Everything you think you know, baby / is wrong. / And everything you think you had, baby / is gone.

Aryn says that life is complicated.

Is it? Really?

I have posed the argument to her, that life is simple.

That life is only as complicated as we make it.

She doesn’t disagree. Yet, even with that realization—and awareness surrounding it—what’s next?

Is it ever too late? Too late to create the life we want? To simply stop thinking and make life simple again?

I feel I see so much of what is wrong with the world today. And with myself. And, daily, I still make conscious—and stubborn—choices. To try to maintain this semblance of control.

Control, that doesn’t really exist.

My conversation last night with Patrik was illuminating. He said that I have to learn to be okay with not getting my way. Like, really okay. Simple.

Yet, as an only child, and Aryn as a youngest, we want our way. Victory or death! Forgetting that it is possible to make no mistakes and still lose.

I cannot speak for her, but I know I still maintain a level of expectation before I will proceed. It’s why I entertained the notion of being a lawyer in my (stupid) youth. The idea of anticipating all of the outcomes and choosing the best.

Like Freestyle. What a super power!

Yet it is not realistic. It is an anchor, holding me back from what I truly want—even if I’m still determining what that might be.

So, I travel. I seek and hang out with friends who embody what I want to be. Who I want to be.

And I still hesitate. Why? What’s the matter with me?

After all, I am currently among people who will not judge me for my truth… although they will for the walls. The masks. The deception.

First we try. Then, we trust.

We all have secrets, right? And I imagine I’m not the only one that feels shackled by some of mine. What will happen if someone finds out?

As much as I have written out over the last couple of decades, I have not even written the secrets out.

I was fascinated by the segment at the beginning of the latest Bond movie. About writing down your secret. Lighting it on fire. And releasing it into the air.

How liberating! Just symbolic? Well, perhaps I should choose one and find out.

After all, I am making choices all day. Every day. Yet so few of them actually serve me.

Especially when I make choices for her. When she may be perfectly willing to visit my madness. To spend time with me. Because she craves it with me, as much as I do with her.

Can trust and control coexist? As long as I am afraid of certain secrets being exposed, can I truly trust anyone? Can radical honesty really set me free?

I don’t know. And it concerns… no, terrifies me. I cannot even fathom being unguarded. And I don’t know how to lower that shield. I’ve learned to contract it, yet it’s still there.

Protecting me.

From happiness.

God damn it.

I don’t know if it’s the drugs, or the illness, or the windshield therapy, but once again I see the matrix. I see everything.

I see that she really likes me, and her eyes are just yearning for me to speak my desires—desires that flow so easily electronically—yet I sit silent. Wanting to speak. Battling that ancient programming that is telling me she doesn’t want me to bend her over that table and take her to the moon and back.

Yet, she does.

So, why can’t I say it? How many more opportunities will she give me to say it? Or is she already finished?

When will I realize that she is throwing herself at me? She wants to be adored! Loved! Fascinated!

And we have that. We’ve always had it.

Until I decided I really like her.

And in walked fear. And closed me off in my own little world. And now I am eight-hundred miles away from her. And thinking of no one but myself.

It’s not fair to her. It’s not fair to my friends who put up with me. Hell, it’s not fair to me!

So, why won’t I just blurt?

“God damn it! I like you!”

How do I burn this mask in effigy? Once. and. for. all!

God damn it!

I like you!

I want you!

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

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