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.

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

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.

Her name is Danielle. At least that’s what she told me.

And on a night seventeen years ago, she told me I was undateable. That didn’t stop us from having some fun. A lot of fun. That wasn’t the point.

I’m still undateable, although now it’s by choice. I don’t want to marry. I don’t even want to date. I don’t want to regularly threaten my peace. My solitude.

Is that strange? Really, is it?

It’s a rare soul who is comfortable in a room. Alone. With no distractions.

Many nights, I’m comfortable with Pascal’s torment.

Yet not all. I still have wants. Needs. Desires.

And there are so many beautiful women out there. With their wants. Needs. Desires.

When she walks into the room, our eyes meet. We both know what we want. We both know we can have the other. Pure love radiates between us, bringing the temperature up in the room ever so slightly.

No, I’ll never be your husband. I’ll never be your boyfriend.

But I’ll be your lover... forever.

Yes. I’d like that. Very much.

Come. Into my world. It’s fantastic here.

What i'm listening to:

Still Crazy After All These Years
Paul Simon
Still Crazy After All These Years

My body hurts so bad, I don’t want to move.

Yet... if I don’t move—today, or tomorrow, or this week—my body will continue to hurt. And weaken. And hurt more.

What happened to the walker? The runner? All of the press-ups?

Where is that guy?