The habit [of indulging in uninvited expression of opinions] creates enemies and places in their hands dangerous weapons by which they may do great injury to the one who indulges in it.

As many of my friends know, I’ve been doing a lot of reading over the last several years. And a few of them know I’ve done a bit of writing as well.

Yet, as I’ve lamented before, I mostly write about nothing. I’m not an influencer. I may be a headcase. I tend to wax emo over lost loves. And lovelies.

And it’s all unsolicited opinions. Opinions that may, or may not have much basis in reality. Note, I said reality and not fact. The more enlightened I get, the more I realize even facts are subjective. And these “facts” are the devil’s tools.

No adult human being ever loses the right to freedom of thought, but most humans lose the benefits of this privilege either by neglect or because it has been taken away from them by their parents or religious instructors before the age of understanding.

My latest reading, frankly, scared the hell out of me. Figuratively, of course. I’m still convinced that’s where I am heading.

It has also spotlighted just how critical finding a definiteness of purpose is. It’s no wonder that I tend to flounder as much as I do. I set less-than-lofty goals, then celebrate when I hit them. Yet, there’s still a world out there. A world of wealth. Of power. Of adventure. Of women.

Certain things just happen when you make no plans
And love can really tear you up and it can break you down
Everything you think you know baby
Is wrong

Or is there? Hill also pointed out why I cannot connect with any of them. Yes, I like these girls. But yes, they’re also bad for me. Especially her.

Damn. The more I learn, the less I know.

And I can’t stop thinking about her.

If I could I would
I’d change everything
Cause I can’t forget you though you don’t believe me
Now I can’t walk back
I can’t leave behind
Where does it go all the light that we had?

Anyway, I think this is an ideal opportunity to write less.

Well, maybe not write less, but blog less. Hardly anyone finds this blog, and even fewer read it. I haven’t invited anyone to read it in years.

Yet, it is still out there. A testament to a glimmer of neediness I possess.

A penlight in a field of stars, begging for attention.

And my journal sits—neglected. And I fail to commit to invitations. Even those that I know will be good for me. Perhaps, because I feel unworthy.

Perhaps.

Have some fun! Yes, sleep when you feel like it, not when you think you should. Eat food that is bad for you—at least once in a while. Have conversations with people whose clothes are not color coordinated. Make love in a hammock! Life is the ultimate experience, and you have to live it to write about it.

So, it’s time to take another detour. To have some fun. To play with new people. Make new friends. Bed new lovers.

If the thrill is gone, then it’s time to take it back.

To find my thrill. Then, perhaps I can return to this space. When I have something to say. Or when I become an influencer.

What i'm listening to:

It’s All Over But the Crying
Garbage
Bleed Like Me

Ten years from now, you’ll put on a jacket and find a mask in the pocket.

“Oh, man, what a weird year that was,” you’ll chuckle to yourself.

Then, you’ll pick up your machete and continue across the wasteland, keeping to the shadows to avoid the roving gangs of cannibal raiders.

Shamelessly stolen, of course. But funny... or is it?

You don’t have to lie to me, sweetheart.

I don’t trust you anyway.

I am a battery.

Perhaps most introverts are.

Yet, it’s not entirely attached to my introvertedness.

In fact, the best “quick charge” I can get, is to plug in to female energy.

(Interpret that in whatever way you see fit.)

Fun fact: I love traveling and seeing new things. New experiences. &c.

Okay, maybe you knew that. If you’ve read this blog, much. Or follow me on the social media. Oh, wait.

Well, my Snatchers and Instafollowers know, anyway.

Anyway, the wanderlust was beginning to consume me again, so I opted to explore upper Michigan for the weekend. Yet, this half of the state is vast… where should I go?

I’m so close to Lake Superior. The Greatest Lake. As such, it’s also huge, so… where along the shoreline?

I chose Chapel Rock. It’s a short, well-trafficked hike, and looks incredible in pictures. Let’s go!

The trailhead is at the end of a rough road. A very rough road. Why the guy in front of me brought his Infiniti, I’ll never know…

Apparently, there is a place to get maps. The trailhead is not the place. They have one posted at the trailhead, so I snapped a picture on my phone. At least it’s something.

The entire trek to the Chapel Rock beach, 3.5 miles, I am encountering other hikers every fifteen minutes… at the most. There are a lot of people out here.

