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

I want to read. Or write about how life isn’t fair, or about my recent trip. Or write to some friends who may be able to guide me through my current internal battle, before I screw it up with this girl I’m talking to. Or watch girls in bikinis race snowmobiles on a 10º day to raise money against breast cancer. Or watch the (Mis)Adventures of Hank Moody for the thousandth time. Or see and spend time with my Dutch treat.

Indeed, it’s been a long time since I’ve chosen not to take an audience. And to sit with a wet towel wrapped around my eyes. Wondering what, if anything, I can take.

And it’s been even longer since I’ve experienced snow blindness. I believe it was in high school. Either skiing, or snowmobiling. And it is miserable.

All I want. Is to sit. With my eyes closed. Forever.

And I still see, what appears to be headlights approaching from behind. Nothing but shadows thrown in front of me.

Protect your eyes, kids.

Who would ever have thought I’d use these blindfolds on myself?

What i'm listening to:

Seasons Change
Exposé
Exposure

Life truly is remarkable.

There is so much beauty out there.

To admire.

To take in.

To plug in to.

Incredible. Simply incredible.

I am still reading. A little.

Books affect me more than they used to. Some, it’s like their written about me. I find that alarming, not comforting, that either so many people have the same problems, or that I’m so damaged.

As such, I find I process what I read more. Which is good, I think.

After all, in the five years since I’ve been reading extensively, I find I am not retaining as much as I’d like. My eidetic memory is turning into swiss cheese. Decaying.

Which might be a relief. If only I could forget some of my sins. Yet, I suppose that’s why they are sins. We. Must. Atone.

However, this year I didn’t read solely for the sake of reading. And I find that this year’s books—especially ones that affected me—have also stuck with me.

Am I actually growing? It will be interesting to see…

For the record, here are the books read in 2021:

1. The Way of Men - Jack Donovan
2. Reality Unveiled - Ziad Masri
3. The Mist - Stephen King
4. The Obstacle Is the Way - Ryan Holiday
5. Men Without Women - Ernest Hemingway
6. Live First, Work Second - Rebecca Ryan
7. Son of a Wanted Man - Louis L’Amour
8. American Eve - Paula Uruburu
9. The Infinite Game - Simon Sinek
10. Private Dancer - Stephen Leather
11. A Dreadful Man - Brian Aherne
12. The Trial - Franz Kafka
13. Revival - Stephen King
14. Lost in the Meritocracy - Walter Kirn
15. Riveted - Jim Davies
16. Where the Red Fern Grows - Wilson Rawls
17. Women’s Infidelity - Michelle Langley
18. Death of a Citizen - Donald Hamilton
19. No More Mr. Nice Guy - Robert A. Glover
20. Women’s Infidelity II - Michelle Langley
21. I Should Write This Stuff Down - Bruce Behymer
22. The Five Love Languages - Gary Chapman
23. Outwitting the Devil - Napoleon Hill
24. Falling Angel - William Hjortsberg
25. Iron John: A Book About Men - Robert Bly
26. Under the Sweetwater Rim - Louis L’Amour
27. Anne of Green Gables - L.M. Montgomery
28. Idlewild - Nick Sagan
29. The 48 Laws of Power - Robert Greene
30. The Trumpet of the Swan - E.B. White
31. The Albuquerque Turkey - John Vorhaus
32. Curse of the High IQ - Aaron Clarey
33. Firestarter - Stephen King