort on her part… something she possesses today, but the past has a strong hold on us. Limiting beliefs. Indoctrination. That shit is buried deep in our psyche. And we trend lazy. Working on growing every single day is exhausting. If only we just grew… without thought. Like the plants. I wonder, do the plants feel pain? And what if growth didn’t have to hurt? Or healing?

So much of our past is comfortable. And there have been great times with people who ultimately betrayed us. And it sucks. I believe it is important to remember that each new day is a fresh start. That our sins can be forgiven. And that we can find peace.

Today marks an anniversary of sorts. Kind of.

On this day, nineteen years ago, I was writing about the demise of a three-ish year relationship in the spring and my recovery. I recalled my girl, 26, had left me for an older man, 53.

And, out of curiosity, I had to sit and do the math. Because I didn’t note their ages. At the time, I was 33.

I’m reading this piece and marveling at how... offended... I was at this. Of course, I was the lover betrayed.

Then, I find this li’l nugget:

This morning, i had the horrible thought that she is setting me up to become her "ideal" , single, fifty-something who has to seduce twenty-somethings to get his rocks off... because at this moment, it feels like i will never find anyone like her.

Incredible.

Here we are. Today. I am fifty-two. My current girl is twenty-seven. I adore her and cannot imagine life without her and... “it feels like I will never find anyone like her.”

Interesting.

What i'm listening to:

Bad Dreams
Teddy Swims
Bad Dreams

This weekend, you closed your curtains, locked your doors, turned off the lights, and ate presweetened morning breakfast cereal, with little marshmallows! You spent $7.

I’ve been living simply. It’s time to live... larger, but that’s a conversation for another time.

Anyway, I’m living near my girl, in a shitbox studio, with only furniture and dishes and such that I didn’t pay for. An easier exit for when it’s time to depart. There is always an approaching departure time.

What’s that old axiom? Oh yeah, “Beggars can’t be choosers.”

I would not have chosen the dinnerware I’m using. They’re black. Rather boring. And HUGE!

The bowl, for example, seems to hold twice the amount of cereal as my previous bowls. Now, I really shouldn’t be eating cereal anyway—processed poison and all that—but frankly, I really don’t care at this moment. I’m immortal. Why would I?

After yesterday, I can tell you that the bowls are large enough to finish a box of cereal in five bowls.

Now, ask how lousy I feel after consuming an entire box of cereal in one day...

I have been educating myself on addiction lately. What constitutes an addiction to, for instance, alcohol?

And I have come up with this formula: If I leave a full (or partial) bottle of whiskey (tequila, vodka) at your apartment, will it be waiting for me when I return?

I’ve learned that in many cases, this answer is no. A reasonable pre-qualifier for that next “less dramatic” girlfriend? Sure.

And, applying this algorithm, I have a “healthy relationship” with alcohol.

Cereal, on the other hand... fuck.

You said,
“Tell me where you’ve been, love.”

And I thought of all the lost roads,
and dark corners,
and heavy work,
and heartbreak,
and all of the healing.

And I just said...
“On my way here.”

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.