A lot of girls. Cute girls. I like it here. Incredible.

Some of the groups are noisy. Talking amongst themselves. Telling stories. I am glad I’m alone.

Will I ever find traveling companions that don’t chatter? Who knows?

And there’s a Mexican couple as well. Why must they listen to music on their phone?

Perhaps I am the only one who enjoys the sound(s) of nature. And other people chattering.

Three-ish miles later, I find the lake. And Chapel Rock. Incredible.

Seriously. It feels like the edge of the world.

The Mexican girl arrived only two minutes before I did. Her cries of joy and awe didn’t even prepare me for the sight.

Wow. Incredible.

The rocks. The cliff. The lake. The white sand beach. The water is so clear. So cold. Incredible.

I must have explored the area for an hour.

And I found a trail that headed away from the beach. Complete with a boardwalk for part of the trail. Perfect. I still might make it back to Wisconsin in time for dinner. With a couple of cute girls. And dessert.

My watch says I’m making good time. A half mile passes. A mile.

And I notice… I haven’t seen. A soul. Since the beach.

Okay, Robert Frost. I guess this is the path less traveled.

[ more.. ]

I discovered a new Thai restaurant tonight.

New to me, anyway. Traveling in the UP of Michigan.

What is it about Asian restaurants? Where do they find these tables?

I. Was. Mesmerized. by the art on my table.

Seriously, I want this art. Hanging. In my flat.

So, how do I go about finding it? This. Is a great question.

This. Is why God gave us the internet, right? So, I snapped a picture of the tabletop.

Certainly, it’s a “reproduction” of a real Chinese silk painting, right?

Certainly.

Well…

So far, the internet has failed me. Image search engines, as wonderful as they are, failed me.

Wait! There’s text on the artwork! That’ll help, right?

貴妃 出浴

Translation apps tell me this reads: Imperial Concubine.

More web searching. Nothing.

Some similar Chinese silk paintings. But not this one.

Thanks. My obsession is fully triggered. Now I MUST have this art. In my flat.

How do I go about finding it? Suggestions? Certainly, this table. Isn’t. The only one.

I recently discovered analogies have been removed from the SAT… apparently for reasons I cannot defend against, as a former test taker.

Yet, I remember them well. Nostalgia.

I also remember being great at them.

Of course, I cannot understand how you can NOT be great at them. Especially since it’s a multiple choice test. The answer is one of the four.

Yet, are they really?

Analogies in a multiple choice test? Yes.

But imagine creating them for the test… or finishing the analogy, without the choices.

This is where I struggle.

You see, over the summer, I have been listening to pop music through a different “lens.”

No, that’s not the right word.

Hence the analogy. Eye is to lens as ear is to… what?

Filter? Does that seem right? That’s the closest answer I’ve been able to come up with. And I’ve been obsessed with finding a better answer.

My OCD manifests itself in strange ways.

A few weeks ago, I had an intriguing conversation with a high school girl.

Leah was trying to convince me I should be a teacher. And that she’d take my class.

Kýrie, eléison.

Leah is a senior this year. A gorgeous 18-year-old brunette with brown eyes.

Christé, eléison.

I have a weakness for brown-eyed girls. Being placed in a position of “authority” over a room of underaged ones with raging hormones? Well, isn’t that a recipe for disaster?

Kýrie, eléison.

Then again…

Maybe she’s not wrong. Over the last thirteen weeks, I have taken a course and discovered a group of men I respect and admire very much. I am learning to reclaim my masculinity within a society that rejects it… in a way that respects all femininity. And one (of many) insights that jump out from the experience is this: “In order to understand, teach.”

Perhaps I don’t need to teach in school. Or become that eccentric adjunct in university that clearly does it because he loves it. Perhaps this student of life should become a teacher. Of life.

This morning, in my inbox, was an invitation. To become. A teacher.

Do you believe in serendipity? I am not certain I do.

Yet, it cannot hurt to follow up… can it?

Do I have anything to teach? Do I have anything to share? After all, my life has mostly been a series of failures… and avoidance.

Ladies and gentleman, it appears we have something to discuss.

Regret is a sin.

Then there are those days I just want toast.

With butter. And a li’l jelly.

And there are others I’d like a tasty snack. To sit. On my face.

Why am I still thinking of her?

I guess we’re all struggling toward Utopia, a good place yet also a place that cannot be.